An' naething, now, to big a new ane An' bleak December's blast ensuin', Eaith snell and keen. Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Till, crash! the cruel coulter past That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble To thole the winter's sleety dribble, But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, An' lea's us nought but grief an' pain, Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! An' forward, though I canna see, BURNS. The Builders. ALL are architects of fate, Nothing useless is, or low, Each thing in its place is best; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest. For the structure that we raise, Time is with materials filled; Our to-days and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build. Truly shape and fashion these, Leave no yawning gaps between: Think not, because no man sees, Such things will remain unseen. In the elder days of art, Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part, For the gods are every where. Let us do our work as well, Both the unseen and the seen; Make the house where gods may dwell Else our lives are incomplete, Build to-day, then, strong and sure, Thus alone can we attain To those turrets, where the eye LONGFELLOW. A Garden in Spring. THE finished garden to the view Its vistas opens, and its valleys green Snatched through the verdant maze, the hurried eye Of covert close, where scarce a speck of day The forest darkening round, the glittering spire, Th' ethereal mountain, and the distant maín. The yellow wall-flower, stained with iron brown, With shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves; Then comes the tulip race, where Beauty plays The varied colours run, and while they break As o'er the fabled fountain hanging still; Nor broad carnations, nor gay spotted pinks; Nor, showered from every bush, the damask rose. With hues on hues expression cannot paint, The breath of Nature, and her endless bloom. THOMSON. |