For a' that, and a' that, Their dignities, and a' that, Then let us pray that come it may,— That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, It 's comin' yet, for a' that, THE GREENWOOD SHRIFT. — Blackwood's Magazine. OUTSTRETCHED beneath the leafy shade A dying woman lay; Three little children round her stood, "O mother!" was the mingled cry, 66 And leave us all alone." My blessed babes!" she tried to say, In a low sobbing moan. And then life struggled hard with death, And up she raised her head; 259 THE GREENWOOD SHRIFT. And peering through the deep wood's maze "Will he not come ? Just then, the parting boughs between, "Mother!" the little maiden cried, But long went wandering up and down, "They told me here, they told me there, "I told him how you dying lay, I begged him, for dear Christ his sake, "So, though my tears were blinding me, And here- close by- this squire I met, S "I will go with you, child,' he said, 'God sends me to this dying bed.' Mother, he 's here, hard by." While thus the little maiden spoke, The man, his back against an oak, Looked on with glistening eye. The bridle on his neck flung free, So while the little maiden spoke But when the dying woman's face Turned toward him with a wishful gaze, He stepped to where she lay ; And kneeling down, bent over her, Saying, "I am a minister, My sister! let us pray." And well, withouten book or stole (God's words were printed on his soul), Into the dying ear He breathed, as 't were an angel's strain, The things that unto life pertain, And death's dark shadows clear. THE GREENWOOD SHRIFT. He spoke of sinners' lost estate, He spoke of trouble, pain, and toil, In patience, faith, and love,- Then, as the spirit ebbed away, And then the orphans' sobs alone Were heard, as they knelt every one Close round on the green grass. Such was the sight their wondering eyes Back each man reined his pawing steed, In silence at his side; And there, uncovered all, they stood; That day for mortal pride. 261 For of the noblest of the land By that dead pauper on the ground, MUTABILITY. - Shelley We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon; Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings We rest, a dream has power to poison sleep; We rise, one wandering thought pollutes the day; We feel, conceive, or reason, laugh or weep, Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away; It is the same! for, be it joy or sorrow, # George the Third of England. |