What doth it matter to the spirit freed
If the decaying husk feed flower or weed?
Then for the living be the grounds outlaid,
The eager soil arrayed!

Remote from cities and from habitations,

Here where the grateful trees and underwood Convert corruption's noxious emanations, Through Nature's wondrous alchemy, to good. Not a Necropolis,

Rather a garden this!

With sylvan alleys and enamelled banks

And pines in plume-tost ranks.

Here let the roses bloom!

Here let the wild bee come

To find the ground

Heaped with such flowery wealth as bee ne'er found! But O, high-building Vanity! forbear

To rear upon this spot th' o'ercostly pile!
Rather let living Want thy bounty share,

And trust thou unto watchful Nature's smile
To keep the turf above thy ashes bright,
In Spring's first verdure dight.

Then shall this be a Mount of Hope indeed,
Where not one doubtful title we shall read.

Robert Burns.

1759-1796.

THE INNER LAW.

THE fear o' hell's a hangman's whip,
To haud the wretch in order;
But where ye feel your honor grip,
aye be your border.:

Let that

Its slightest touches, instant pause-
Debar all side pretences;
And resolutely keep its laws,

Uncaring consequences.

The great Creator to revere

Must sure become the creature ;

But still the preaching cant forbear,

And even the rigid feature;

Yet ne'er with wits profane to range,
Be complaisance extended;

An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange
For Deity offended!

When ranting round in pleasure's ring,
Religion may be blinded;

Or if she gi'e a random sting,

It may be little minded;

But when on life we're tempest driven,
A conscience but a canker,
A correspondence fixed wi' Heaven
Is sure a noble anchor !

CHARITY.

THEN gently scan your brother man,
Still gentler sister woman;
Though they may go a trifle wrong,
To step aside is human :

X One point must still be greatly dark,
The moving why they do it:
And just as lamely can ye mark
How far perhaps they rue it.

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone
Decidedly can try us;

He knows each chord-its various tone,

Each spring its various bias:

Then at the balance let's be mute,
We never can adjust it ;

What's done we partly may compute,
But not know what's resisted.

A PRAYER,

Under the pressure of violent anguish.

O, THOU great Being! what Thou art Surpasses me to know:

Yet sure I am,

that known to Thee

Are all thy works below.

Thy creature here before Thee stands,

All wretched and distrest;

Yet sure those ills that wring my soul Obey Thy high behest.

Sure, Thou, Almighty, canst not act
From cruelty or wrath!

O, free my weary eyes from tears,
Or close them fast in death!

But, if I must afflicted be,

To suit some wise design, Then man my soul with firm resolves To bear, and not repine!

Lord Byron.

1788-1824.

THE IMMORTAL MIND.

WHEN coldness wraps this suffering clay, Ah, whither strays the immortal mind?

It cannot die, it cannot stay,

But leaves its darkened dust behind. Then, unembodied, doth it trace

By steps each planet's heavenly way? Or fill at once the realms of space; A thing of eyes, that all survey

?

Eternal, boundless, undecayed,
A thought unseen, but seeing all,
All, all in earth, or skies displayed,
Shall it survey, shall it recall: