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Nor, the dangerous whispers hung,
Come round me, virgins. Am I then betrayed? Like honey, roofing o'er his tongue.
O fraudful king! But think of all thy mother's glory
Pluto. No, by this kiss, and this: Of her love-of every story
I am your own, my love, and you are mine
For ever and for ever.-Weep Cyane.
They are gone,
afar-afar: Once again I bid thee flee,
Like the shooting of a star, Daughter of great Cybele.
See,-their chariot fades away.
Farewell, lost Proserpina.
(Cyane is gradually transformed.) Fairer than the white Naiad-fairer far
But, ah! what frightful change is here: Than aught on earth, and fair as aught in heaven:
Cyane, raise your eyes, and hear! Hear me, Proserpina !
We call thee,-vainly; on the ground Proser. Away, away.
She sinks, without a single sound, I'll not believe you. What a cunning tongue
And all her garments float around. He has, Cyane; has he not ?-Away.
Again, again, she rises,-light; Can the gods flatter?
Her head is like a fountain bright, Pluto. By my burning throne !
And her glossy ringlets fall, I love you, sweetest: I will make you queen
With a murmur musical, Of my great kingdom. One third of the world
O'er her shoulders, like a river Shall you reign over, my Proserpina ;
That rushes and escapes for ever. you shall rank as high as any she,
-Is the fair Cyane gone? Save one, within the starry court of Jove,
And is this fountain left alone Proser. Will you be true ?
For a sad remembrance, where Pluto. I swear it. By myself!
We may in after times repair, Come then, my bride.
With heavy heart, and weeping eye, Proser. Speak thou again, my friend.
To sing songs to her memory? Speak, harsh Cyane, in a harsher voice, And bid me not believe him. Ah! you droop Oh ! then farewell: and now with hearts that mourn Your head in silence.
Deeply, to Dian's temple will we go: Pluto. Come, my brightest queen!
But ever on this day we will return, Come, beautiful Proserpina, and see
Constant, to mark Cyane's fountain flow: The regions over which your husband reigns; And haply,-for among us who can know His palaces, and radiant treasures, which
The secrets written on the scrolls of fate, Mock and outstrip all fable; his great power,
A day may come, when we may cease our woe; Which the living own, and wandering ghosts obey, And she, redeemed at last from Pluto's hate, And all the elements.—Oh! you shall sit
Rise in her beauty old, pure, and regenerate.
THE LAST SONG.
Must it be ?-then farewell,
Thou whom my woman's heart cherished so long: Proser. Speak out, Cyane !
Farewell, and be this song Pluto. But, above all, in my heart shall you reign The last, wherein I say " I loved thee well." Supreme, a goddess and a queen indeed, Without a rival. Oh! and you shall share
Many a weary strain My subterranean power, and sport upon
(Never yet heard by thee) bath this poor breath
Uttered, of love and death,
And maiden grief, hidden and chid in vain. And mazy rivers, and eternal groves
Oh! if in after years Of bloom and beauty, the good spirits walk:
The tale that I am dead shall touch thy heart, shall take your station in the skies
Bid not the pain depart;
But shed, over my grave, a few sad tears.
Think of me-still so young,
Silent, tho' fond, who cast my
away, Nothing but force shall ever-Ah! away
Daring to disobey I'll not believe-fool that I am to smile.
The passionate spirit that around me clung.
Farewell again; and yet,
Was never fashioned in a summer dream, Must it indeed be so—and on this shore
Where Nymph or Naiad from the hot sunbean Shall you and I no more
Might hide, or in the waters cool her feet. Together see the sun of the summer set ?
-A lovelier rivulet was never seen
Wandering amidst Italian meadows, where For me, my days are gone :
Clitumnus lapses from his fountain fair; No more shall I, in vintage times, prepare
Nor in that land where gods, 'tis said, have bees; Chaplets to bind my hair,
Yet there Cephisus ran thro' olives green, As I was wont: oh 'twas for you alone.
And on its banks Aglaia bound her hair.
Perhaps the lady of my love is now
Looking upon the skies. A single star
Is rising in the east, and from afar
Doth wear it like a jewel on her brow:
But see, it motions, with its lovely light,
To its appointed course stedfast and true.
So, dearest, would I fain be unto thee,
And yet more like art thou a jewel rare. Than this romantic solitary stream,
Oh! brighter than the brightest star, to me, Over whose banks so many branches meet, Come hither, my young love; and I will wear Entangling:-a more shady bower or neat Thy beauty on my breast delightedly.
ROBERT BURNS.-A. D. 1759-96.
THE TWA DOGS.
'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle,
The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar,
His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, Show'd him the gentleman and scholar; But though he was o' high degree, The fient a pride nae pride had he; But wad hae spent an hour caressin, Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin : At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie, But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him.
The tither was a ploughman's collie,
He was a gash an' faithful tyke,
Nae doubt but they were fain o'ither,
Cæsar. I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, What sort o' life poor dogs like you have ; An' when the gentry's life I saw, What way poor bodies liv’d ava.
Our laird gets in his racked rents,
Frae morn to e’en it's nought but toiling,
An' when they meet wi' sair disasters,
I've notic'd, on our laird's court-day,
I see how folk live that hae riches;
There, at Vienna or Versailles, But surely poor folk maun be wretches.
He rives his father's auld entails;
Or by Madrid he takes the rout,
To thrum guitars, and fecht wi' nowt;
Or down Italian vista startles, Though constantly on poortith's brink:
Wh-re-hunting among groves o' myrtles: They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight,
Then bouses drumly German water, The view o't gies them little fright.
To mak himsel look fair and fatter, Then chance an' fortune are sae guided,
An' clear the consequential sorrows, They're ay in less or mair provided;
Love-gifts of carnival signoras. An' though fatigu'd wi' close employment,
For Britain's guid! for her destruction! A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment.
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction,
Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate That sweetens a' their fire-side.
They waste sae mony a braw estate! An' whyles twalpennie-worth o' nappie
Are we sae foughten an' harass'd Can make the bodies unco happy;
For gear to gang that gate at last! They lay aside their private cares,
O would they stay aback frae courts, To mind the kirk and state affairs:
An' please themselves wi' countra sports
, They'll talk o' patronage and priests,
It wad for ev'ry ane be better, Wi' kindling fury in their breasts,
The laird, the tenant, an' the cotter! Or tell what new taxation's comin,
For thae frank, rantin, ramblia billies, An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on.
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows! As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns,
Except for breakin o'their timmer, They get the jovial, ranting kirns,
Or speakin lightly o' their limmer, When rural life, o' every station,
Or shootin o' a hare or moor-cock, Unite in common recreation :
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor
folk Love blinks, wit slaps, and social mirth,
But will you tell me, Master Cesar, Forgets there's care upon the earth.
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ? That merry day the year begins,
Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer then, They bar the door on frosty winds;
The vera thought o't need na fear then. The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
Cæsar. The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill,
L-d, man, were ye but whyles whare len, Are handed round wi' right guid will;
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. The cantie auld folks crackin crouse,
It's true, they need na starve or sweat, The young ones rantin through the house
Through winter's cauld, or simmer's heat; My heart has been sae fain to see them,
They've nae sair wark to craze their bassi, That I for joy hae barkit wi' them.
An' fill auld age wi' grips an' grades: Still its owre true that ye hae said,
But human bodies are sic fools, Sic game is now owre aften play'd.
For a' their colleges and schools, There's monie a creditable stock
That when nae real ills perplex them, O'decent, honest, fawsont folk,
They make enow themsels to rex them; Are riven out baith root and branch,
An'ay the less they hae to start them, Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,
In like proportion less will hurt them. Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster
A country-fellow at the pleugh, In favour wi' some gentle master,
His acres tillid, he's right enough; Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parliamentin,
A country girl at her wheel, For Britain's guid his saul indentin
Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel:
But gentlemen, an' ladies warst,
Wi' ev’ndown want o' wark are cursi.
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy; For Britain's guid! guid faith : I doubt it.
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy; Say rather, gaun as premiers lead him,
Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless; An' saying aye or no's they bid him:
Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless: At operas an' plays parading,
An' e'en their sports, their balls, an' races, Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading;
Their galloping through public places, Or, maybe, in a frolic daft,
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, To Hague or Calais takes a waft,
The joy can scarcely reach the heart To make a tour, an' tak a whirl,
The men cast out in party matches
, To learn bon ton an' see the worl'.
Then sowther a' in deep debauches;
Ae night thy're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring,
The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, Niest day their life is past enduring.
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due,
Their master's an' their mistress's command,
The younkers a' are warned to obey;
“ An’ mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup an' platie,
An' ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk or play:
An'o! be sure to fear the Lord alway!
An’mind your duty, duly, morn an' night!
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,
Implore his counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain, that sought the Lord
But hark! a rap comes gently to the door ;
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, The bum-clock humm’d wi' lazy drone;
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, The kye stood rowtin i' the loan:
To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees the conscious flame
Sparkle in, Jenny's e'e, and Aush her cheek;
With heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name,
While Jenny haflins is afraid to speak;
Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben; November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;
A strappan youth; he takes the mother's eye;
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta’en;
The father craks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi’joy, The toil-worn cotter frae his labour goes,
But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave;
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy
What makes the youth sae bashfa'an’ sae grave;
Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the And weary, o'er the moor, his course does home
lave. ward bend.
O happy love! where love like this is found! At length his lonely cot appears in view,
O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare !
I've paced much this weary, mortal round,
And sage experience bids me this declare-
One cordial in this melancholy vale,
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,
In others' arms breathe out the tender tale, Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'nAn' makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.
ing gale." Belyve the elder bairns come drappin in,
Is there, in human form, that bears a heart-
A wretch ! a villain! lost to love and truth!
Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth?
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd ?
Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction
wild! Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet,
An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers; But now the supper crowns their simple board!
The soupe their only hawkie does afford,
That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cud:
The dame brings forth in complimental mood,