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Look but at the gardener's pride—
How he glories, when he sees
By the heart of Man, his tears,
Thus then, each to other dear,
Andrew there, and Susan here,
Neighbours in mortality.
And, should I live through sun and rain
WHO fancied what a pretty sight
Was it the humour of a Child?
Or rather of some love-sick Maid,
It is the Spirit of Paradise
That prompts such work, a Spirit strong, That gives to all the self-same bent
Where life is wise and innocent.
'twas whispered, The device.
THE WANDERING JEW.
THOUGH the torrents from their fountains
Roar down many a craggy steep,
Though, as if with eagle pinion,
If on windy days the Raven
Though the Sea-horse in the ocean
Day and night my toils redouble! Never nearer to the goal;
never does the trouble
Of the Wanderer leave my soul.
SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE.
SEVEN Daughters had Lord Archibald, All Children of one Mother:
I could not say in one short day
He loved the Wars so well.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,