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Learn from her worth, ye nobles of the earth! A lesson greater than your gold can buy; Why not look out for objects such as this?

Heal fainting hearts, and ease the broken frame;

If so ye pass this poor old woman by,

Reflect, and know that solace sweetly known

To those who own their riches from their GodThe timely aid that can delight the poor!

EPITAPH

ON MY LATE ADMIRED FRIEND AND COMPANION,

JOHN MANDERSON,

OF GLASGOW.

HERE lies a MAN whom memory mourns sincere,
For whom each friend lets fall a pitying tear;
For he was all that forms the generous mind-
Affectionate, true-hearted, just and kind!
Endear'd to love by many a tender tie-
(Thus worth is often born to bloom and die)
Though now an inmate of this lonely part,
He also is inurned in many a heart!

LIFE,

OR,

MAN MUST HAVE BREAD.

WHY toil ye at the helm so long?
Man with the locks so grey!

The tempest sings its stormy song;
And wildly bursts the spray.—

At home thou mightst be calm and warm ;
No storms would reach thee there ;-

No angry ocean do thee harm,

Nor winds throw back thy hair!

This night is dark and dismal too,
Cold are its wintry showers;
The remnant of thy days seem few,
And sad are life's last hours!
Why therefore toil on stormy seas,

That but exhaust thee more —

L

A playmate for the sportive breeze,
When billows chafe the shore?

"And who art thou wouldst ask of me Why thus I toil and roam?

Thou mayst have friends to comfort thee;

But I have none, nor home.

'Tis poverty that calls me forth,

Its wants I must supply;

I've sail'd for years much farther North,

Beneath a fiercer sky."

Hard is thy fate!—the world is strange; Some revel in their wealth ;

Some live by love, some live by change, And some live by their stealth.

I like thee, honest mariner!

I love thy simple tale;

It doth my warmest feelings stir,
If that can aught avail.

Pale soldier, whither do ye come?

What made thee woo thy trade,

And risk, for such a paltry sum,

Thy honour, or thy head.

Why do

ye march when bugles sound?

Why sell yourself for life?—

Hast thou at home no pleasure found;

No friend, no love, no wife?

"I have no friend, no love, no wife;

Once I had all the three

Join'd in one form-the light of life,-
A pearl of price to me !—

She died—my friends forsook me all,—
You must not know the way-
And so I left my humble hall:-

Man must have bread, they say.

"The moon is walking through the sky, With her soft silver light,

And when I bade my home good-bye, 'Twas such a beauteous night.

I paused and wept, and paused again; I grieved to leave my home!

But ere the sun had warm'd the plain, I rode the roaring foam."

What seek ye in this sickly clime?
Man with the swarthy brow!

I see the wasting hand of time,
Lie heavy on thee now.

Thy native soil-thy native air,

Were fitter far for thee.

What made thee leave a land so fair,

For one beyond the sea?

Thou'rt in the sunlight of thy years,

Yet 'feebled is thy frame;

It may be from a home of tears,

In youth ye proudly came,

And while fond friends were sighing near,

Ye bade them all farewell;

But in this sickly tropic sphere,

Thou art not wise to dwell.

""Tis not a clime that suits my

frame;

Too quick, I feel decay ;—

But

yet I

am not all to blame ;

Man must have bread, they say.

Yet oft I think on those afar,

Who haunt me in my dream;

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