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There will the lark,—the lamb, in sport,
In air, on earth,-securely play,
And Lucy to my grave resort,

As innocent, but not so gay.
I will not have the churchyard ground,
With bones all black and ugly grown,
To press my shivering body round,
Or on my wasted limbs be thrown.

With ribs and skulls I will not sleep,
In clammy beds of cold blue clay,
Through which the ringed earth-worms creep,
And on the shrouded bosom prey;
I will not have the bell proclaim

When those sad marriage rites begin,-
And boys, without regard or shame,
Press the vile mouldering masses in.

Say not, it is beneath my care;

I cannot these cold truths allow :-
These thoughts may not afflict me there,
But, oh! they vex and tease me now.
Raise not a turf, nor set a stone,

That man a maiden's grave may trace;
But thou, my Lucy, come alone,
And let affection find the place.

O! take me from a world I hate,-
Men cruel, selfish, sensual, cold;
And, in some pure and blessed state,
Let me my sister minds behold:

From gross and sordid views refined,
Our heaven of spotless love to share,-
For only generous souls design'd,

And not a man to meet us there.

WOMAN.

PLACE the white man on Afric's coast,
Whose swarthy sons in blood delight,
Who of their scorn to Europe boast,

And paint their very demons white:
There, while the sterner sex disdains

To soothe the woes they cannot feel, Woman will strive to heal his pains,

And weep for those she cannot heal. Hers is warm pity's sacred glow,—

From all her stores she bears a part; And bids the spring of hope reflow,

That languish'd in the fainting heart.

"What though so pale his haggard face,

So sunk and sad his looks,”—she cries: "And far unlike our nobler race,

With crisped locks and rolling eyes;
Yet misery marks him of our kind,—
We see him lost, alone, afraid!
And pangs of body, griefs in mind,
Pronounce him man, and ask our aid.

"Perhaps in some far distant shore,
There are who in these forms delight;
Whose milky features please them more
Than ours of jet, thus burnish'd bright:

Of such may be his weeping wife,

Such children for their sire may call:
And if we spare his ebbing life,

Our kindness may preserve them all."

Thus her compassion woman shows,
Beneath the line her acts are these;
Nor the wide waste of Lapland snows
Can her warm flow of pity freeze ;—
"From some sad land the stranger comes,

Where joys like ours are never found;
Let's soothe him in our happy homes,

Where freedom sits, with plenty crown'd.

""Tis good the fainting soul to cheer,
To see the famish'd stranger fed;
To milk for him the mother-deer,
To smooth for him the furry bed.
The powers above our Lapland bless
With good no other people know;
T'enlarge the joys that we possess,

By feeling those that we bestow!"

Thus in extremes of cold and heat,
Where wandering man may trace his kind;
Wherever grief and want retreat,

In woman they compassion find:
She makes the female breast her seat,
And dictates mercy to the mind.

Man may the sterner virtues know,
Determined justice, truth severe;
But female hearts with pity glow,
And woman holds affliction dear:

For guiltless woes her sorrows flow,
And suffering vice compels her tear,—
'Tis hers to soothe the ills below,

And bid life's fairer views appear.

To woman's gentle kind we owe
What comforts and delights us here;
They its gay hopes on youth bestow,

And care they soothe and age they cheer.

WALTER SCOTT was born in Edinburgh, on the 15th of August, 1771. His father was a writer to the signet, and of ancient and honourable descent. Almost from his birth until the age of sixteen, he was afflicted with ill health; and, either from the weakness of his constitution, or, as some assert, from an accident occasioned by the carelessness of his nurse, his right foot was injured, and he was lame during his life. His early days were passed among the hills and dales of the borders-"famous in war and verse”—“where,” we quote from Allan Cunningham," almost every stone that stands above the ground is the record of some skirmish, or single combat; and every stream, although its waters be so in. considerable as scarcely to moisten the pasture through which they run, is renowned in song and in ballad." Perhaps to the happy chance of his residence in a district so fertile in legendary lore, the world is indebted for the vast legacy of wealth he bequeathed to it. In 1783, he entered the University of Edinburgh; and in 1792, became an advocate at the Scottish bar: but after a few years' attendance at the Courts, quitted it, in order to devote himself to literature. He had, however, reached his 25th year, before he manifested any desire, or rather intention, to contend for fame in a path so intricate; and as he himself states, his first attempt ended in a transfer of his printed sheets to the service of the trunk-maker. Though discouraged, he was not disheartened. In 1802, "the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border” obtained a more fortunate destiny; and about three years afterwards, the publication of "the Lay of the Last Minstrel," completely established the fame of the writer. From the appearance of this Poem, the life of the Poet, until towards the close of it, is little else than a history of his writings. Marmion issued from the press in 1808; the Lady of the Lake, in 1810; Don Roderick, in 1811; Rokeby, in 1813; the Lord of the Isles, in 1814; the Bridal of Triermain, and Harold the Dauntless appeared anonymously,—the former, in 1813; and the latter, in 1817. The publication of his novels and romances commenced with Waverley, in 1814. In 1820, Walter Scott was created a baronet of the United Kingdom. In January, 1826, his publishers became bankrupts; it produced a feeling of the deepest sorrow,— not only in Edinburgh, but throughout the kingdom, when it was ascertained that, through their failure, he was involved in pecuniary

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