VII. I wish I were an Empress Alas, my cruel fate! I'm nothing but a pretty girl, And toil both hard and late, And waste my youth in sighing- 93 SUPPOSITIONS. THAT Earth's no Paradise What then? you dark dull soul! There never was seen a star, No more brought forth a flower, And never put out a leaf To wave in the summer wind; And suppose the free fresh air Were stagnant as a pool ; 'Tis possible you might liveBut where would be the charm Of the garden and the fields And the beauty of the sky? And, coming to nearer things, Suppose there were no grass To cover the naked clay; Suppose the birds were mute, And nightingales and larks Were dumb as perch or trout; And suppose there were no dogs To look in the face of man, Confiding and beloved; No horses and no kine To minister to his use? You could live-'twere vain to doubt Like the oyster on the bank, And prize your grovelling life And cling to it, if Death Untimely summon'd you To quit its stagnant shore ; But many a true delight, And many an innocent charm, And many a thing of joy Would leave the world less fair To men of finer mould, Though fit enough for you. Go away, grumbler! go! And ere you talk again Of the utter misery And darkness of the world, Be grateful for the flowers. And if your purblind eyes, My most respectable friend!— Can dare to look so high, Be thankful for the stars. THE COBBLER. Ben Arthur, or the Cobbler, rises in great majesty and grandeur at the head of Loch Long to the height of 2,400 feet-his fantastic peak cracked and shattered into every conceivable form. From one point it resembles the figure of a cobbler. Hence the popular name of the mountain. Tourists' Guide. I. FAR away! up, in his rocky throne, The gaunt old Cobbler dwells alone. Around his head the lightnings play Where he sits with his lapstone, night and day, No one seeth his jerking awl, No one heareth his hammer fall; But what he doth when mists enwrap The bald and barren mountain-top, And cover him up from the sight of man, No one knoweth-or ever can. H |