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Amet. And so do I; good! on

Men. A nightingale, Nature's best skill'd musician, undertakes The challenge, and for every several strain The well-shaped youth could touch, she sung her own ; He could not run division with more art Upon his quaking instrument, than she, The nightingale, did with her various notes Reply to: for a voice, and for a sound, Amethus, 'tis much easier to believe That such they were, than hope to hear again.

Amet. How did the rivals part ?

Men. You term them rightly;
For they were rivals, and their mistress harmony.
Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last
Into a pretty anger, that a bird,
Whom art had never taught cleffs, moods or notes,
Should vie with him for mastery, whose study
Had busied many hours to perfect practice :
To end the controversy, in a rapture
Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly,
So many voluntaries, and so quick,
That there was curiosity and cunning,
Concord in discord, lines of differing method
Meeting in one full centre of delight.

Amet. Now for the bird !

Men. The bird, ordain'd to be Music's first martyr, strove to imitate These several sounds: which, when her warbling throat Fail'd in, for grief, down dropp'd she on his lute, And brake her heart ! It was the quaintest sa ss, To see the conqueror upon her hearse To weep a funeral elegy of tears ; That, trust me, my Amethus, I could chide Mine own unmanly weakness, that made me A fellow mourner with him.

Amet. I believe thee.

Men. He look'd upon the trophies of his art,
Then sigh'd, then wiped his eyes, then sigh’d and cried,

Alas, poor creature! I will soon revenge
This cruelty upon the author of it ;
Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blond,
Shall never more betray a harmless peace
To an untimely end :" and in that sorrow,

As he was pashing it against a tree,
I suddenly stept in.

Amet. Thou hast discoursed
In truth, of mirth and pity.

Men. I reprieved The intended execution with intreaties, And interruption. But, my princely friend, It was not strange the music of his hand Did overmatch birds, when his voice and beauty Youth, carriage, and discretion must, from men Endued with reason, ravish admiration: From me they did.

Amet. But is this miracle Not to be seen ?

Men. I won him by degrees To choose me his companion. Whence he is, Or who, as I durst modestly inquire, So gently he would woo not to make known; Only (for reasons to himself reserved) He told me, that some remnant of his life Was to be spent in travel : for his fortunes, They were nor mean nor riotous; his friends Not publish'd to the world, though not obscure : His country Athens, and his name Parthenophill.



TAKE them, O Death, and bear away

Whatever thou canst call thine own! Thine image, stamp'd upon this clay,

Doth give thee that, but that alone!

Take them, O Grave! and let them lie

Folded upon thy narrow shelves,
As garments by the soul laid by,

And precious only to ourselves.

Take them, O great Eternity!

Our little life is but a gust,
That bends the branches of thy tree,

And trails its blossoms in the dust.

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DWELLERS by lake and hill,
Merry companions of the bird and bee,

Go gladly forth and drink of joy your fill,
With unconstrained step and spirit free.

No crowd impedes your way,
No city wall proscribes your further bounds ;

Where the wild flocks can wander ye may stray,
The long day through, 'mid summer sights and sounds.

The sunshine and the flowers,
And the old trees that cast a solemn shade;

The pleasant evening, the fresh dewy hours,
And the green hills whereon your fathers play'd ;

The grey

and ancient peaks, Round wbich the silent clouds hang day and night,

And the low voice of water, as it makes, Like a glad creature, murmurings of delight:

These are your joys. Go forth,
Give your hearts up unto their mighty power,

For in His spirit God hath clothed the earth,
And speaks in love from every tree and flower.

The voice of bidden rills
Its quiet way into your spirits finds,

And awfully the everlasting hills


tonéd winds.

you in their

Ye sit upon the earth
Twining its flowers, and shouting full of glee,

And a pure, mighty influence, 'mid your mirth, Moulds your unconscious spirits silently.

Hence is it that the lands Of storm and mountain have the noblest sons;

Whom the world reverences, the patriot bands, Were of the hills like you, ye little ones !

Children of pleasant song
Are taught within the mountain solitudes,

For hoary legends to your wilds belong,
And yours are haunts where inspiration broods.

forth : earth and sky To you are tributary; joys are spread

Profusely like the summer flowers that lie In the green path, beneath your gamesome tread.

Then go


By Lady NaiRN.
The best o' joys maun hae an end,

The best o friends maun part, I trow;
The langest day will wear away,

And I maun bid farewell to you.
The tear will tell when hearts are fu',

For words, gin they hae sense ava,
They're broken, faltering, and few :

Gude nicht, and joy be wi' you a'!

Oh, we bae wander'd far and wide,

O'er Scotia's lands o' frith and fell !
And mony a simple flower we've pu’ed,

And twined it wi' the heather-bell.
We've ranged the dingle and the dell,

The cot-house, and the baron's ba';
Now we maun tak a last farewell :

Gude nicht, and joy be wi’ you a'!

My harp, farewell! thy strains are past,

Of gleefu' mirth and heartfelt care;
The voice of song maun cease at last,

And minstrelsy itsel decay.
But, oh! whar sorrow canna win,

Nor parting tears are shed ava,
May we meet neighbour, kith, and kin,

And joy for aye be wi' us a'!



In sober mornings do not thou rehearse
The holy incantation of a verse ;-
But when that men have both well drunk and fed,
Let my enchantments then be sung or read.
When laurel spirts i’ the fire, and when the hearth
Smiles to itself, and gilds the roof with mirth ;
When up the Thyrse is raised, and when the sound
Of sacred orgies flies around, around;
When the rose reigns, and locks with ointment shine,
Let rigid Cato read these lines of mine.



The secret that does make a flower a flower
So frames it that to bloom is to be sweet,
And to receive to give.
No soil so sterile, and no living lot
So poor, but it hath somewhat still to spare
In bounteous odours. Charitable they
Who, be their having more or less, so have
That less is more than need, and more is less ·
Than the great heart's goodwill.


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