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The latest of whose train goes softly out
In the red West. The green blade
of the ground Has risen, and herds have cropped
it; the young twig Has spread its plaited tissues to the
Flowers of the garden and the waste
have blown And withered; seeds have fallen upon
From bursting cells, and in their
graves await Their resurrection. Insects from
Have filled the air awhile with humming wings,
That now are still forever; painted moths
Have wandered the blue sky, and
died again; The mother-bird hath broken for
her brood Their prison shell, or shoved them
from the nest, Plumed for their earliest flight. In
bright alcoves, In woodland cottages with barky
walls, [town, In noisome cells of the tumultuous Mothers have clasped with joy the
new-born babe, Graves by the lonely forest, by the
Of rivers and of ocean, by the ways
hath parted friends That ne'er before were parted; it
hath knit New friendships; it hath seen the
maiden plight Her faith, and trust her peace to him
who long Had wooed; and it hath heard, from
lips which late Were eloquent of love, the first harsh
That told the wedded one, her peace
was flown. Farewell to the sweet sunshine!
One glad day
Is added now to childhood's merry days,
And one calm day to those of quiet age.
Still the fleet hours run on; and as I lean,
Amid the thickening darkness, lamps are lit,
By those who watch the dead, and those who twine
Flowers for the bride. The mother from the eyes
Of her sick infant shades the painful light,
And sadly listens to his quick-drawn breath.
O thou great Movement of the
Universe, Or change, or flight of Time — for
ye are one! That bearest, silently, this visible
Into night's shadow and the streaming rays
Of starlight, whither art thou bearing me?
I feel the mighty current sweep me on.
Yet know not whither. Man foretells afar
The courses of the stars; the very hour
He knows when they shall darken or
grow bright; Yet doth the eclipse of Sorrow and
Come unforewarned. Who next, of
those I love, Shall pass from life, or sadder yet,
From virtue? Strife with foes, or
bitterer strife With friends, or shame and general
scorn of men — Which who can bear ? — or the fierce
rack of pain, Lie they within my path? Or shall
'the years Push me, with soft and inoffensive
Into the stilly twilight of my age?
Or do the portals of another life
Even now, while I am glorying in my strength,
Impend around me? O! beyond that bourne,
In the vast cycle of being which begins
At that broad threshold, with what
fairer forms Shall the great law of change and
TO MARY IN HEAVEN.
Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usherest in the day
My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade 1
Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hearest thou the groans that rend his breastft
That sacred hour can I forget?
Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met,
To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface
Those records dear of transports past;
Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought we 'twas our last;
Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green;
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twined amorous round the raptured
The flowers sprang wanton to be
The birds sang love on every spray, —
Till too, too soon, the glowing west Proclaimed the speed of winged day.
Its workings? Gently—so have
good men taught — Gently, and without grief, the old
shall glide Into the new; the eternal flow of
Like a bright river of the fields of heaven,
Shall journey onward in perpetual peace.
Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes.
And fondly broods with miser care! Time but the impression deeper makes.
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary, dear departed shade! Where is thy blissful place of rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hearest thou the groans that rend his breast?
FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT.
Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a' that? The coward-slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a' that! For a' that, and a' that.
Our toils obscure, and a' that; The rank is but the guinea stamp; The man's the gowd for a' that.
What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden-gray, and a' that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that.
Their tinsel show, and a' that: The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.
Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; Tho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a eoof for a' that: For a' that and a' that,
His ribband, star, and a' that, The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a' that.
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that; But an honest man's aboon his might, Guid faith, he manna fa' that! For a' that, and a' that,
Their dignities, and a' that, The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
Are higher ranks than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a' that, That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth'
May bear the gree, and a' that
It's coming yet, for a' that;
Shall brothers be for a' that.
STANZAS IN PROSPECT OF DEATH.
Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene!
Have I so found it full of pleasing charms?
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between:
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms;
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms? Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode?
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms:
I tremble to approach an angry
And justly smart beneath his sinavenging rod.
Fain would I say, "Forgive my foul offence!" Fain promise never more to disobey;
But, should my Author health again dispense, Again I might desert fair virtue's way;
Again in folly's path might go astray; Again exalt the brute, and sink the man;
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray,
Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan? Who sin so oft have mourned, yet to temptation ran 1
0 Thou, great Governor of all below!
If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,
And still the tumult of the raging sea;
With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me,
Those headlong furious passions to confine,
For all unfit I feel my powers to be. To rule their torrent in the allowed line;
Oh, aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine!
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.
On turning one down with the plough, ltt
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower,
Thy slender stem:
Thou bonnie gem.
Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
Wi' spreckl'd breast, When upward-springing, blythe, to greet
The purpling east,
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth
Thy tender form.
The sun flowers our gardens yield
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield.
But thou beneath the random bield
O' clod, or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-fleld,
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
In humble guise;
And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of artless maid,
And guileless trust,
Low i' the dust.
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
Till, wrenched of every stay but heaven,
He, ruined, sink!
Even thou who mournest 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!
JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven.
Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is held, John,
Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither; And monie a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John.
But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.
FAREWELL TO NANCY.
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!
Who shall say that fortune grieves him,
While the star of hope she leaves him!
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me;
I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy,
Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!
[From To the Unco Guid.] GOD, THE ONLY JUST JUDGE.
Then gently scan your brother man,
Still gentler sister woman; Tho' they may gang a kennie wrang,
To step aside is human: One point must still be greatly dark,
The moving Why they do it: And just as lamely can ye mark
How far perhaps they rue it.
Who made the heart, 'tis He alone
Decidedly can try us, [tone, He knows each chord — its various
Each spring — its various bias: Then at the balance let's be mute,
We never can adjust it; What's done we partly may compute,
But know not what's resisted.
Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers.
Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfald her robes,
And there the langest tarry; For there I took my last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade,
I clasped her to my bosom!
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' moniea vow, and lock'd embrace,
And. pledging aft to meet again,
But oh! fell death's untimely frost,
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary.
Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kissed sae fondly! And closed for aye the sparkling glance,
That dwelt on me sae kindly! And mouldering now in silent dust,
That heart that lo'ed me dearly! But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.
MAN WAS MADE TO MOUIlN.
When chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare.
Along the banks of Ayr,
Seemed weary, worn with care;
And hoary was his hair.
Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?
Began the reverend sage; Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasures rage? Or, haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man.
The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Outspreading far and wide, Where hundreds labor to support
A haughty lordling's pride;
Twice forty times return;
That man was made to mourn.
O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time! Misspending all thy precious hours.
Thy glorious youthful prime! Alternate follies take the sway;
licentious passions burn; Which tenfold force give nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.