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Boy! thy first looks were taught to seek

their heaven in Hellas' skies;
her airs have tinged thy dusky cheek,

her sunshine lit thine eyes;
and Greece, decayed, dethroned, doth see
her youth renewed in such as thee;
a shoot of that old vine that made
the nations silent in its shade.

W. C. BRYANT

364

CONTEMPLATION

O

VOICE divine, whose heavenly strain

no mortal measure may attain,
O powerful to appease the smart
that festers in a wounded heart,
whose mystiç numbers can assuage
the bosom of tumultuous rage,
can strike the dagger from despair,
and shut the watchful eye of care.
Oft lured by thee, when wretches call,
Hope comes, that cheers and softens all;
expelled by thee, and dispossest
Envy forsakes the human breast.
Full oft with thee the Bard retires,
and lost to earth to heaven aspires:
how nobly lost! with thee to rove
through the long deepening solemn grove,
or underneath the moonlight pale
to silence trust some plaintive tale
of nature's ills and mankind's woes,
while kings and all the proud repose:
or where some holy aged oak
a stranger to the woodman's stroke,
from the high rock's aërial crown
in twisting arches bending down,
bathes in the smooth pellucid stream;
full oft he waits the mystic dream
of mankind's joys right understood,
and of the all prevailing good.
Go forth invoked, 0 voice divine !
and issue from thy sacred shrine.

W. HAMILTON

365 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY ON TURNING ONE DOWN

WITH THE PLOUGH

WEE

EE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,

thou's met me in an evil hour;
for I maun crush amang the stoure

thy tender stem;
to spare thee now is past my pow'r,

thou bonnie gem!

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
upon thy early, humble birth ;
yet cheerfully thou glinted forth

amid the storm,
scarce reared above the parent earth

thy tender form.
The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield
high sheltering woods and wa's maun shield;
but thou, beneath the random bield

o'clod or stane,
adorns the histie stibble-field,

unseen, alane.
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread,
thou lifts thy unassuming head

in humble guise;
but now the share uptears thy bed,

and low thou lies! 366 Such is the fate of artless maid,

sweet flowret of the rural shade,
by love's simplicity betrayed,

and guileless trust,
till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid

low i' the dust.
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 misery's brink,
till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven,

he, ruined, sink!

Even thou, who mourn'st the daisy's fate,
that fate is thine-no distant date;
stern Ruins ploughshare drives, elate,

full on thy bloom,
till crushed beneath the furrow's weight

shall be thy doom!

R. BURNS

WHAT

367

ON DISAPPOINTMENT
THAT is this passing scene ?

a peevish April day!
a little sun-a little rain,
and then night sweeps along the plain,

and all things fade away.

Man (soon discussed)

yields up his trust, And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. Oh, what is Beauty's pow'r ?

it flourishes and dies !
Will the cold earth its silence break,
to tell how soft, how smooth a cheek

beneath its surface lies?

Mute, mute is all

o'er Beauty's fall; her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall

The most beloved on earth

not long survives to-day:
so music past is obsolete,
and yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet,

but now 'tis gone away.

Thus does the shade

in memory fade when in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid.

H. K. WHITE

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I flow;

T is not that my lot is low,

it is not grief that bids me moan;
it is that I am all alone.
In woods and glens I love to roam,
when the tired hedger hies him home;
or by the woodland pool to rest,
when pale the star looks on its breast.
Yet when the silent evening sighs
with hallowed airs and symphonies,
my spirit takes another tone,
and sighs that it is all alone.
The autumn leaf is sere and dead,
it floats upon the water's bed;
I would not be a leaf to die
without recording sorrow's sigh!
the woods and winds, with sullen wail,
tell all the same unvaried tale;
I've none to smile when I am free,
And when I sigh, to sigh with me.
Yet in my dreams a form I view,
that thinks on me and loves me too:
I start, and then, the vision flown,
I weep that I am all alone.

H. K. WHITE

TO VENUS

369

COM

OME, gentle Venus, and assuage

a warring world, a bleeding age;
for nature lives beneath thy ray,
the wintry tempests haste away;
a lucid calm invests the sea,
thy native deep is full of thee:
the flowering earth, where'er you fly,
is all o'er spring, all sun the sky.
A genial spirit warms the breeze;
unseen among the blooming trees,
the feather'd lovers tune their throat,
the desert growls a soften'd note,

glad o'er the meads the cattle bound;
and love and harmony go round.

Come, thou delight of heaven and earth!
to whom all creatures owe their birth;
O come, sweet smiling, tender, come!
and yet prevent our final doom.
For long the furious god of war
has crushed us with his iron car,
has raged along our ruined plains,
has soiled them with his cruel stains,
has sunk our youth in endless sleep,
and made the widowed virgin weep.

J. THOMSON

370

TO THE SWALLOW

O

SWALLOW, Swallow, flying, flying South,

fly to her and fall upon her gilded eaves, and tell her, tell her what I tell to thee.

O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, that bright and fierce and fickle is the South, and dark and true and tender is the North.

O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, and cheep and twitter twenty million loves.

O were I thou that she might take me in, and lay

on her bos and her heart would rock the snowy cradle till I died.

Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love,
delaying as the tender ash delays
to clothe herself, when all the woods are green?

O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown:
say to her, I do but wanton in the South,
but in the North long since my nest is made.

O tell her, brief is life but love is long,
and brief the sun of summer in the orth,
and brief the moon of beauty in the South.

O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, and tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.

A. TENNYSON

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