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That sacred hour can I forget?—
Can I forget the hallowed grove,
Where, by the winding Ayr, we met
To live one day of parting love?
ETERNITY will not efface

Those records dear of transports past!
Thy image at our last embrace-

Ah! little thought we, 'twas our last! Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, O'er-hung with wild woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twined amorous round the raptured scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed; The birds sang love on every spray; Till, too, too soon, the glowing west Proclaimed the speed of wingèd day. Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, And fondly broods with miser care; Time but the impression deeper makes,As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy blissful place of rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

L.-INSTABILITY OF FRIENDSHIP.-Thomas Moore.

ALAS!-how light a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love!
Hearts, that the world in vain had tried,
And sorrow but more closely tied;

That stood the storm when waves were rough,
Yet in a sunny hour fall off-
Like ships that have gone down at sea,
When heaven is all tranquillity!
A something light as air a look-

A word unkind, or wrongly taken

Oh! love, that tempests never shook

A breath, a touch like this, hath shaken.

And ruder words will soon rush in
To spread the breach that words begin;
And eyes forget the gentle ray

They wore in courtship's smiling day;

And voices lose the tone that shed
A tenderness round all they said;
Till, fast declining, one by one,
The sweetnesses of love are gone;
And hearts, so lately mingled, seem
Like broken clouds-or like the stream
That smiling left the mountain's brow,

As though its waters ne'er could sever,
Yet, ere it reach the plain below,

Breaks into floods, that part for ever!

LI. THE DESERTED VILLAGE.-Goldsmith.

SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain;
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed;
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please;
How often have I loitered o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endeared each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm;-
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,

The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church that topped the neighbouring hill;
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blessed the coming day,
When toil, remitting, lent its turn to play;
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending, as the old surveyed;
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round:
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired:-
The dancing pair, that simply sought renown,
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter tittered round the place;
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love;

The matron's glance that would those looks reprove;

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These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these, With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please.

Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There as I passed, with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came softened from below: The swain, responsive as the milk-maid sung; The sober herd, that lowed to meet their young; The noisy geese, that gabbled o'er the pool; The playful children, just let loose from school; The watch-dog's voice, that bayed the whispering wind; And the loud laugh, that spoke the vacant mind;These, all, in sweet confusion, sought the shade, And filled each pause the nightingale had made.

LIL-THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN.-Goldsmith.

NEAR yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild,
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village Preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place;
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train;
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain.
The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away,
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,

Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won:

Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,

And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His Pity gave, ere Charity began.

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Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And even his failings leaned to Virtue's side;
But, in his duty prompt at every call,

He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all:
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt her new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the
way.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control,
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway;
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The Service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;
Even children followed with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile:
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.

As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm;
Though round its breast, the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

LIII-MATERNAL HOPE-Campbell.

Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps,
Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps:
She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies,
Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes,
And weaves a song of melancholy joy:-

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Sleep, image of thy father!-sleep, my boy!
"No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine;
"No sigh, that rends thy father's heart and mine.
"Bright, as his manly sire, the son shall be

"In form and soul; but, ah! more bless'd than he!

"Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last,
"Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past;
"With
many a smile my solitude repay,

"And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away.

"And say, when, summoned from the world and thee, "I lay my head beneath the willow-tree,

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"Wilt thou, sweet mourner! at my stone appear,
"And soothe my parted spirit lingering near?
"Oh! wilt thou come at evening hour, to shed
"The tears of memory o'er my narrow bed;
"With aching temples on thy hand reclined,
"Muse on the last Farewell!' I leave behind;
"Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low,
"And think on all my love, and all my woe?"
So speaks affection, ere the infant eye
Can look regard, or brighten in reply:
But, when the cherub lip hath learned to claim
A mother's ear by that endearing name;
Soon as the playful innocent can prove
A tear of pity, or a smile of love;

Or cons his murmuring task beneath her care,
Or lisps, with holy look, his evening prayer;
Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear
The mournful ballad warbled in his ear,-
How fondly looks admiring Hope the while,
At every artless' tear, and every smile!
How glows the joyous parent, to descry
A guileless bosom, true to sympathy!

LIV.-TO-MORROW.-Cotton.

TO-MORROW, didst thou say?

Methought I heard Horatio say, To-morrow.
Go to-I will not hear of it-To-morrow!
'Tis a sharper, who stakes his penury

Against thy plenty; who takes thy ready cash,

And pays thee nought, but wishes, hopes, and promises,

The currency of idiots: injurious bankrupt,

That gulls the easy creditor!-To-morrow!

It is a period no-where to be found

In all the hoary registers of Time,
Unless, perchance, in the fool's calendar!
Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society
With those who own it. No, my Horatio,

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