To a Mouse, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785. WEE, sleekit, cowrin', timorous beastie, I wad be laith to rin' an' 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, 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin : An' naething, now, to big a new ane An' bleak December's blast ensuin', Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wast, Till, crash! the cruel coulter past That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld. But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! On prospects drear; An' forward, though I canna see, BURNS. The Builders. All are architects of fate, Working in these walls of time; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme. Nothing useless is, or low, Each thing in its place is best; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest. For the structure that we raise, Time is with materials filled; Our to-days and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build. Truly shape and fashion these, Leave no yawning gaps between: Think not, because no man sees, Such things will remain unseen. In the elder days of art, Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part, For the gods are every where. Let us do our work as well, Both the unseen and the seen; Make the house where gods may dwell Else our lives are incomplete, Thus alone can we attain To those turrets, where the eye LONGFELLOW. A Garden in Spring. The finished garden to the view Its vistas opens, and its valleys green Snatched through the verdant maze, the hurried eye Of covert close, where scarce a speck of day The forest darkening round, the glittering spire, Th' ethereal mountain, and the distant main. The yellow wall-flower, stained with iron brown, With shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves; Then comes the tulip race, where Beauty plays The varied colours run, and while they break With hues on hues expression cannot paint, THOMSON. |