44 MAY. Poor moralist! and what art thou? A solitary fly! Thy joys no glittering female meets, GRAY. MAY. How shall I meet thee, Summer, wont to fill 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, 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, BOWLES. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH. WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flower To spare thee now is past my power, 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, O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 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 ! Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, Such fate to suffering worth is given, To mis'ry's brink, Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven, Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, Full on thy bloom, Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight, BURNS. 48 DESCRIPTION OF MORNING. DESCRIPTION OF MORNING. BUT who the melodies of morn can tell? The wild brook babbling down the mountain side; In the lone valley; echoing far and wide The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, 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! |