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Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved,

I bear alane my lade o' care, For silent, low, on beds of dust,

Lie a' that would my sorrows share,

“And last (the sum of a' my griefs !)

My noble master lies in clay ; The flow'r amang our barons bold,

His country's pride, his country's stay; In weary being now I pine,

For a’ the life of life is dead, And hope has left my aged ken,

On forward wing for ever fled.

“Awake thy last sad.voice, my harp!

The voice of woe and wild despair ! Awake, resound thy latest lay,

Then sleep in silence evermair! And thou, my last, best, only friend,

That fillest an untimely tomb, Accept this tribute from the Bard

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom.

“ In poverty's low barren vale,

Thick mists, obscure, involved me round; Though oft I turned the wistful eye,

No ray of fame was to be found :: Thou found'st me, like the morning sun

That melts the fogs in limpid air ; The friendless Bard and rustic song,

Became alike thy fostering care.

“Oh! why has worth so short a date ?

While villains ripen gray with time! Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great,

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime !

Why did I live to see that day?

A day to me so full of woe!
Oh! had I met the mortal shaft

Which laid my benefactor low!

“The bridegroom may forget the bride

Was made his wedded wife yestreen;
The monarch may forget the crown

That on his head an hour has been :
The mother may forget the child

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee;
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,

And a' that thou hast done for me!”



HEAVEN from all creatures hides the book of fate ;
All but the page prescribed, their present state ;
From brutes what men, from men what spirits know;
Or who could suffer being here below ?
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day,
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food,
And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.
O, blindness to the future ! kindly given,
That each may fill the circle marked by Heaven;
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall;
Atoms or systems into ruin hurled ;
And now a bubble burst, and now a world.

Hope humbly then ; with trembling pinions soar
Wait the great teacher, Death, and God adore :
Wait future bliss, he gives not thee to know,
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.

Hope springs eternal in the human breast :
Man never is, but always to be blest :
The soul, uneasy and confined from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

Lo, the poor Indian ! whose untutored mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind;
His soul proud science never taught to stray
Far as the solar walk or milky way;
Yet simple Nature to his hope has given,
Behind the cloud-topped hill, a humbler heaven;
Some safer world in depths of woods embraced,
Some happier island in the watery waste,
Where slaves once more their native land behold;
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold.
To Be, contents his natural desire ;
He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire ;
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company,

With fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread-

Stitch! stitch! stitch !
• In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch

She sang the “Song of the Shirt !"
“Work! work! work!

While the cock is crowing aloof!
And work! work! work!
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It's Oh! to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,

If this is Christian work!

“Work! work! work!

Till the brain begins to swim ;
Work! work ! work!
Till the eyes are heavy and dim !
Seam, and gusset, and band,

Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,

And sew them on in a dream!

Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!

Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives !
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But-human creatures' lives!
Stitch ! stitch ! stitch !

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread,

A Shroud as well as a Shirt.

“But why do I talk of Death ?

That phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own-
It seems so like my own,

Because of the fasts I keep,
Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,

And flesh and blood so cheap !

“Work! work! work!

My labour never flags;
And what are its wages ? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread—and rags.
That shattered roof—and this naked floor-

A table—a broken chair-
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank

For sometimes falling there!

“Work! work! work!

From weary chime to chime,
Work! work! work !
As prisoners work for crime !
Band, and gusset, and seam,

Seam, and gusset, and band,
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed,

As well as the weary hand.

“Work! work! work !

In the dull December light;
And work! work! work!
When the weather is warm and bright-
While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling,
As if to show their sunny backs,

And twit me with the spring.

“Oh! but to breathe the breath

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet-
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet,
For only one short hour

To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want,

And the walk that costs a meal !

“Oh, but for one short hour!

A respite however brief!
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,

But only time for Grief !
· A little weeping would ease my heart,

But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop

Hinders needle and thread!”

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