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النشر الإلكتروني

And hang his head, to think himself a man? ̧
I would not have a slave to till my ground,
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep,
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth
That sinews bought and sold have ever earned.
No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's
Just estimation prized above all price,
I had much rather be myself the slave
And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him.
We have no slaves at home: then why abroad?
And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave
That parts us, are emancipate and loosed.
Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs
Receive our air, that moment they are free;
They touch our country, and their shackles fall.
That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud
And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then,
And let it circulate through every vein

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Of all your empire; that where Britain's power

Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too.

Sonnet to Mrs. Unwin

Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,

Such aid from heaven as some have feigned they drew,

An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new,

And undebased by praise of meaner things!

That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings,

I

may record thy worth, with honor due,

In verse as musical as thou art true,

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Verse that immortalizes whom it sings.

But thou hast little need. There is a book,

By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,

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On which the eyes of God not rarely look;

A chronicle of actions just and bright;

There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine,

And since thou ownest that praise, I spare thee mine.

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ROBERT BURNS

To a Mouse

ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,

Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa sae hasty

Wi' bickerin brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee
Wi' murd'rin 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? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave

'S a sma' request;

I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss 't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,

An' weary winter comin fast,

An' cozie here, beneath the blast

Thou thought to dwell,

Till crash the cruel coulter past

Out thro' thy cell.

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ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786

Wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flow'r,

Thou's met me in an evil hour;

For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem:

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