For a' that, and a' that,
Their dignities, and a' that, The pith o' sense and pride o' worth Are higher ranks than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may,— As come it will for a' that,·
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree, and a' hat! For a' that, and a' that,
It 's comin' yet, for a' that, That man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that!
THE GREENWOOD SHRIFT. - Blackwood's Magazine.
OUTSTRETCHED beneath the leafy shade Of Windsor Forest's deepest glade
A dying woman lay;
Three little children round her stood, And there went up from the greenwood A woful wail that day.
"O mother!" was the mingled cry, "O mother! mother! do not die And leave us all alone."
"My blessed babes!" she tried to say, But the faint accents died away In a low sobbing moan.
And then life struggled hard with death, And fast and strong she drew her breath, she raised her head;
And peering through the deep wood's maze With a long, sharp, unearthly gaze,
"Will he not come?" she said.
Just then, the parting boughs between, A little maid's light form was seen, All breathless with her speed ; And following close, a man came on (A portly man to look upon), Who led a panting steed.
"Mother!" the little maiden cried, Or e'er she reached the woman's side, And kissed her clay-cold cheek, "I have not idled in the town,
But long went wandering up and down, The minister to seek.
"They told me here, they told me there, I think they mocked me everywhere; And when I found his home, And begged him on my bended knee To bring his book, and come with me, Mother! he would not come.
“I told him how you dying lay, And could not go in peace away Without the minister;
I begged him, for dear Christ his sake, But O! my heart was fit to break, – Mother! he would not stir.
"So, though my tears were blinding me, I ran back fast as fast could be,
To come again to you;
And here close by
Who asked (so mild!) what made me fret;
And when I told him true,
"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, With quivering flank and trembling knee, Pressed close his bonny bay; A statelier man, a statelier steed, Never on greensward paced, I rede, Than those stood there that day.
So while the little maiden spoke The man, his back against an oak, Looked on with glistening eye And folded arms; and in his look, Something that, like a sermon book, Preached," All is vanity."
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 shadow's clear.
He spoke of sinners' lost estate, In Christ renewed, regenerate, Of God's most blest decree, That not a single soul should die Who turns repentant with the cry, "Be merciful to me!"
He spoke of trouble, pain, and toil, Endured but for a little while In patience, faith, and love, Sure, in God's own good time, to be Exchanged for an eternity
Of happiness above.
Then, as the spirit ebbed away, He raised his hands and eyes, to pray That peaceful it might pass;
the orphans' sobs alone
Were heard, as they knelt
Close round on the green grass.
Such was the sight their wondering eyes Beheld, in heart-struck, mute surprise, Who reined their coursers back, Just as they found the long astray, Who, in the heat of chase that day, Had wandered from their track.
Back each man reined his pawing steed And lighted down, as if agreed, In silence at his side;
And there, uncovered all, they stood; It was a wholesome sight, and good, That day for mortal pride.
For of the noblest of the land Was that deep-hushed, bareheaded band; And central in the ring,
By that dead pauper on the ground, Her ragged orphans clinging round, Knelt their anointed king.*
We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon; How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver, Streaking the darkness radiantly!-yet soon Night closes round, and they are lost for ever;
Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings Give various response to each varying blast, To whose frail frame no second motion brings One mood or modulation like the last.
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;
for, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free; Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow; Naught may endure but Mutability.
* George the Third of England.
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