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WHITTIER.

"Fearless brow to Him uplifting,

Canst thou for his thunders call, Knowing that to guilt's attraction Evermore they fall?

"Knowst thou not all germs of evil
In thy heart await their time?
Not thyself, but God's restraining,
Stays their growth of crime.

"Couldst thou boast, oh child of weakness!
O'er the sons of wrong and strife,
Were their strong temptations planted
In thy path of life?

"Thou hast seen two streamlets gushing
From one fountain, clear and free,
But by widely varying channels
Searching for the sea.

"Glideth one through greenest valleys,
Kissing them with lips still sweet,
One, mad roaring down the mountains,
Stagnates at their feet.

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Is it choice whereby the Parsee Kneels before his mother's fire? In his black tent did the Tartar Choose his wandering sire?

"He alone, whose hand is bounding Human power and human will, Looking through each soul's surrounding,

Knows its good or ill.

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"For thyself, while wrong and sorrow
Make to thee their strong appeal,
Coward wert thou not to utter
What the heart must feel.

"Earnest words must needs be spoken,

When the warm heart bleeds, or burns, With its scorn of wrong, or pity

For the wronged, by turns.

"But by all thy nature's weakness,
Hidden faults and follies known,
Be thou, in rebuking evil,
Conscious of thine own.

"Not the less shall stern-eyed Duty
To thy lips her trumpet set,
But with harsher blasts shall mingle
Wailings of regret."

Cease not, Voice of holy speaking,
Teacher sent of God, be near;

Whispering through the day's cool silence,
Let my spirit hear!

So, when thoughts of evil doers
Waken scorn or hatred move,
Shall a mournful fellow-feeling
Temper all with love.

WHITTIER.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM

The lovely Lass of Preston Mill.

THE lark had left the evening cloud,
The dew fell saft, the wind was lowne,
Its gentle breath amang the flowers

Scarce stirred the thistle's tap o' down;
The dappled swallow left the pool,

The stars were blinking owre the hill,
As I met, amang the hawthorns green,
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.
Her naked feet, amang the grass,

Shone like twa dew-gemmed lilies fair;
Her brow shone comely 'mang her locks,

Dark curling owre her shoulders bare;
Her cheeks were rich wi' bloomy youth;
Her lips had words and wit at will,
And heaven seemed looking through her een,
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

Quo' I, 'Sweet lass, will ye gang wi' me,
Where blackcocks craw, and plovers cry?
Six hills are woolly wi' my sheep,

Six vales are lowing wi' my kye:

I hae looked lang for a well-faur'd lass,
By Nithsdale's holmes an' monie a hill;'-
She hung her head like a dew-bent rose,
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

Quo' I, 'Sweet maiden, look nae down,
But gie 's a kiss, and gang wi' me:'

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A lovelier face, O! never looked up,
And the tears were drapping frae her e'e:
'I hae a lad wha 's far awa,

That weel could win a woman's will;
My heart's already fu' o' love,'

Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.
'Now wha is he wha could leave sic a lass,
To seek for love in a far countree?'-
Her tears drapped down like simmer dew:
I fain wad kissed them frae her e'e.
I took but ane o' her comely cheek;

'For pity's sake, kind Sir, be still! My heart is fu' o' other love,'

Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.

She stretched to heaven her twa white hands,
And lifted up her watery e'e;—

'Sae lang 's my heart kens aught o' God,

Or light is gladsome to my e'e—

While woods grow green, and burns rin clear,
Till my last drop o' blood be still-
My heart shall haud nae other love,'

Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.
There's comely maids on Dee's wild banks,
And Nith's romantic vale is fu';
By lanely Cluden's hermit stream

Dwells monie a gentle dame, I trow!
O, they are lights of a gladsome kind,
As ever shone on vale or hill;
But there's a light puts them a' out,
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

MILTON.

Lycidas.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. EDWARD KING,

FELLOW OF CHRIST'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.

DROWNED IN HIS PASSAGE FROM CHESTER ON THE IRISH SEAS, 1637.

YET once more, O ye laurels, and once more
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forced fingers rude

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due:
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer :
Who would not sing for Lycidas? He knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Begin then, sisters of the sacred well

That from beneath the feet of Jove doth spring,
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain and coy excuse,

So may some gentle Muse

With lucky words favour my destined urn,
And as he passes turn,

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