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Aghast and comfortless, when the bleak North,
With winter charged, let the mix'd tempest fly,
Hail, rain, and snow, and bitter-breathing frost,
Then to the shelter of the hut he fled,

And the wild season, sordid, pined away,
For home he had not. Home is the resort
Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where,
Supported and supporting, polish'd friends
And dear relations mingle into bliss.
But this the rugged savage never felt,
Even desolate in crowds; and thus his days
Roll'd heavy, dark, and unenjoy'd along :
A waste of time: till Industry approach'd
And rous'd him from his miserable sloth;
His faculties unfolded; pointed out
Where lavish Nature the directing hand
Of art demanded: show'd him how to raise
His feeble force by the mechanic powers,
To dig the mineral from the vaulted earth,
On what to turn the piercing rage of fire,
On what the torrent, and the gather'd blast;
Gave the tall ancient forest to his axe;
Taught him to chip the wood and hew the stone,
Till, by degrees, the finish'd fabric rose;
Tore from his limbs the blood-polluted fur,
And wrapt them in the woolly vestment warm,
Or bright in glossy silk, and flowing lawn ;
With wholesome viands fill'd his table, pour'd
The generous glass around, inspired to wake
The life-refining soul of decent wit:
Nor stopt at barren bare necessity,
But, still advancing bolder, led him on
To pomp, to pleasure, elegance and grace;

And, breathing high ambition through his soul,
Set science, wisdom, glory, in his view,
And bade him be the lord of all below.

Thomson.

SCOTCH AND ENGLISH WARS.

WAR I detest: but war with foreign foes,

Whose manners, language, and whose looks are strange,

Is not so horrid, nor to me so hateful,

As that, which, with our neighbours, oft we wage.
A river here, there an ideal line

By fancy drawn, divides the sister kingdoms.
On each side dwells a people similar,

As twins are, to each other; valiant both;
Both, for their valour, famous through the world.
Yet will they not unite their kindred arms,
And, if they must have war, wage distant war,
But with each other fight in cruel conflict?
Gallant in strife, and noble in their ire,
The battle is their pastime. They go forth
Gay in the morning, as to summer sport;
When evening comes, the glory of the morn,
The youthful warrior is a clod of clay.
Thus fall the prime of either hapless land,
And such the fruit of Scotch and English wars.

Home.

PLAGUE IN LONDON.

O UNREJOICING Sabbath! Not of yore
Did thy sweet evenings die along the Thames
Thus silently! Now every sail is furl'd,
The oar hath dropt from out the rower's hand,
And on thou flow'st in lifeless majesty,
River of a desert lately filled with joy!
O'er all that mighty wilderness of stone
The air is clear and cloudless, as at sea
Above the gliding ship. All fires are dead,
And not one single wreath of smoke ascends
Above the stillness of the towers and spires.
How idly hangs that arch magnificent
Across the idle river! Not a speck

Is seen to move along it. There it hangs
Still as a rainbow in the pathless sky.

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Know ye what you will meet with in the city? Together will ye walk through long, long streets, All standing silent as a midnight church.

You will hear nothing, but the brown red grass
Rustling beneath your feet; the very beating
Of your own hearts will awe you; the small
Voice of that vain bauble, idly counting time,
Will speak a solemn language in the desert.
Look up to heaven, and there the sultry clouds,
Still threatening thunder, lower with grim delight,
As if the spirit of the plague dwelt there,
Darkening the city with the shadows of death.
Know ye that hideous hubbub? Hark! far off
A tumult, like an echo, on it comes,

Weeping and wailing, shrieks and groaning prayer;
And, louder than all, outrageous blasphemy.
The passing storm hath left the silent streets.
But are these houses near you tenantless?
Over your heads from a window suddenly
A ghastly face is thrust, and yells of death
With voice not human. Who is he that flies,
As if a demon dogg'd him on his path?

With ragged hair, white face and bloodshot eyes,
Raving, he rushes past you: till he falls,

As if struck by lightning, down upon the stones,
Or, in blind madness dash'd against the wall,
Sinks backward into stillness. Stand aloof,
And let the pest's triumphal chariot
Have open way, advancing to the tomb.
See how he mocks the pomp and pageantry
Of earthly kings! A miserable cart,

Heap'd up with human bodies: dragg'd along
By shrunk steeds, skeleton anatomies !
And onwards urged by a wan meagre wretch,
Doom'd never to return from the foul pit,

Whither, with oaths, he drives his load of horror.
Would you look in? Gray hairs and golden tresses,
Wan shrivell'd cheeks, that have not smiled for years,
And many a rosy visage smiling still:

Bodies in the noisome weeds of beggary wrapt,
With age decrepit, and wasted to the bone;
And youthful frames, august and beautiful,
In spite of mortal pangs,-there lie they all
Embraced in ghastliness; but look not long,
For haply, amid the faces glimmering there,

The well-known cheek of some beloved friend
Will meet thy gaze, or some small snow-white hand,
Bright with the ring that holds her lover's hair.
Wilson.

TROUBLED CONSCIENCE.

CANST thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And, with some sweet oblivious antidote,
Cleanse the foul bosom of that perilous stuff,
Which weighs upon the heart?

Shakspeare.

ON LAMENTATION OVER PAST HAPPINESS.

So they set out

Upon ten thousand different routes, to seek
What they had left behind,—to seek what they
Had lost, for still, as something once possest
And lost, true happiness appear'd. All thought
They once were happy; and, even while they smoked
And panted in the chase, believed themselves
More miserable to-day than yesterday,-
To-morrow than to-day. When youth complain'd,
The aged sinner shook his hoary head,

As if he meant to say, "Stop till you come
My length, and then you may have cause to sigh."
At twenty cried the boy, who now had seen
Some blemish in his joys, "How happily
Plays yonder child, that busks the mimic babe,
And gathers gentle flowers, and never sighs!"
At forty, in the fervour of pursuit,
Far on in disappointment's dreary vale,
The grave and sage-like man look'd back, upon
The stripling youth of plump unseared hope,
Who gallop'd gay and briskly up behind,—
And moaning wish'd himself eighteen again.
And he of threescore years and ten, in whose

Chill'd eye, fatigued with gaping after hope,
Earth's freshest verdure seem'd but blasted leaves-
Praised childhood, youth, and manhood, and denounced
Old age alone as barren of all joy:-

Decisive proof, that men had left behind
The happiness they sought, and taken a most
Erroneous path; since every step they took
Was deeper mire.

Pollok.

TRUE HAPPINESS NOT LOCAL.

TRUE happiness had no localities,
No tones provincial, no peculiar garb.

Where duty went, she went; with justice went;
And went with meekness, charity, and love.
Where'er a tear was dried; a wounded heart
Bound up; a bruised spirit with the dew
Of sympathy anointed; or a pang
Of honest suffering soothed; or injury,
Repeated oft, as oft by love forgiven;
Where'er an evil passion was subdued,
Or virtue's feeble embers fann'd: where'er
A sin was heartily abjured and left;
Where'er a pious act was done, or breathed
A pious prayer, or wish'd a pious wish,-
There was a high and holy place, a spot
Of sacred light, a most religious fane,
Where happiness, descending, sat and smiled.

Pollok.

THE VIRTUOUS PEASANT OF THE ALPS.

"WHAT is it

That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon?"
"Myself and thee-a peasant of the Alps-
Thy humble virtues, hospitable home,
And spirit patient, pious, proud, and free;
Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts;

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