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I 'm truly sorry man's dominion
Which makes thee startle
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
'S a sma' request;
An' never miss't!
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin;
O' foggage green!
Baith snell4 and keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
Thou thought to dwell,
Out thro' thy cell.
That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble
But5 house or hald,
An' cranreuch7 cauld I
1 An ear of corn, now and then. 2 Rest. 3 Build.
4 Biting". 5 Without. 6 Endure. 7 Hoar-frost,
116 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.
But, mousie, thou art no thy lane,1
Gang aft a-gley,2
For promised joy.
Still thou art blessed, compared with me!
On prospects drear, —
I guess an' fear.
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,
TURNED DOWN BY A PLOUGH. Bums.
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower,
Thy slender stem:
Thou bonnie gem!
Alas, it's not thy neebor sweet,
Wi' speckled breast,
The purpling east.
1 Alone, ~ Wrong. 3 Dust,
Cauld blew the bitter, biting north
Amid the storm!
Thy tender form.
The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
O' clod or stane,
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
In humble guise;
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 Peeped. 2 Shelter, 3Barren.
118 THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.
E'en thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate,
Full on thy bloom;
Shall be thy doom!
THE GRAVES OP A HOUSEHOLD. —Mrs. Hemans.
They grew in beauty, side by side,
Their graves are severed far and wide,
The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
One, 'midst the forests of the west,
By a dark stream, is laid, —
Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue, lone sea, hath one,
One sleeps where southern vines are drest,
Above the noble slain;
On a blood-red field of Spain.
THE SOLITARY REAPER.
And one, — o'er her the myrtle showers
And parted thus they rest, who played
They that with smiles lit up the hall,
Alas for love, if thou wert all,
THE SOLITARY REAPER. — Wordsworth.
Behold her, single in the field,
No nightingale did ever chant