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But thou, who own'st that earthly bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail;
Or tears, which love and pity shed,
That mourn beneath the gliding sail?
Yet lives there one whose heedless eye
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near?
With him, sweet bard, may fancy die,
And joy desert the blooming year.

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crowned sisters now attend,
Now waft me from the green hill's side,
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!
And see, the fairy valleys fade,

Dun night has veiled the solemn view!
Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek Nature's child, again adieu!

The genial meads, assigned to bless
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom!
Their hinds and shepherd girls shall dress,
With simple hands, thy rural tomb.
Long, long thy stone and pointed clay
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes:
"O vales and wild woods," shall he say,
"In yonder grave your Druid lies!"

John Home.

Born 1722.

Died 1808.

AUTHOR of the tragedy of "Douglas," was born in Leith, of which place his father was town-clerk. In 1745 he joined the royal army as a volunteer. Having studied for the Church, he was, in 1750, inducted to the living of Athelstaneford, as successor to Blair; but having written the tragedy of "Douglas," which was acted at the Theatre in 1756, his conduct was brought before the Presbytery, and he resigned. Lord Bute, then in power, obtained for him a Government appointment, in which he passed the remainder of his life in happy tranquillity. He died in his eighty-sixth year.

FROM TRAGEDY OF "DOUGLAS."

My name is Norval: on the Grampian hills
My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain,
Whose constant cares were to increase his store,
And keep his only son, myself, at home.

For I had heard of battles, and I long'd
To follow to the field some warlike lord:
And heaven soon granted what my sire deny'd.
This moon which rose last night, round as my shield,
Had not yet fill'd her horns, when, by her light,
A band of fierce barbarians, from the hills,
Rush'd like a torrent down upon the vale,
Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds fled
For safety and for succour. I alone,
With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows,
Hover'd about the enemy, and mark'd
The road he took, then hasten'd to my friends,
Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men,
I met advancing. The pursuit I led,
Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumber'd foe.
We fought and conquer'd. Ere a sword was drawn,
An arrow from my bow had pierced their chief,
Who wore that day the arms which now I wear.
Returning home in triumph, I disdain'd
The shepherd's slothful life; and having heard
That our good king had summon'd his bold peers
To lead their warriors to the Carron side,
I left my father's house, and took with me
A chosen servant to conduct my steps:-
Yon trembling coward, who forsook his master.
Journeying with this intent, I pass'd these towers,
And, heaven-directed, came this day to do
The happy deed that gilds my humble name.

Rev. John Newton.

Born 1725.

Died 1807.

His

CURATE of Olney, and afterwards of St Mary's, Woolnoth, London. early life was very wild and profligate. He was at one time master of a slave ship, then himself a slave. When rescued he became a changed man, devoted himself to the ministry, and was one of the most successful of preachers. At Olney he became acquainted with Cowper, and in conjunction with him wrote the "Olney Hymns," which are among the most beautiful pieces of devotional poetry to be found in our language.

THE LORD WILL PROVIDE.

THOUGH troubles assail, and dangers affright,
Though friends should all fail, and foes all unite;
Yet one thing secures us, whatever betide,

The Scripture assures us,

"The Lord will provide."

R

The birds, without barn or storehouse, are fed;
From them let us learn to trust for our bread:
His saints what is fitting shall ne'er be denied,
So long as 'tis written,
"The Lord will provide."

His call we obey, like Abrah'm of old,

Not knowing our way, but faith makes us bold:
For, though we are strangers, we have a sure Guide,
And trust, in all dangers, "The Lord will provide."

No strength of our own, nor goodness we claim ;
Yet since we have known the Saviour's great name,
In this our strong tower for safety we hide,

The Lord is our power;

"The Lord will provide."

When life sinks apace, and death is in view,
This word of his grace shall comfort us through:
No doubting nor fearing with Christ on our side;
The promise is cheering, "The Lord will provide."

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How sweet the name of Jesus sounds

In a believer's ear!

It soothes his sorrows, heals his wounds,
And drives away his fear.

It makes the wounded spirit whole,
And calms the troubled breast;

'Tis manna to the hungry soul,

And to the weary rest.

Dear name! the rock on which I build,
My shield and hiding-place;

My never-failing treasury, fill'd

With boundless stores of grace.

Jesus! my Shepherd, Kinsman, Friend,
My Prophet, Priest, and King,
My Lord, my Life, my Way, my End,
Accept the praise I bring.

Weak is the effort of my heart,
And cold my warmest thought;
But when I see Thee as Thou art,
I'll praise Thee as I ought.

Till then I would thy love proclaim
With every fleeting breath;
And may the savour of thy Name
Refresh my soul in death.

Oliver Goldsmith.

Born 1728.

Died 1774.

THIS celebrated writer, whose works range over every department of literature, was born at Pallas, in the county of Longford, Ireland, on 10th November 1728. His father was a clergyman in the Episcopal Church, and gave his son all the advantages of education that his means would admit of. He was successively at Dublin, Edinburgh, and Leyden Universities. He seems to have idled his time in all these places, and left Leyden on a pedestrian tour on the Continent with a guinea, a shirt, and a flute. After a year of wandering he arrived in England penniless. After much privation and many charges, he at last obtained literary work in writing for the "Monthly Review;" this not suiting, he tried to pass an examination at Surgeons' Hall as hospital mate, but was rejected as unqualified. He had borrowed the clothes he wore on the occasion, on the promise of returning them; but he pawned them instead, and when threatened with the jail, he answered he would rejoice to be sent there as a relief from his misery. But Goldsmith's pen now obtained full employment. In 1764 appeared his poem "The Traveller," and in 1770 "The Deserted Village." These became very popular, and ran through several editions. His comedies also met with an enthusiastic reception, and he was on the highway to fame and honour. Wealth flowed in upon him from his writings; but he was always in debt. His heedless profusion, and afterwards a taste for gambling, exhausted all his resources and those of his friends, and he died in debt no less than L.2000. He was never married. He died on 4th April 1774.

THE TRAVELLER.

REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po;
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door;
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies,
A weary waste expanding to the skies;
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee:
Still to my Brother turns, with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.

Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend,
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend!
Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire
To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire;

Blest that abode, where want and pain repair,
And every stranger finds a ready chair;
Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd,
Where all the ruddy family around

Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail,
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale;
Or press the bashful stranger to his food,
And learn the luxury of doing good.

But me, not destined such delights to share,
My prime of life in wandering spent, and care;
Impell'd, with steps unceasing, to pursue
Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view;
That, like the circle bounding earth and skies,
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies;
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone,
And find no spot of all the world my own.
Even now, where Alpine solitudes ascend,
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ;
And, placed on high above the storm's career,
Look downward where a hundred realms appear;
Lakes, forests, cities, plains, extending wide,
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride.
When thus Creation's charms around combine,
Amidst the store should thankless pride repine?
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain

That good which makes each humbler bosom vain?
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can,
These little things are great to little man;
And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind

Exults in all the good of all mankind.

Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendour crown'd;
Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round;

Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale;
Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale;
For me your tributary stores combine:
Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine!
As some lone miser, visiting his store,
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er;
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still:
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,
Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies,
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,

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