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TO THE SONS OF BURNS.

147

And we will raise to him two monuments; One where he died, and one where he lies buried ; One in the pealing of those midnight bells, Their swell and fall, and varied interchange, The tones that come again upon the spirit In years far off, mid unshaped accidents ;And one in the deep quiet of the soul, The mingled memories of a thousand moods Of joy and sorrow ;—and his epitaph Shall be upon him—“Here lie the remains Of one, who was less valued while he lived, Than thought on when he died.”

ALFORD.

TO THE SONS OF BURNS,

AFTER VISITING THE TOMB OF THEIR FATHER.

Mid crowded obelisks and urns
I sought the untimely grave of Burns;
Sons of the bard, my heart still mourns

With sorrow true ;
And more would grieve, but that it turns

Trembling to you !
Through twilight shades of good and ill
Ye now are panting up life's hill ;
And more than common strength and skill

Must ye display,
If
ye would give the better will

Its lawful sway.

418

TO THE SONS OF BURNS.

Hath nature strung your nerves to bear
Intemp’rance with less harm, beware!
But if the poet's wit ye share,

Like him can speed
The social hour—for tenfold care

There will be need.
Even honest men delight will take
To spare your failings

for his sake,
Will flatter you ;—and fool and rake

Your steps pursue,
And of

your
father's

's name will make

A snare for you.
Far from their noisy haunts retire,
And add your voices to the choir
That sanctify the cottage fire

With service meet;
There seek the glories of your sire,-

His spirit greet.
Or where, mid " lonely heights and hows,”
He paid to nature tuneful vows ;
Or wiped his honourable brows

Bedew'd with toil,
While reapers strove, or busy ploughs

Upturn'd the soil :
His judgment with benignant ray
Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way;
But ne'er to a seductive lay

Let faith be given ;
Nor deem that “light which leads astray

Is light from Heaven."

VOICE OF THE WIND.

149

Let no mean hope your souls enslave;
Be independent, generous, brave;
Your father such example gave,

And such revere ;
But be admonish'd by his grave,

And think and fear!

WORDSWORTH,

VOICE OF THE WIND.

CONSTANCY On all things works for good; the barren breeds, The fluent stops, the fugitive is fixed By constancy. I told you, did I not, The story of the wind, how he himself, The desultory wind, was wrought upon?

The wind, when first he rose and went abroad Through the waste region, felt himself at fault, Wanting a voice ; and suddenly to earth Descended with a wafture and a swoop, Where, wandering volatile from kind to kind, He wooed the several trees to give him one. First, he besought the ash; the voice she lent Fitfully, with a free and lashing change, Flung here and there its sad uncertainties : The aspen next; a flutter'd frivolous twitter Was her sole tribute : from the willow came, So long as dainty summer dressed her out, A whispering sweetness; but her winter note Was hissing, dry, and reedy: lastly, the pine

150

THE POOR BLIND MAN.

Did he solicit, and from her he drew
A voice so constant, soft, and lowly deep,
That there he rested, welcoming in her
A mild memorial of the ocean-cave
Where he was born.

H. TAYLOR.

THE POOR BLIND MAN OF SALISBURY

CATHEDRAL.

THERE is a poor blind man, who, every day,
In frost or snow, in sunshine or in rain,
Duly as tolls the bell to the high fane,
Explores with faltering footsteps his dark way,
To kneel before his Maker, and to hear
The chanted service pealing full and clear.
Ask why, alone, in the same spot he kneels
Through the long year? Oh, the wide world is

cold
As dark to him : here he no longer feels
His sad bereavement— faith and hope uphold
His heart; he feels not he is poor and blind,
Amid th' unpitying tumult of mankind :
His soul is in the choir above the skies,
And songs far off of angel companies.
Oh happy, if the rich, the vain, the proud,
The pageant actors of the motley crowd,
Since life is “a poor play’r,” our days a span,
Would learn one lesson from this

poor

blind man.

BOWLES.

RURAL SIGHTS AND SOUNDS.

Youth repairs His wasted spirits quickly, by long toil Incurring short fatigue; and though our years, As life declines, speed rapidly away, And not a year but pilfers as he goes Some youthful grace that age would gladly keep, A tooth or auburn lock, and by degrees Their length and colour from the locks they spare, The elastic spring of an unwearied foot That mounts the stile with ease, or leaps the fence, That play of lungs inhaling and again Respiring freely the fresh air, that makes Swift pace or steep ascent no toil to me; Mine have not pilfer'd yet; nor yet impair'd My relish of fair prospect; scenes that sooth'd Or charm’d me young, no longer young I find Still soothing, and of power to charm me still. And witness, dear companion of my walks, Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive Fast lock'd in mine, with pleasure such as love, Confirm’d by long experience of thy worth And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire, Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long. Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere, And that my raptures are not conjured up To serve occasions of poetic pomp, But genuine, and art partner of them all. How oft upon yon eminence our pace

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