He passed his hours in peace. But while he viewed his wealth increase, While thus along life's dusty road The beaten track content he trod, Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares, Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.
And now, one night, in musing mood,
As all alone he sate,

The unwelcome messenger of Fate
Once more before him stood.

Half killed with anger and surprise, "So soon returned!" Old Dodson cries. "So soon, d' ye call it!" Death replies; "Surely, my friend, you 're but in jest! Since I was here before

"T is six-and-thirty years at least, And you are now fourscore."

"So much the worse," the clown rejoined;

"To spare the aged would be kind: However, see your search be legal; And your authority, -is 't regal? Else you are come on a fool's errand, With but a secretary's warrant. Beside, you promised me three warnings,

Which I have looked for nights and mornings;

But for that loss of time and ease
I can recover damages.'

"I know," cries Death, "that at the
best

I seldom am a welcome guest;
But don't be captious, friend, at least:
I little thought you'd still be able
To stump about your farm and stable:
Your years have run to a great length;
I wish you joy, though, of your strength!"

"Hold," says the farmer, "not so fast! I have been lame these four years past.' "And no great wonder," Death replies : "However, you still keep your eyes; And sure to see one's loves and friends For legs and arms would make amends." "Perhaps," says Dodson, "so it might, But latterly I've lost my sight."

"This is a shocking tale, 't is true;
But still there's comfort left for you:
Each strives your sadness to amuse;
I warrant you hear all the news."

"There's none," cries he; and if there

were,

I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear." "Nay, then," the spectre stern re joined,

"These are unjustifiable yearnings:
If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,
You've had your three sufficient
warnings;

So come along, no more we 'll part."
He said, and touched him with his dart.
And now Old Dodson, turning pale,
Yields to his fate, so ends my tale.

ANNA L. BARBAULD.

[1743-1825.]

THE SABBATH OF THE SOUL.

SLEEP, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, Of earth and folly born;

Ye shall not dim the light that streams
From this celestial morn.

To-morrow will be time enough
To feel your harsh control;
Ye shall not violate, this day,
The Sabbath of my soul.

Sleep, sleep forever, guilty thoughts;
Let fires of vengeance die;
And, purged from sin, may I behold
A God of purity!

THE DEATH OF THE VIRTUOUS. SWEET is the scene when virtue dies!

When sinks a righteous soul to rest, How mildly beam the closing eyes, How gently heaves the expiring breast! So fades a summer cloud away,

So sinks the gale when storms are o'er, So gently shuts the eye of day, So dies a wave along the shore.

Triumphant smiles the victor brow,

Fanned by some angel's purple wing;Where is, O grave! thy victory now? And where, insidious death! thy sting?

Farewell, conflicting joys and fears,

Where light and shade alternate dwell!

WHAT ails this heart o' mine?

What ails this watery ee?
What gars me a' turn pale as death
When I take leave o' thee?
When thou art far awa',

Thou 'lt dearer grow to me;
But change o' place and change o' folk
May gar thy fancy jee.

When I gae out at e'en,

Or walk at morning air,
Ilk rustling bush will seem to say,
I used to meet thee there.
Then I'll sit down and cry,

And live aneath the tree,
And when a leaf fa's i' my lap,
I'll ca''t a word frae thee.

I'll hie me to the bower That thou wi' roses tied,

JOHN LOGAN.

[1748-1788.]

TO THE CUCKOO.

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of spring!
Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee
I hail the time of flowers,

And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.

The school-boy, wandering through the wood

To pull the primrose gay,

Starts, the new voice of spring to hear, And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fliest thy vocal vale,

An annual guest in other lands,
Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No winter in thy year!

O, could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the spring.

YARROW STREAM.

THY banks were bonnie, Yarrow stream,
When first on thee I met my lover;
Thy banks how dreary, Yarrow stream,
When now thy waves his body cover!

My kurtch I put upo' my head,
And dressed mysel' fu' braw;
I trow my heart was dough and wae,
When Jamie gade awa'.
But weel may the boatie row,
And lucky be her part,
And lightsome be the lassie's care
That yields an honest heart.

UNKNOWN.

GLENLOGIE.

THREESCORE o' nobles rade up the king's ha',

But bonnie Glenlogie's the flower o' them a',

Wi' his milk-white steed and his bonnie black e'e,

The next line that he read, the tear blindit his e'e;

But the last line that he read, he gart the table flee.

"Gar saddle the black horse, gar saddle the brown;

Gar saddle the swiftest steed e'er rade frae a town":

But lang ere the horse was drawn and brought to the green,

O, bonnie Glenlogie was twa mile his lane.

When he came to Glenfeldy's door, little mirth was there;

Bonnie Jean's mother was tearing her hair.

"Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, ye 're welcome," said she,

"Ye 're welcome, Glenlogie, your Jeanie to see."