Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! And bleak December's winds ensuin' 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 Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out for a' thy trouble But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble And cranreuch cauld! But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane The best laid schemes o' mice and men And lea'e us nought but grief and pain, For promised joy. Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! The present only toucheth thee : On prospects drear! And forward, tho' I canna see, R. Burns M CXLV A WISH INE be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near. ; The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Around my ivied porch shall spring The village-church among the trees, S. Rogers CXLVI TO EVENING Faught of oaten stop or pastoral song May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear Like thy own solemn springs, 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, 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; Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells, Whose walls more awful nod By thy religious gleams. Or if chill blustering winds or driving rain Views wilds and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires; The gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, 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, And love thy favourite name! W. Collins CXLVII ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD T HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, |