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Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride,
May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul;
And in his book of life the inmates poor enroll.
Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way;
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,
ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL.
WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
For I maun crush amang the stoure!
Thy slender stem;
To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou bonnie gem.
Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
Wi' spreckled breast,
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet
The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,
1 Dust. 2 Wetness. 3 Peeped.
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed,
Such is the fate of artless Maid,
And guileless trust,
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid
Low i' the dust.
Such is the fate of simple Bard,
Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n,
To mis'ry's brink,
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,
He, ruin'd, sink!
Even thou, who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
Full on thy bloom,
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom!
THE gloomy night is gath'ring fast,
1 Shelter. 2 Barren. 3 Stubble.
The hunter now has left the moor,
The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn
She sees the scowling tempest fly:
"T is not the surging billow's roar,
Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales,
Farewell, my friends! Farewell, my foes!
LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE APPROACH
Now nature hangs her mantle green
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,
And glads the azure skies;
But nought can glad the weary wight
Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,
The merle, in his noontide bow'r,
Sings drowsy day to rest:
Now blooms the lily by the bank,
I was the Queen o' bonnie France,
Fu' lightly raise I in the morn,
As blythe lay down at e'en:
And I'm the sovereign of Scotland,
And monie a traitor there;
My son! my son! may kinder stars
And may those pleasures gild thy reign,
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend
Oh! soon, to me, may summer suns
And in the narrow house o' death
Let winter round me rave;
And the next flow'rs that deck the spring
Bloom on my peaceful grave!
ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FELLOW
HAD JUST SHOT AT.
INHUMAN man! curse on thy barbarous art,
Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field,
No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains,
Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest,
Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.
Born 1765-Died 1811.
GRAHAME was born in Glasgow, and enjoyed from his parents the invaluable privileges of an early religious education. From the grammar school he entered the University of Glasgow, and after passing through the usual course of study, devoted himself to the profession of the law. In his practice as a lawyer he exhibited the virtuous singularity of being unwilling to advocate any cause which was without foundation in equity and truth; when it was manifestly unjust he would return both his brief and fee, and positively refuse to undertake it.
In 1804 he published his poem of the Sabbath, with so much secrecy and caution, that for a long time no individual suspected the author, and he had the satisfaction of hearing its praises repeated in all companies, and of finding his own wife among its warmest admirers. He was so delighted with the enthusiasm of her applause, and with the manner in which she would point out to him its beautiful passages, that at length on one of these occasions he could not avoid confessing himself its author. The Sabbath was followed at different intervals with various other poems.
On the death of his father, Grahame, who had entered the profession of the law chiefly out of respect to the wishes of that parent, turned his attention to the study of Divinity, on which his predilections had always rested, and resolved to give himself up to the service of religion. He was accordingly ordained and appointed to a curacy by the Bishop of Norwich in 1809. After pleasantly describing the situation of his parish in a letter to his friends, he declares himself as happy as he could be at a distance from them, and at the close of a short account of his "temporalities," adds "The church is very an
cient and crazy. In the steeple there are three sweet toned
bells and an owl."