144. TO A FIELD-MOUSE. Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, I wad be laith to rin and chase thee I'm truly sorry man's dominion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, 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, Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! Its silly wa's the win's are strewin': And bleak December's winds ensuin' Baith snell and keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste And weary winter comin' fast, And cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till, crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble To thole the winter's sleety dribble But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane And lea'e us nought but grief and pain, Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! But, och! I backward cast my e'e On prospects drear! And forward, tho' I canna see, I guess and fear. R. BURNS. 145. A WISH. Mine be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Around my ivied porch shall spring And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing The village-church among the trees, And point with taper spire to Heaven. S. ROGERS. 146. TO EVENING. If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song Thy springs, and dying gales; O Nymph reserved,-while now the bright-hair'd sun O'erhang his wavy bed, Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises midst the twilight path, Now teach me, maid composed, To breathe some soften'd strain Whose numbers, stealing through thy dark'ning vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit; As musing slow I hail Thy genial loved return. For when thy folding-star arising shows And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still The pensive Pleasures sweet, Prepare thy shadowy car. Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; By thy religious gleams. Or if chill blustering winds or driving rain And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires, The gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his showers, as ort he wont, While Summer loves to sport While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; And rudely rends thy robes; So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, Thy gentlest influence own, And love thy favourite name! W. COLLINS. 147. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn |