44

MAY.

Poor moralist! and what art thou?

A solitary fly!

Thy joys no glittering female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display:
On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone—
We frolic while 'tis May.

GRAY.

MAY.

How shall I meet thee, Summer, wont to fill
My heart with gladness, when thy pleasant tide
First came, and on each coomb's romantic side

Was heard the distant cuckoo's hollow bill?

Fresh flowers shall fringe the wild brink of the stream,

As with the song of joyance and of hope

The hedge-rows shall ring loud, and on the slope

The poplars sparkle on the transient beam,
The shrubs and laurels which I love to tend,

Thinking their May-tide fragrance might delight,

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.

45

With many a peaceful charm, thee, my best friend, Shall put forth their green shoot, and cheer the

sight!

But I shall mark their hues with sickening eyes,
And
weep for her who in the cold grave lies!

BOWLES.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH.

WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flower
Thou'st met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem;

To spare thee now is past my power,
Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,

The bonnie lark, companion meet,

Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet!

Wi' speckled breast,

When upward-springing, blithe, to greet

The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north

Upon thy early, humble birth :

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,

Unseen, alane.

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 flow'ret of the rural shade!

By love's simplicity betrayed,

And guileless trust,

Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid

Low i' the dust.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.

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 mis'ry'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 Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,

Full on thy bloom,

Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight,
Shall be thy doom!

BURNS.

48

DESCRIPTION OF MORNING.

DESCRIPTION OF MORNING.

BUT who the melodies of morn can tell?

The wild brook babbling down the mountain side;
The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell;
The pipe of early shepherd dim descried

In the lone valley; echoing far and wide
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;
The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide;

The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love,
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.

The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark; Crowned with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings; The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark! Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings; Thro' rustling corn the hare astonished springs; Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tour.

O Nature, how in every charm supreme!
Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new!