They watch'd her the live-long day and night, Till their eyes were dimm'd with weeping! She could not wake from her trance of death, But lay like a sweet babe sleeping.

And beauty still seem'd to play on her cheek, Tho' death's cold finger touch'd it,

And the rose, as it wither'd, yet sweetly smil'd Beneath the hand that crush'd it.

Vespers were said, and the hours pass'd on,
And long they were and weary,
But deep and sad came the matin bell;
The hall was dark and dreary.

And many a holy prayer was said,
As in their arms they bore her,
They laid her beneath the alder's shade,
And spread the green turf o'er her.

They pull'd the fairest flow'rs of the year,
And round her head they strew'd them,
And long it was ere they wither'd away,

For the tears of heaven bedew'd them!

CCXVIII.

THE POOR SWEEP.

FOUNDED ON FACT.

Twas a keen frosty morn, and the snow heavy falling, When a child of misfortune was thus sadly calling, Sweep! sweep! I am cold, and the snow's very deep; O pray, take compassion on poor little sweep!

The tears down his cheeks in large drops were fast rolling,
Unnotic'd, unpitied, by those by him strolling,

Who frequently warn'd him at distance to keep,
While he cried, "take compassion on poor little sweep."

In vain he implor'd passing strangers for pity:
This smil'd at his plaints, and that banter'd his ditty:
Humanity's offspring, as yet lay asleep,

Nor heard the sad wailings of poor little sweep.

At the step of a door, half frozen and dejected,
He sat down and griev'd, to be shunn'd and neglected,
When a kind hearted damsel, by chance saw him weep,
And resolv'd to befriend the distressed little sweep!

Ff

Unmindful of sneers, to a neighbour's she led him,
Warm'd his limbs by the fire, and tenderly fed him:
And, oh! what delight did this fair maiden reap,
When she found a lost brother in poor little sweep.

In rapture she gaz'd, on each black sooty feature,
And hugg'd to her bosom, the foul-smelling creature!
Who sav'd by a sister, no longer need creep
Through lanes, courts, and alleys, a poor

little

sweep.

འ་་་་་

CCXIX.

STEER, HITHER STEER YOUR WINGED PINES'.

Syren's Song.

Steer, hither steer your winged pines,

All beaten mariners!

Here lie love's undiscover'd mines,

A prey to passengers:

"William Browne, the author of this song, seems to have been bom about 1590, at Tavistock, in Devonshire, where he was instructed in grammide tical learning. Having passed some time at Exeter College, Oxford, he quited the University without a degree, entered into the society of the

Perfumes far sweeter than the best

Which make the Phoenix' urn and nest.

Fear not your ships

Nor any to oppose you, save our lips;

But come on shore,

Where no joy dies, till love hath gotten more.

For swelling waves, our panting breasts,
Where never storms arise,

Exchange, and be awhile our guests,

For stars gaze on our eyes;

The compass, love shall hourly sing,
And, as he goes about the ring,

We will not miss

To tell each point he nameth with a kiss;

Then come on shore,

Where no joy dies, till love have gotten more.

Middle Temple, and published, in 1613, the first part of his "Britannia's Pastorals," folio. In 1614 was published his "Shepherd's pipe," 8vo. (containing also the pirated edition of Wither, 1620,) and in 1616, the second part of the "Pastorals." Both parts were reprinted in 1625, 8vo. In 1624, he returned to Exeter College and became tutor to Robert Dormer, afterwards Earl of Cærnarvon. During his stay he was created A. M. being styled in the public register "Vir omni humana literatura et bonarum artium cognitione instructus." He then went into the family of the Earl of Pembroke, obtained wealth, and purchased an estate, and is supposed to have died in 1645. See Wood (Ath. Ox. I. 491.) who says "that as he had a little body, so a great mind." We are indebted to Browne for having preserved in his "Shepherd's Pipe" a curious poem by Occleve. Mr. Warton conceives his works "to have been well known to Milton," and refers to "Britannia's Pastorals" for the same assemblage of circumstances in the morning landscape as were brought together more than thirty years afterwards by Milton, in a passage of L'Allegro, which has been supposed to serve as a repository of imagery on that subject for all succeeding poets."

CCXX.

WEEP NOT FOR THE FALLEN BRAVE.

A1R."Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled."

Weep not for the fallen brave,
Mourn not those who died to save;
Hallow'd is the bloody grave

Where a Patriot lies.

His the loveliest wreath that fame
Ere shall twine for mortal name;
His the tale that long shall claim
Beauty's softest sighs.

Who that boasts a Briton's pride,

Who to heroes so allied,

Would not woo the death they died,

Crown'd by victory?

Who, that is a freeman's son,
Would not do as they have done;

Win with death, as they have won,
Europe's liberty.