I'm truly sorry man's dominion Which makes thee startie I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessing wi' the lave,2 An' never miss 't! Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin ; An' bleak December's wind ensuin', Baith snell1 and keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin' fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dweil, Till, crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble To thole" the winter's sleety dribble, 116 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. But, mousie, thou art no thy lane,1 An' leave us naught but grief an' pain Still thou art blessed, compared with me! But, Och! I backward cast my e'e On prospects drear, An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, TURNED DOWN BY A PLOUGH. Burns. WEE, modest, crimson-tippéd flower, To spare thee now is past my power, Alas, it's not thy neebor sweet, Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet! Wi' speckled breast, When upward springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east. 1 Alone. 2 Wrong. 3 Dust. Cauld blew the bitter, biting north Scarce reared above the parent earth The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie3 stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! Such is the fate of simple bard, Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er. Such fate to suffering worth is given, To mis'ry's brink; Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven, He, ruined, sink. 1 Peeped. 2 Shelter. 3 Barren. 118 THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. E'en thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, Full on thy bloom; Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. - Mrs. Hemans. THEY grew in beauty, side by side, The same fond mother bent at night One, 'midst the forests of the west, The Indian knows his place of rest, The sea, the blue, lone sea, hath one, He was the loved of all, yet none O'er his low bed may weep. One sleeps where southern vines are drest, He wrapped his colors round his breast, On a blood-red field of Spain. And one, And parted thus they rest, who played They that with smiles lit up the hall, Alas for love, if thou wert all, And naught beyond, O Earth! THE SOLITARY REAPER. Wordsworth. BEHOLD her, single in the field, No nightingale did ever chant Such thrilling voice was never heard |