BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES. 35

Are there, I ask, beneath the sky
Blossoms that knit so strong a tie
With childhood's love? Can any please
Or light the infant eye like these?
No, no! there 's not a bud on earth,
Of richest tint or warmest birth,
Can ever fling such zeal and zest
Into the tiny hand and breast.
Who does not recollect the hours
When burning words and praises
Were lavished on those shining flowers,
Buttercups and daisies?

There seems a bright and fairy spell
About their very names to dwell;

And though old Time has marked my brow
With care and thought, I love them now.
Smile, if ye will, but some heart-strings
Are closest linked to simplest things;
And these wild flowers will hold mine fast,
Till love, and life, and all be past.
And then the only wish I have

Is that the one who raises

The turf sod o'er me, plant my grave

With buttercups and daisies.

ELIZA COOK.

36

MUSINGS.

MUSINGS.

THIS is my birth-day! Twenty-five years old! Methinks I stand midway between two deathsThe one, which was before my birth-the other, That which ere long will wrap me in its shades. And standing thus, how many thoughts spring forth

(Even as stars, watching the eclipsed moon,
Swarm out in heaven)-into the dark abyss
Which time has made my heart. It is not long
That I have walked the pathways of the world;
And yet the shadowy phantoms of dead hopes,
Withered affections and unnurtured love,
Throng round my path and in the memory-
(Even as glooms that throng around the stars,)
Making life dark, a lightless wilderness.

* * * * * * * * Alas for my unsandalled feet! They bleed, Pierced by the thorns which strew the paths of life.

I rushed into my youth with burning hopes,
High aspirations after starry Fame.

The hopes which were the planets that did light
My life, are gone-for Time has hidden them
With the pale shadow of his stern eclipse.
And I have wandered many a day and long
Amid the world--and tried its friendship well;
And I have struggled with cold poverty,

MUSINGS.

And persecution, obloquy, and wrong,

Until my heart grew bitter. I have made
The desert, and the mountain snow, my bed-
Spoken strange tongues, and congregated with
The tameless savage of the wilderness,
Until I felt as tameless as himself.

The morning of my life has passed away,
And clouds and dimness rest upon its shapes
Of pain or pleasure. I am well content.
The golden stars that smile above my head-
The planet-peopled heaven-and the sea
Glorious in terror or in beauty-all

Of brilliant and magnificent on earth,

37

Have yet a charm for me-and more than all,
My quiet home;-and she who makes that home
A living paradise, will cheer me on-

And I will live, and sing my humble strain,
Although the cold world close its careless ears
Unto the quiet music of my song.

38

AN EPISTLE.

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend,

A something to hae sent you,
Tho' it should serve nae other end

Than just a kind memento;

But how the subject-theme may gang,
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.

Ye'll try the world fu' soon, my lad,
And, Andreun, dear, believe me,
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,
And muckle they may grieve ye:
For care and trouble set your thought,
E'en when your end's attained:
And a' your views may come to nought,
Where ev'ry nerve is strained.

The great Creator to revere,

Must sure become the creature;
But still the preaching cant forbear,

And e'en the rigid feature:

Yet ne'er with wits profane to range,
Be complaisance extended;

An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange
For Deity offended!

AN EPISTLE.

When ranting round in pleasure 's ring,
Religion may be blinded;

Or if she gie a random sting,

It may be little minded;

But when on life we 're tempest driv❜n,

A conscience but a canker-
A correspondence fixed wi' Heaven,
Is sure a noble anchor!

Adieu, dear amiable youth!

Your heart can ne'er be wanting; May prudence, fortitude, and truth, Erect your brow undaunting!

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In ploughman's phrase, "God send you speed," Still daily to grow wiser!

And may you better reck the rede,

Than ever did the adviser!

ROBERT BUrns.