The tender speckled moth here dancing seen, THE FARMER'S BOY IN THE FIELDS. Just starting from the corn she cheerly sings, Delicious sleep! From sleep who could forbear, ELLIOTT. BURNS. THAT heaven's belov'd die early, But old as Truth, although in youth, Died giant-hearted Burns. Oh that I were the daisy That sank beneath his plough, Or, "neighbour meet," that "skylark sweet!" Say, are they nothing now? That mouse, 66 our fellow mortal," Lives deep in Nature's heart; Like earth and sky, it cannot die Till earth and sky depart. Thy Burns, child-honour'd Scotland! Is many minds in one; With thought on thought, the name is fraught, Of glory's peasant son. Thy Chaucer is thy Milton, And might have been thy Tell; Be proud, man-childed Scotland! And "Bonny Doon," and "heaven aboon." A POET'S EPITAPH. Be proud, though sin-dishonour'd, Grieve not, though savage forests Where dim-eyed flowers and shaded bowers Grieve not, though, by the torrent, Its headlong course was riven, When o'er it came, in clouds and flame, For sometimes gently flowing, And sometimes chafed to foam, O'er slack and deep, by wood and steep, He sought his heavenly home. A POET'S EPITAPH. STOP, Mortal! Here thy brother lies, His books were rivers, woods, and skies, His teachers were the torn heart's wail, The tyrant and the slave, The street, the factory, the jail, The palace and the grave! From passion, danger, doubt, and care, The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm But, honouring in a peasant's form The equal of the great. He bless'd the Steward, whose wealth makes Yet loath'd the haughty wretch that takes From plunder'd labour's store. A hand to do, a head to plan, A heart to feel and dare Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man SPRING. AGAIN the violet of our early days Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun, And kindles into fragrance at his blaze; The streams, rejoic'd that Winter's work is done, Wild apple, thou art blushing into bloom! Thy leaves are coming, snowy-blossom'd thorn! Wake, buried lily! spirit, quit thy tomb! And thou, shade-loving hyacinth, be born! Then, haste, sweet rose! sweet woodbine, hymn the morn, Whose dew-drops shall illume with pearly light Each grassy blade that thick embattled stands From sea to sea, while daisies infinite Uplift in praise their little glowing hands. O'er every hill that under heav'n expands. |