« AnkstesnisTęsti »
From me this friendly warning take '-
And thus, to keep herself awake,
My thanks for your discourse are due ;
Disasters, do the best we can,
Will reach both great and small;
Who is not wise at all.
For me, why should I wish to roam?
On me such bounty Summer
What cause have I to haunt
My heart with terrors? Am I not
That I am covered o'er with flowers;
And when the Frost is in the sky,
My branches are so fresh and gay
That you might look at me and say,
The butterfly, all green and gold,
Here in my blossoms to behold
When grass is chill with rain or dew,
Her voice was blithe, her heart was light;
Her speech, until the stars of night
But in the branches of the oak
One night, my Children! from the north
At break of day I ventured forth,
And near the cliff I passed.
The storm had fallen upon the Oak,
And struck him with a mighty stroke,
And whirled, and whirled him far away;
And, in one hospitable cleft,
The little careless Broom was left
TO A SEXTON.
LET thy wheel-barrow alone-
In thy bone-house bone on bone?
In a field of battle made,
Where three thousand skulls are laid;
These died in peace each with the other,-
Mark the spot to which I point!
Take not even a finger-joint:
Andrew's whole fire-side is there.
From weakness now and pain defended,
Simon's sickly daughter lies,
Whom he twenty winters tended.
Look but at the gardener's pride—
By the heart of Man, his tears,
Thou, too heedless, art the Warden
Thus then, each to other dear,
And should I live through sun and rain
TO THE DAISY.
"Her1 divine skill taught me this,
IN youth from rock to rock I went,
Most pleased when most uneasy;
Thee Winter in the garland wears
1 His Muse.
Whole Summer-fields are thine by right;
In shoals and bands, a morrice train,
Yet nothing daunted,
Nor grieved if thou be set at nought:
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,
Be violets in their secret mews
The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose;
Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim,
Yet hast not gone without thy fame;
Thou art indeed by many a claim
The Poet's darling.
If to a rock from rains he fly,
Near the green holly,
And wearily at length should fare;
A hundred times, by rock or bower,