IF OF THY MORTAL GOODS thou art bereft,
And from thy slender store two loaves alone to thee are left,
Sell one, and with the dole
Buy hyacinths to feed thy soul.

Vex no man's secret soul — if that can be —
The path of life hath far too many a thorn!
Help whom thou may'st — for surely unto thee
Sharp need of help will e'er the end be borne.

Should any ask me on His form to dwell,
Helpless I say, — " He hath no parallel. "
The lovers by the loved one all are slain,
No voice can answer from the dead again.

Now, while thou hast the wondrous power of word,
Let every thought in shining grace appear;
To-morrow, when Death's messenger is here,
He will constrain thee to depart unheard.

He is no friend who in thine hour of pride
Brags of his love and calls himself thy kin.
He is a friend who hales his fellow in,
And clangs the door upon the wolf outside.

Whoever hath washed his hands of living
Utters his mind without misgiving.

In straits which no escape afford
The hand takes hold of the edge of the sword.

She, who could neither rest nor sleep
Ere round her she had scattered hyacinths and roses,
Now with the roses of her face death-strewn reposes,
And o'er her tomb wild brambles creep.

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,
Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;
So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another,
Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and a silence.

Motto for the title-page
Tentanda via est; quâ me quoque possim
Tollere humo, victorque viram volitare per ora.
Virg. [Georg. III 9 10]

On vent'rous wing in quest of praise I go,
And leave the gazing multitude below.

V

Autumn is dark on the mountains; grey mist rests on the hills. The whirlwind is heard on the heath. Dark rolls the river thro' the narrow plain. A tree stands alone on the hill, and marks the grave of Connal. The leaves whirl round with the wind, and strew the grave of the dead. At times are seen here the ghosts of the deceased, when the musing hunter alone stalks slowly over the heath. Appear in thy armour of light, thou ghost of mighty Connal! Shine, near thy tomb, Crimora! like a moon-beam from a cloud.