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The friends who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone:
But thou wilt heal that broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers,

And even the hope that threw

A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,

Is dimned and vanished too!

Oh who would bear life's stormy doom,

Did not thy wing of love

Come brightly wafting through the gloom,

One peace-branch from above?

Then sorrow, touched by thee, grows bright

With more that rapture's ray;

As darkness shows us worlds of light

We never saw by day.


I culled each floweret for my fair,

The wild thyme and the heather bell, And round them twined a tendril rare ;—

She said the posy pleased her well. But of the flowers that deck the field,

Or grace the garden of the cot, Though others richer perfumes yield,

The sweetest is, ' Forget me not.'

We roamed the mead, we climbed the hill,

We rambled o'er the breckan brae, The trees that crowned the mossy rill,

They screened us from the glare of day. She said she loved the sylvan bower,

Was charmed with every rural sport; And when arrived the parting hour,

Her last words were, ' Forget me not.'



I saw an aged beggar in my walk,

And he was seated by the high-way side,

On a low structure of rude masonry

Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they

Who lead their horses down the steep rough road

May thence remount at ease. The aged man

Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone

That overlays the pile, and from a bag

All white with flour, the dole of village dames,

He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one,

And scanned them with a fixed and serious look

Of idle computation. '' Itflfce 'sun,

Upon the second step of Tthat small -pile,

Surrounded bf those wild unpeopled hills,

He sate, and eat his food in solitude;

And ever, scattered from his palsied hand,

That still attempting to prevent the waste,

Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers

Fell on the ground, and the small mountain birds,

Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal,

Approached within the length of half his staff.

Him from my childhood have I known, and then He was so old, he seems not older now; He travels on, a solitary man, So helpless in appearance, that for him The sauntering horseman-traveller does not throw With careless hand his alms upon the ground, But stops, that he may safely lodge the coin Within the old man's hat; nor quits him so, But still when he has given his horse the rein, Towards the aged beggar turns a look, Side-long and half-reverted. She who tends The toll-gate, when in summer at her door She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees The aged beggar coming, quits her work, And lifts the latch for him that he may pass. The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake The aged beggar in the woody lane, Shouts to him from behind, and, if perchance The old man does not change his course, the boy Turns with less noisy wheels to the road-side, And passes gently by, without a curse Upon his lips, or anger at his heart. He travels on, a solitary man, His age has no companion. On the ground His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along, They move along the ground; and evermore,

Instead of common and habitual sight
Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale,
And the blue sky, one little span of earth
Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day,
Bowbent, his eyes for ever on the ground,.
He plies his weary journey, seeing still,
And never knowing that he sees, some straw,
Some scattered leaf, or marks, which in one track,
The nails of cart or chariot wheel have left
Impressed on the white road, in the same line,
At distance still the same. Poor traveller!
His staff trails with him, scarcely do his feet
Disturb the summer dust; he is so still
In look and motion, that the cottage curs,
Ere he have passed the door, will turn away
Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls,
The vacant and the busy, maids and youths,
And urchins newly breeched, all pass him by:
Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind.

But deem not this man useless.—Statesmen! ye
Who are so restless in yonr wisdom, ye
Who have a broom still ready iu your hands
To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud,
Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate
Your talents, power, and wisdom, deem him not

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