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Clad in colors of the air,
Which to those who journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear,
Still we tread the same coarse way,
The present 's still a cloudy day.

O may I with myself agree,
And never covet what I see;
Content me with an humble shade,
My passions tam'd, my wishes laid;
For, while our wishes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the soula
'T is thus the busy beat the air,
And misers gather wealth and care.

Now, ev'n now, my joys run high,
As on the mountain-turf I lie;
While the wanton Zephyr sings,
And in the vale perfumes his wings;
While the waters murmur deep;
While the shepherd charms his sheep;
While the birds unbounded fly,
And with music fill the sky,
Now, ev'n now, my joys run high,

Be full, ye courts; be great who will,
Search for Peace with all your skill:
Open wide the lofty door,
Seek her on the marble floor.
In vain you search, she is not there;
In vain you search the domes of Care !
Grass and flowers Quiet treads,
On the meads, and mountain-heads,
Along with Pleasure, close allied,
Ever by each other's side;
And often, by the murmuring rill,
Hears the thrush, while all is still,
Within the groves of Grongar Hill,

JOHN DYER

A Soliloquy.

OCCASIONED BY THE CHIRPING OF A GRASSHOPPER.

Happy insect! ever blest
With a more than mortal rest,
Rosy dews the leaves among,
Humble joys, and gentle song!
Wretched poet! ever curst
With a life of lives the worst,
Sad despondence, restless fears,
Endless jealousies and tears.

In the burning summer thou
Warblest on the verdant bough,
Meditating cheerful play,
Mindless of the piercing ray;
Scorched in Cupid's fervors, I
Ever weep and ever die.

Proud to yratify thy will,
Ready Nature waits thee still;
Balmy wines to thee she pours,
Weeping through the dewy flowers
Kich as those by Hebe given
To the thirsty sons of heaven.

Yet alas, we both agree.
Miserable tlou like me!
Each, alike, in youth rehearses
Gentle strains and tender verses •
Ever wandering far from home,
Mindless of the days to come
(Such as aged Winter brings
Trembling on his icy wings),
Both alike at last we die;
Thou art starved, and so am I!

WALTER HARTE The Braes of ¥arrow.

“Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride!

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow! Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride,

And think nae mair of the braes of Yarrow."

“Where got ye that bonnie, bonnie bride,

Where got ye that winsome marrow?" “I got her where I daurna weel be seen,

Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.

‘Weep not, weep not, my bonnie, bonnie bride,

Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow! Nor let thy heart lament to leave

Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.”

Why does she weep, thy bonnie, bonnie bride ?

Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow ? And why daur ye nae mair weel be seen

Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow?"

“Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep.

Lang maun she weep wi' dule and sorrow; And lang maun I nae mair weel be seen

Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.

“For she has tint her lover, lover dear

Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow; And I hae slain the comeliest swain

That e'er pu'd birks on the braes of Yarrow.

“Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red ?

Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? And why yon melancholious weeds

Hung on the bonnie birks of Yarrow?

“What 's yonder Aoats on the rueful, rueful flood ?

What 's yonder foats?—Oh, dule and sorrow! 'T is he, the comely swain I slew

Upon the dulefu' braes of Yarrow.

“Wash, oh, wash his wounds, his wounds in tears,

His wounds in tears o' dule and sorrow; And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds,

And lay him on the banks of Yarrow.

"Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad,

Ye sisters sad, his tomb wi' sorrow; And weep around, in waeful wise,

His hapless fate on the braes of Yarrow !

“Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield,

The arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, The fatal spear that pierced his breast,

His comely breast, on the braes of Yarrow!

“ Did I not warn thee not to, not to love,

And warn from fight? But, to my sorrow, Too rashly bold, a stronger arm thou met'st,

Thou met'st, and fell on the braes of Yarrow.

Sweet smells the birk; green grows, green grows the grass,

Yellow on Yarrow's braes the gowan; Fair hangs the apple frae the rock;

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowing!

“ Flows Yarrow sweet? As sweet, as sweet flows Tweed;

As green its grass; its gowan as yellow; As sweet smells on its braes the birk;

The apple from its rocks as mellow!

"Fair was thy love! fair, fair indeed thy love!

In flowery bands thou didst him fetter;

Though he was fair, and well-beloved again,

Than I he never loved thee better.

" Busk ye, then, busk, my bonnie, bonnie bride!

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow! Busk ye, and lo'e me on the banks of Tweed

And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow.”

“How can I busk a bonnie, bonnie bride?

How can I busk a winsome marrow ?
How can I lo'e him on the banks of Tweed,

That slew my love on the braes of Yarrow?

“Oh Yarrow fields, may never, never rain,

Nor dew, thy tender blossoms cover!
For there was basely slain my love,
My love, as he had not been a lover.

“ The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,

His purple vest—'t was my ain sewing; Ah, wretched me! I little, little kenned,

He was, in these, to meet his ruin.

“The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed,

Unmindful of my dule and sorrow; But ere the too fa' of the night,

He lay a corpse on the banks of Yarrow!

“Much I rejoiced that waefu', waefu' day;

I sang, my voice the woods returning; But lang ere night the spear was flown

That slew my love, and left me mourning.

" What can my barbarous, barbarous father do,

But with his cruel rage pursue me? My lover's blood is on thy spear

How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me?

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