She lived unknown, – and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, O,
The difference to me !
l travelled among unknown men,
In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.
'Tis past, that melancholy dream .
Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seem
To love thee more and more.
Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire;
And she I cherished turned her wheel
Beside an English fire.
Thy morning showed, thy nights concealed,
The bowers where Lucy played;
And thine, too, is the last green field
That Lucy's eyes surveyed.
TO A MOUSE, ON HER NEST BEING TURNED UP BY A PLOUGH. — Burns
WEE, sleekit, cow’rin, timorous beastie,
O, what a panic ’s in thy breastie :
Thou need na start awa sae hastie,
Wi’ bickering brattle !
I wad be laith to rin and chase thee,
Wi’ murdering pattle :
I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion *
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion
An' fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then 2 poor beastie, thou maun live;
A daimen-icker' in a thrave
’S a sma’ request;
I'll get a blessing wi' the lave.”
An' never miss’t
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin,
Its silly wa's the wins are strewin;
An' naething, now, to big” a new ane,
O' foggage green .
An' bleak December's wind ensuin',
Baith Snell' and keen
Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An' weary winter comin’ fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dweł
Till, crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro’ thy cell.
That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble !
Now thou’s turned out, for a thy trouble
But house or hald,
To thole" the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch' cauld:
• U16 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.
But, mousie, thou art no thy lane,’
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best laid schemes o' mice an’ men
Gang aft a-gley,”
An' leave us naught but grief an’ pain
For promised joy.
Still thou art blessed, compared with me!
The present only toucheth thee;
But, Och I backward cast my e'e
On prospects drear, –
An' forward, tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear.
TURNED Down BY A PLOUGH. — Burns.
WEE, modest, crimson-tippéd flower,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure”
Thy slender stem:
To spare thee now is past my power,
Thou bonnie gem :
Alas, it’s not thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet!
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet!
Wi’ speckled breast,
When upward springing, blythe, to greet
The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter, biting north
Upon thy early humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thouglinted' forth,
Amid the storm
Scarce reared above the parent earth
The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield;
But thou, beneath the random bield*
O’ clod or stame,
Adorns the histie" stibble-field,
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies
Such is the fate of simple bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless starred
Unskilful he to note the card
Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'er.
Such fate to suffering worth is given,
Who long with wants and woes has striven;
By human pride or cunning driven
To mis’ry's brink;
Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven,
- He, ruined, sink.
1.18 THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.
E’en thou who mourn'st the daisy’s fate,
That fate is thine, – no distant date;
Stern ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,
Full on thy bloom;
Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight
Shall be thy doom!
THEY grew in beauty, side by side,
They filled one home with glee, –
Their graves are severed far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and Sea.
The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight, —
Where are those dreamers now 2
One, 'midst the forests of the west,
By a dark stream, is laid, -
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue, lone sea, hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep, —
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vincs are drest,
Above the noble slain;
He wrapped his colors round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.
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