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And differing judgments serve but to declare

That truth lies somewhere, if we knew but where.

Of all it ever was my lot to read,

Of critics now alive, or long since dead,

The book of all the world that pleased me most

Was—well-a-day, the title-page was lost;

The writer well remarks, a heart that knows

To take with gratitude what Heaven bestows,

With prudence always ready at our call,

To guide our use of it, is all in all.

Doubtless it is.—To which, of my own store

I superadd a few essentials more.

But these, excuse the liberty I take,

I waive just now, for conversation's sake.' —

'Spoke like an oracle!' they all exclaim, And add Right Reverend to Smug's honoured name.

From Hope.

Boadicea. An Ode.

WHEN the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath a spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief,

Every burning word he spoke
Full of rage and full of grief:

'Princess! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,

Tis because resentment ties
All the terrors of our tongues.

'Rome shall perish—write that word
In the blood that she has spilt;

Perish hopeless and abhorred,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.

'Rome, for empire far renowned,
Tramples on a thousand states;

Soon her pride shall kiss the ground,-
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates.

'Other Romans shall arise,
Heedless of a soldier's name,

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,
Harmony the path to fame.

'Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land,

Armed with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command.

'Regions Caesar never knew

Thy posterity shall sway, Where his eagles never flew,

None invincible as they.'

Such the bard's prophetic words,

Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords

Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She, with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bosom glow,

Rushed to battle, fought and died,
Dying, hurled them at the foe.

'Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heaven awards the justice due;

Empire is on us bestowed,

Shame and ruin wait for you!'

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To A Mountain Daisy.

WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flower,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem:
To spare thee now is past my power,
Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet!
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet

Wi' speckled breast, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet

The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth

Amid the storm;
Scarce reared above the parent-earth

Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield,
But thou, beneath the random bield

O' clod, or stane,
Adorns the histie stibble-field,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head

In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed,

And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet floweret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betrayed,

And guileless trust,
Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid

Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,

On life's rough ocean luckless-starred!

Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is given,

Who long with wants and woes has striven,

By human pride or cunning driven

To misery's brink,
Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven,

He, ruined, sink!

Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine—no distant date;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, -elate,

Full on thy bloom,
Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight,

Shall be thy doom!

To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest, With The Plough.

WEE, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickerin brattle l!
I wad be laith to rin and chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle" \

I 'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,

Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,

An' fellow mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker3 in a thrave

'S a sma' request:
I 'll get a blessing wi' the lave,

And never miss't!

1 hurry. s hand-stick for clearing the plough.

J An ear of com now and then; a thrave is twenty-four sheaves.

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