TO A FIELD MOUSE

On turning her up in her nest with the plough.

This charming poem seems to me not only better than anything else written by this over-praised poet, but as fine, in its simplicity and thought, as anything ever written in poetry to bird or beast. As you read more and more poetry you will notice how often and how beautifully the poets have dwelt upon the contrast between man's sad, or hopeful, or frightened thought of the past and the future, and the freedom of the bird (Keats's nightingale, for instance, Shelley's lark, and Burns's mouse) from the "before and after."

WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,
O what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickerin' brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

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!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave

'S a sma' request:

I'll get a blessin' wi' the Îave,

And never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin':
And naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin'
Baith snell and keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin' fast,

An' cozy here beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell,

Till crash the cruel coulter past
Out through thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,

To thole the winter's sleety dribble
An' cranreuch cauld.

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' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promised joy.

Still thou art blest compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But, och! I backward cast my e'e
On prospects drear!

An' forward though I canna see,
I guess and fear!

ROBERT BURNS.

LOCHINVAR

Sir Walter Scott was fond of knights and ladies, and he interests us all in that gallant company. In the beautiful poem (following)—Helvellyn-he shows us that though he loved chivalry and songs and arms, he knew that nature and silence are greater.

O, YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best ; And save his good broadsword he weapons had

none,

He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late :
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,
Among bride'smen, and kinsmen, and brothers
and all:

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,
(For the poor craven bridgroom said never a word),
O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?
"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied ;
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to
gladly be bride to the young
Lochinvar.'

The bride kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it up,
He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,-
"Now tread we a measure!" said young
Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet
and plume;

And the bride-maidens whisper'd, "Twere better by far,

To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near;

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and

scaur ;

They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan ;

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran :

There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ?
SIR WALTER SCOTT.

HELVELLYN

I CLIMB'D the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty

and wide;

All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling,

And starting around me the echoes replied. On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending,

And Cathchedicam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer had died.

Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain heather,

Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretch'd in decay,

Like the corpse of an outcast abandon'd to weather Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay.

Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended, The much-loved remains of her master defended, And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?

When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?

How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,

Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?