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She lived unknown, - and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be ; But she is in her grave, and, O,
The difference to me!
I travelled among unknown men,
In lands beyond the sea ;
What love I bore to thee.
'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
Nor will I quit thy shore
To love thee more and more.
Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire;
Beside an English fire.
The bowers where Lucy played ;
That Lucy's eyes surveyed.
TO A MOUSE,
ON HER NEST BEING TURNED UP BY A PLOUGH. - Burns.
WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, timorous beastie,
Wi' bickering brattle !
Wi' murdering pattle !
TO A MOUSE.
I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Which makes thee startle
An' fellow-mortal !
Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
Thou thought to dwell,
Out thro' thy cell.
That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble
But 5 house or hald,
An' cranreuch ? cauld !
1 An ear of corn now and then.. ? Rest. 4 Biting.. 5 Without. 6 Endure.
3 Build. Hoar-frost.
But, mousie, thou art no thy lane,
Gang aft a-gley? An' leave us naught but grief an' pain,
For promised joy. Still thou art blessed, compared with me! The present only toucheth thee; But, Och! I backward cast my e'e
On prospects drear, — An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear.
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,
TURNED DOWN BY A PLOUGH. -- Burns.
WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flower,
Thy slender stem:
Thou bonnie gem!
Alas, it 's not thy neebor sweet,
Wi’ speckled breast, When upward springing, blythe, to greet
The purpling east.
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.
Cauld blew the bitter, biting north
Amid the storm!
Thy tender form.
The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
O'clod or stane,
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
In humble guise ;
And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of simple bard,
Of prudent lore,
And whelm him o'er.
Such fate to suffering worth is given,
'To mis’ry's brink ; Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven,
He, ruined, sink.
E’en thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate,
Full on thy bloom ;
Shall be thy doom !
THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. - Mrs. Hemans.
THEY grew in beauty, side by side,
They filled one home with glee, -
By mount, and stream, and sea.,
The same fond mother bent at night
O’er each fair sleeping brow;
Where are those dreamers now?
One, 'midst the forests of the West,
By a dark stream is laid,
Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue, lone sea, hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep, —
O'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are drest,
Above the noble slain ;
On a blood-red field of Spain.