In Plumed for their earliest flight. bright alcoves, In woodland cottages with barky walls, [town, In noisome cells of the tumultuous Mothers have clasped with joy the new-born babe, Graves by the lonely forest, by the shore Of rivers and of ocean, by the ways Of the thronged city, have been hollowed out And filled, and closed. This day hath parted friends That ne'er before were parted; it hath knit New friendships; it hath seen the maiden plight Her faith, and trust her peace to him who long Had wooed; and it hath heard, from lips which late Were eloquent of love, the first harsh word, That told the wedded one, her peace was flown. Farewell to the sweet sunshine! One glad day Is added now to childhood's merry days, And one calm day to those of quiet age. Still the fleet hours run on; and as I lean, Amid the thickening darkness, lamps are lit, By those who watch the dead, and those who twine Flowers for the bride. The mother from the eyes Of her sick infant shades the painful light, And sadly listens to his quick-drawn breath. O thou great Movement of the Universe, Or change, or flight of Time - for ye are one! That bearest, silently, this visible scene Into night's shadow and the streaming rays Of starlight, whither art thou bearing me? I feel the mighty current sweep me on. Yet know not whither. Man foretells afar The courses of the stars; the very hour He knows when they shall darken or grow bright; Yet doth the eclipse of Sorrow and of Death Come unforewarned. Who next, of those I love, Shall pass from life, or sadder yet, shall fall From virtue? Strife with foes, or bitterer strife With friends, or shame and general scorn of men — Which who can bear?—or the fierce rack of pain, Lie they within my path? Or shall 1 the years Push me, with soft and inoffensive JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. JOHN Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. Your bonnie brow was brent; John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And monie a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. FAREWEEL TO NANCY. AE fond kiss, and then we sever! Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee! Who shall say that fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him! Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me. I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! HIGHLAND MARY. YE banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfald her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took my last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, Wi' monie a vow, and lock'd embrace, That wraps my Highland Mary. Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips, That dwelt on me sae kindly! And mouldering now in silent dust, That heart that lo'ed me dearly! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary. MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. A DIRGE. WHEN chill November's surly blast I spied a man, whose aged step Young stranger, whither wanderest thou? Began the reverend sage; Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasure's rage? Or, haply, prest with cares and woes, Too soon thou hast began To wander forth, with me, to mourn The miseries of man. The sun that overhangs yon moors, That man was made to mourn. O man! while in thy early years, |