Слике страница
PDF

And when my nightly couch I try,

Sore-harass'd out with care and grief, My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye,

Keep watchings with the nightly thief: Or if I slumber, Fancy, chief,

Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright:
E’en day, all-bitter, brings relief

From such a horror-breathing night.
O tħou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse

Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway! Oft has thy silent-marking glance

Observed us, fondly-wandering, stray! The time, unheeded, sped away,

While Love's luxurious pulse beat high, Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray,

To mark the mutual kindling eye.

0! scenes in strong remembrance set !

Scenes never, never to return !
Scenes, if in stupor I forget,

Again I feel, again I burn !
From every joy and pleasure torn,

Life's weary vale i'll wander through ;
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn

A faithless woman's broken vow.

ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS

CHILD, Born in peculiar Circumstances of Family Distress.

SWEET floweret, pledge o' meikle love,

And ward o'mony a prayer,
What heart o'stane wad thon na move,

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair!
November hirples o'er the lea,

Chill, on thy lovely form;
And gane, alas! the sheltering tree

Should shield thee frae the storm.
May He who gives the rain to pour,

And wings the blast to blaw,
Protect thee frae the driving shower,

The bitter frost and snaw!
May He, the friend of woe and want,

Who heals life's various stounds,
Protect and guard the mother plant,

And heal her cruel wounds!
But late she flourish'd, rooted fast,

Fair on the summer morn :
Now feebly bends she in the blast,

Unshelterd and forlorn.
Bless'd be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,

l'nscathed by ruffian hand!
And from thee many a parent stem

Arise to deck our land!

A BARD'S EPITAPH.

Is there a whim-inspired fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,

Let him draw near;
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,

And drap a tear.
Is there a bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this area throng,

0, pass not by! But, with a frater-feeling strong,

Here heave a sigh. Is there a man, whose judgment clear Can others teach the course to steer, Yet runs, himself, life's mad carcer,

Wild as the wave;
Here pause-and, through the starting tear,

Survey this grave.
The poor inhabitant below
Was quick to learn, and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,

And softer flame;
But thoughtless follies laid him low,

And stain'd his name! Reader, attend—whether thy soul Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,

In low pursuit; Know, prudent, cautious, self-control,

Is wisdom's root.

TO MARY IN HEAVEN. Thou lingering star, with lessening ray,

That lovest to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget,

Can I forget the hallow'd 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 kiss'd his pebbled shore,

O'erhung with wild woods, thickening, green ; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,

Twined amorous round the raptured scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be press’d,

The birds sang love on every spray, Till too, tod soon, the glowing west

Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 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 ?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?

BURNS

TAM O'SHANTER,

AND

OTHER POEMS.

« ПретходнаНастави »