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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 ;
Nor, England ! did I know till then

What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream!

Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seem

To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel

The joy of my desire;
And she I cherished turned her wheel

Beside an English fire.
Thy mourning showed, thy nights concealed

The bowers where Lucy played ;
And thine, too, is the last green field

That Lucy's eyes surveyed.

TO A MOUSE,

ON HER NEST BEING TURNED UP BY A PLOUGH. - Burns.

WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, timorous beastie,
O, what a panic 's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa sae hastie,

Wi' bickering brattle !
I wad be laith to rin and chase thee,

Wi' murdering pattle !

TO A MOUSE.

115

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion

Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion

An' fellow-mortal !

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Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An' weary winter comin' fast,
An' 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 an' stibble
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou 's turned out, for a'thy trouble,

But 5 house or hald,
To thole 6 the winter's sleety dribble,

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,
In proving foresight may be vain ;
The best laid schemes o mice an' men

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,
Thou 's met me in an evil hour ;
For I maun crush amang the stoure 3

Thy slender stem:
To spare thee now is past my power,

Thou bonnie gem!

Alas, it 's not thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet!
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet!

Wi’ speckled breast, When upward springing, blythe, to greet

The purpling east.

1 Alone.

% Wrong.

3 Dust.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.

117

Cauld blew the bitter, biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted 1 forth,

Amid the storm!
Scarce reared above the parent earth

Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield;
But thou, beneath the random bield 2

O'clod or stane,
Adorns the histie 3 stibble-field,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread ;
Thou lifts thy unassuming head

In humble guise ;
But now the share uptears thy bed,

And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of simple bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless starred!
Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

And whelm him o'er.

Such fate to suffering worth is given,
Who long with wants and woes has striven;
By human pride or cunning driven

'To mis’ry's brink ; Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven,

He, ruined, sink.

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E’en thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate,
That fate is thine, - no distant date ;
Stern ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, .

Full on thy bloom ;
Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight

Shall be thy doom !

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. - Mrs. Hemans.

THEY grew in beauty, side by side,

They filled one home with glee, -
Their graves are severed far and wide,

By mount, and stream, and sea.,

The same fond mother bent at night

O’er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight, —

Where are those dreamers now?

One, 'midst the forests of the West,

By a dark stream is laid,
The Indian knows his place of rest,

Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue, lone sea, hath one,

He lies where pearls lie deep, —
He was the loved of all, yet none

O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are drest,

Above the noble slain ;
He wrapt his colors round his breast,

On a blood-red field of Spain.

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