« ForrigeFortsett »
Written with a Pencil over the Chimney-Piece
in the Parlour of the Inn at Kenmore, Taymouth.
ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace,
Poetic ardours in my bosom swell,
Here Poesy might wake her heaven-taught lyre,
her scan, And injured Worth forget and pardon man.
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,
ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH,
IN APRIL, 1786.
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower,
Thy slender stem;
Thou bonnie gem.
Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet ! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,
Wi’ spreckled breast, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet,
The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Amid the storm,
Thy tender form.
The flaunting flowers 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,
There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies !
Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet floweret of the rural shade! By love's simplicity betray'd,
And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid
Low i' the dust.
Such is the fate of simple bard,
Of prudent lore,
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;
He, ruin'd, sink !
E'en thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate,
Full on thy bloom,
Shall be thy doom !
THE LAMENT. OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE
OF A FRIEND'S AMOUR.
Alas!'how oft does Goodness wound itself,
O thou pale orb, that silent shines,
While care-untroubled mortals sleep! Thou seest a wretch that inly pines,
And wanders here to wail and weep ! With woe I nightly vigils keep,
Beneath thy wan unwarming beam ; And mourn, in lamentation deep,
How life and love are all a dream. I joyless view thy rays adorn
The faintly-marked distapt hill :
Reflected in the gurgling rill :
Thou busy power, Remembrance, cease!
For ever bar returning peace ? No idly-feign’d poetic pains
My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim; No shepherd's pipe-Arcadian strains;
No fabled tortures, quaint and tame: The plighted faith; the mutual flame;
The oft-attested Powers above; The promised father's tender name;
These were the pledges of my love!
Encircled in her clasping arms,
How have the raptured moments flown ! How have I wish'd for fortune's charms,
For her dear sake, and her's alone ! And must I think it is she gone,
My secret heart's exulting boast? And does she heedless hear my groan?
And is she ever, ever lost? 0! can she bear so base a heart,
So lost to honour, lost to truth, As from the fondest lover part,
The plighted husband of her youth ? Alas ! life's path may be unsmooth !
Her way may lie through rough distress! Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe;
Her sorrows share, and make them less ? Ye winged hours that o'er us pass'd,
Enraptured more, the more enjoy'd, Your dear remembrance in my breast
My fondly-treasured thoughts employ'd. That breast, how dreary now, and void,
For her too scanty once of room! E'en every ray of hope destroy'd,
And not a wish to gild the gloom ! The morn that warns th' approaching day
Awakes me up to toil and woe : I see the hours in long array
That I must suffer, lingering, slow. Full many a pang, and many a throe,
Keen Recollection's direful train, Must wring my soul, ere Phæbus, low,
Shall kiss the distant western main.