TO THE SONS OF BURNS, AFTER VISITING THEIR FATHER'S Grave. (AUGUST 14, 1803.) YE now are panting up life's hill! 'Tis twilight time of good and ill, And more than common strength and skill Must ye display, If ye would give the better will Its lawful sway. Strong-bodied if ye be to bear Intemperance with less harm, beware! Then, then, indeed, Ye sons of Burns! for watchful care There will be need. For honest men delight will take Your steps pursue; And of your father's name will make A snare for you. Let no mean hope your souls enslave; Be independent, generous, brave! Your father such example gave, And such revere ! But be admonished by his grave,—— And think, and fear! TO MY SISTER. WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE, AND SENT BY MY LITTLE BOY. IT is the first mild day of March, The redbreast sings from the tall larch 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) Now that our morning meal is done, Edward will come with you ;-and pray, No joyless forms shall regulate We from to-day, my friend, will date Love, now a 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, Which they shall long obey; We for the year to come may take Our temper from to-day. And from the blessed power that rolls About, below, above, We'll frame the measure of our souls: They shall be tuned to love. Then come, my sister! come, I pray With speed put on your woodland dress; -And bring no book; for this one day We'll give to idleness. TO A YOUNG LADY, WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. DEAR child of nature, let them rail ! A harbour and a hold; Where thou, a wife and friend, shalt see A light to young and old. There, healthy as a shepherd-boy, And treading among flowers of joy Which at no season fade, Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, Shalt shew us how divine a thing A woman may be made. Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die, But an old age serene and bright, And lovely as a Lapland night, |