[From To the Unco Guid.] GOD, THE ONLY JUST judge. THEN gently scan your brother man, How far perhaps they rue it. Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us, [tone, He knows each chord-its various Each spring- its various bias: Then at the balance let's be mute, We never can adjust it; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted. HIGHLAND MARY. YE banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfald her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took my last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade, I clasped her to my bosom! The golden hours, on angel wings, Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me, as light and life, Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' monie a vow, and lock'd embrace, Our parting was fu' tender; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder; But oh! fell death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary. Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips, That dwelt on me sae kindly! And mouldering now in silent dust, That heart that lo'ed me dearly! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Ma y. MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. A DIRGE. WHEN chill November's surly blast I spied a man, whose aged step Young stranger, whither wanderest thou? Began the reverend sage; Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasure's rage? Or, haply, prest with cares and woes, Too soon thou hast began To wander forth, with me, to mourn The miseries of man. The sun that overhangs yon moors, Outspreading far and wide, Where hundreds labor to support A haughty lordling's pride; Twice forty times return; That man was made to mourn. O man! while in thy early years, LOVE. SAMUEL BUTLER. LOVE is too great a happiness For perishing mortality; WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER. WORK AND WORSHIP. "Laborare est orare. ST. AUGUSTINE. CHARLEMAGNE, the mighty monarch, As through Metten Wood he Found the holy hermit, Hutto, In his hand the woodman's hatchet, Well the monarch knew the hermit Much he marvelled now to see him But the hermit resting neither "Think not that the heavenly bless. ing From the workman's hand removes; Who does best his task appointed, Him the Master most approves. While he spoke the hermit, pausing For a moment, raised his eyes Where the overhanging branches Swayed beneath the sunset skies. Through the dense and vaulted for est Straight the level sunbeam came, Shining like a gilded rafter, Poised upon a sculptured frame. Suddenly, with kindling features, While he breathes a silent prayer, See, the hermit throws his hatchet, Lightly, upward in the air. |