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What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.

The wassel round, in good brown bowls,
Garnish'd with ribands, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reek'd; hard by
Plum porridge stood, and Christmas pie;
Nor fail'd old Scotland to produce,
At such high tide, her savoury goose.
Then came the merry masquers in,
And carols roar'd with blithesome din;
If unmelodious was the song,

It was a hearty note and strong.
Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery;

White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made:
But oh! what masquers, richly dight,
Can boast of bosoms half so light!
England was merry England, when
Old Christmas brought his sports agen
!
"Twas Christmas broach'd the merriest ale;
'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
poor man's heart through half the

The

year

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

!

135. REFLECTIONS OF KING HEZEKIAH IN HIS SICKNESS.

WHAT and no more? Is this my soul, said I,

My whole of being? must I surely die?

Be robb'd at once of health, of strength, of time,
Of youth's fair promise, and of pleasure's prime?
Shall I no more behold the face of morn,

The cheerful daylight, and the spring's return?
Must I the festive bower, the banquet leave,
For the dull chambers of the darksome grave?
Have I consider'd what it is to die?
In native dust with kindred worms to lie,
To sleep in cheerless cold neglect, to rot,
My body loathed, my very name forgot,
Nor one of all those parasites, who bend
The supple knee, their monarch to attend!
What not one friend? No, not a hireling slave
Shall hail great Hezekiah in the grave.

Where's he, who lately claim'd the name of great, Whose eye was terror and whose frown was fate, Who awed a hundred nations from the throne? See where he lies-dumb, friendless, and alone! Which grain of dust proclaims the noble birth? Which is the royal particle of earth?

Where are the marks, the princely ensigns where? Which is the slave, and which great David's heir? Alas! the beggar's ashes are not known

From his who lately sat on Israel's throne.

MRS. HANNAH MORE.

136. THE MYSTERIES OF PROVIDENCE.

GOD

OD moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform;

He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill,

He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take!
The clouds you so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for his grace;
Behind a frowning Providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;

The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan his work in vain;
God is his own interpreter,
And He will make it plain.

COWPER.

137.

SOLITUDE.

[From CHILDE HAROLD.]

O sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,

To slowly tact the forest's shady scene,

Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,
And mortal foot hath ne'er, or rarely been ;
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,
With the wild flock that never needs a fold;
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean;
This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold

Converse with nature's charms, and see her stores unroll'd.

But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,

And roam along, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless; Minions of splendour shrinking from distress! None that, with kindred consciousness endued, If we were not, would seem to smile the less, Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and sued: This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!

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Abide with us, for it is toward evening, and the day is far spent.
ST. LUKE Xxiv. 29.

TIS gone, that bright and orbed blaze,
Fast fading from our wistful gaze:
Yon mantling cloud has hid from sight
The last faint pulse of quivering light.

In darkness and in weariness

The traveller on his
way must
press;
No gleam to watch on tree or tower,
Whiling away the lonesome hour.

Sun of my soul! Thou Saviour dear,
It is not night if Thou be near!
Oh, may no earth-born cloud arise,
To hide Thee from thy servant's eyes!

When round thy wondrous works below
My searching, rapturous glance I throw,
Tracing out wisdom, power, and love,
In earth or sky in sea or grove;—

Or by the light thy words disclose
Watch time's full river as it flows,
Scanning thy gracious Providence,
Where not too deep for mortal sense;

When with dear friends sweet talk I hold,
And all the flowers of life unfold;
Let not my heart within me burn,
Except in all I Thee discern.

When the soft dews of kindly sleep
My wearied eyelids gently steep,
Be my last thought, how sweet to rest
For ever on my Saviour's breast.

Abide with me from morn till eve,
For without Thee I cannot live:
Abide with me when night is nigh,
For without Thee I dare not die.

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