TO THE SONS OF BURNS, AFTER VISITING (AUGUST 14, 1803.) YE now are panting up life's hill! And more than common strength and skill If ye would give the better will Strong-bodied if ye be to bear Then, then indeed, Ye sons of Burns! for watchful care For honest men delight will take And of your father's name will make Let no mean hope your souls enslave; But be admonish'd by his grave, And think, and fear! TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND. COMPOSED WHILE WE WERE LABOURING TOGETHER IN HIS PLEASURE-GROUND. SPADE! with which Wilkinson hath till'd his lands, Thou art a tool of honour in my hands; press thee through the yielding soil with pride. Rare master has it been thy lot to know; Health, quiet, meekness, ardour, hope secure, Or in some silent field, while timid spring Who shall inherit thee when death has laid With thee he will not dread a toilsome day, His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn; WRITTEN IN GERMANY, ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY. I must apprize the reader that the stoves in North Germany generally have the impression of a galloping horse upon them, this being part of the Brunswick arms. A FIG for your languages, German and Norse! Let me have the song of the kettle; And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse On this dreary dull plate of black metal. Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff; But her pulses beat slower and slower : The weather in 'forty was cutting and rough, And then, as Heaven knows, the glass stood low enough; Here's a fly, -a disconsolate creature! perhaps And, sorrow for him! this dull treacherous heat Alas! how he fumbles about the domains Which this comfortless oven environ! He cannot find out in what track he must crawl, Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemazed; His feelers methinks I can see him put forth To the east and the west, and the south and the north; See his spindles sink under him, foot, leg, and thigh; Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws; No brother, no friend has he near him-while I As if green summer grass were the floor of my room, Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless thing! Till summer comes up from the south, and with crowds Of thy brethren a march thou shouldst sound through the clouds And back to the forests again! LINES WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE, AND SENT BY MY IT is the first mild day of March, There is a blessing in the air, Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees, and mountains bare, My sister! ('tis a wish of mine) Edward will come with you; and pray, No joyless forms shall regulate Our living calendar : We from to-day, my friend, will date The opening of the year. Love, now an universal birth, From heart to heart is stealing, From earth to man, from man to earth: -It is the hour of feeling. One moment now may give us more Than fifty years of reason: Our minds shall drink at every pore The spirit of the season. Some silent laws our hearts may make, We for the year to come may take And from the blessed power that rolls We'll frame the measure of our souls: Then come, my sister! come, I pray, TO A YOUNG LADY, WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG WALKS IN THE DEAR child of nature, let them rail! A harbour and a hold, Where thou, a wife and friend, shalt sec Thy own delightful days, and be A light to young and old. There, healthy as a shepherd-boy, As if thy heritage were joy, And pleasure were thy trade, Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made. Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die, A melancholy slave; But an old age serene and bright, And lovely as a Lapland night, Shall lead thee to thy grave. LINES, WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. I HEARD a thousand blended notes, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopp'd and play'd; The budding twigs spread out their ían, And I must think, do all I can, If I these thoughts may not prevent, SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN. A long blue livery coat has he, Full five-and-twenty years he lived And, though he has but one eye left, No man like him the horn could sound, His master's dead, and no one now Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead : And he is lean and he is sick, His dwindled body's half awry; His ankles too are swoln and thick; His legs are thin and dry. When he was young, he little knew Of husbandry or tillage, And now is forced to work, though weak, -The weakest in the village. He all the country could outrun, Could leave both man and horse behind; And often, ere the race was done, He reel'd and was stone-blind. |