60

THE DEATH BED.

Even to the dim-seen level, where a lake
Flashed in the sun; and from it wound a line,
Now silvery bright, even to the farthest verge
Of the encircling hills.

Was round me,

A waste of rocks

but below, how beautiful!

How rich the plain! a wilderness of groves And ripening harvests; while the sky of June, The soft, blue sky of June, and the cool air That makes it then a luxury to live

Only to breathe it, and the busy echo

Of cascades, and the voice of mountain brooks,
Stole with so gentle meaning to my heart,
That where I stood seemed heaven!

THE DEATH BED.

HOOD.

WE watched her breathing through the night,

Her breathing, soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak,

So slowly moved about,

As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her living out.

MY DARLINGS' SHOES.

Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied;

We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,

Her quiet eyelids closed; — she had
Another morn than ours.

MY DARLINGS' SHOES.

61

ANON.

GOD bless the little feet that never go astray,
For the little shoes are empty in my closet laid away !
Sometimes I take one in my hand, forgetting till I see
It is a little half-worn shoe, not large enough for me;
And all at once I feel a sense of bitter loss and pain,
As sharp as when two years ago it cut my heart in
twain.

O, little feet, that wearied not, I wait for them no

more,

For I am drifting on the tide, but they have reached the shore;

And while the blinding tear-drops wet these little shoes so old,

I try to think my darlings' feet are treading streets of

gold,

62

MY DARLINGS' SHOES.

And so I lay them down again, but always turn to

say

God bless the little feet that now so surely cannot stray.

And while I thus am standing, I almost seem to see Two little forms beside me, just as they used to be; Two little faces lifted with their sweet and tender

eyes!

Ah me! I might have known that look was born of Paradise.

I reach my arms out fondly, but they clasp the empty air!

There is nothing of my darlings but the shoes they used to wear.

O, the bitterness of parting cannot be done away Till I meet my darlings walking where their feet can never stray;

When I no more am drifted upon the surging tide,
But with them safely landed upon the river side;
Be patient, heart, while waiting to see their shining

way,

For the little feet in the golden street can never go

astray.

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 63

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

Inscribed to Robert Aiken, Esq.

BURNS.

"Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor."

GRAY.

My loved, my honored, much respected friend,
No mercenary bard his homage pays;

With honest pride I scorn each selfish end,
My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise;
To you I sing in simple Scottish lays,

The lowly train in life's sequestered scene;
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I

ween.

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;
The short'ning winter day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh,
The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose;
The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes,

This night his weekly moil is at an end,

Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,

And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.

64 THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;

The expectant wee things, toddlin, stacher through,
To meet their dad wi' flichterin noise and glee.
His wee bit ingle blinkin bonnily,

His clean hearthstane, his thriftie wifie's smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
Does a' his weary, carking cares beguile,

An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil.

Belyve, the elder bairns come drappin in,
At service out amang the farmers roun';
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
A cannie errand to a neebor town.

Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e,
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown,
Or deposite her sair-won penny fee,

To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

Wi' joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet, An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers; The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed, fleet; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; The parents partial eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view; The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.

Their master's an' their mistress's command,

The younkers a' are warnéd to obey;