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Has Hope, like the bird in the story,
That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory—
Has Hope been that bird to thee?
On branch after branch alighting,
The gem did she still display,
And, when nearest and most inviting,
Then waft the fair gem away!
If thus the sweet hours have fleeted,
When Sorrow herself looked bright;
If thus the fond hope has cheated,
That led thee along so light;
If thus, too, the cold world wither
Each feeling that once was dear ;—
Come, child of misfortune! come hither,
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

Moore.

The blind man groping cautiously his way
Along the crowded pavement of a city,
Has natural claims upon our tender pity.
Whether 'twere night, or whether it were day,
Would seem to make small difference to him
Whose days and nights alike are ever dim;
Yet still the tramp of human feet, and hum
Of human voices, sweetly fill his ear;
The surgings of the tides of life appear
Like the deep sounds that from the ocean come
At midnight to the listener. Pity's glance
Upon his form instinctively we throw;

And while some sadness clouds our countenance, To God we pray to save us from such wo.

MacKellar.

Come, chase that starting tear away,
Ere mine to meet it springs;
To-night, at least, to-night be gay,
Whate'er to-morrow brings!
Like sunset gleams, that linger late

When all is darkening fast,

Are hours like these we snatch from Fate—

The brightest and the last.

'Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh!

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,

To pine on the stem;

Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.

Moore.

Moore.

SAGE....Domestic Virtues.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;

Th' expectant wee things, todlin stacher through
To meet their dad, wi' flichtering noise and glee;
His wee-bit ingle blinkin bonilie,

His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,

Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile,

And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.

Burns.

How warmly we are loved, we seldom learn
Till pain and sorrow take our strength away;
Then hearts too long estranged, to us will turn,
And be at peace, as in a former day.
Our true and loving wife more loving grows;
Our little ones in pitying wonder stand

Beside the bed and clasp our fevered hand;
Their glistening eye the tear of feeling shows;
And it may be, when evening calls to rest,
They sadly kneel beside their mother's chair,
Their silvery voices blend in simple prayer,

And for their sire they make a child's request. The times of anguish vainly are not given. That lead a family to unity and heaven.

MacKellar.

Poor madam now condemned to hack
The rest of life with anxious Jack,
Perceiving others fairly flown,
Attempted pleasing him alone.
Jack soon was dazzled to behold
Her present face surpass the old:
With modesty her cheeks are dyed,
Humility displaces pride;

For tawdry finery is seen
A person ever neatly clean;
No more presuming on her sway,
She learns good nature every day;
Serenely gay, and strict in duty,
Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.

Goldsmith.

Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,
These simple blessings of the lowly train,
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the gloss of art:
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play,
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway;
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined.

But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed,
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain:
And e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy?

Goldsmith.

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