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, I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee I'm truly sorry man's dominion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin' wi' the Îave, And never miss't! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! An' bleak December's winds ensuin' Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' cozy here beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash the cruel coulter past That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble To thole the winter's sleety dribble But, mousie, thou art no thy lane An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, Still thou art blest compared wi' me! An' forward though I canna see, 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. Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, The bride kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it up, So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 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, 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, 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? |