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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH.

WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
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 pow'r,

Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet!
Bending theo 'mang the dewy weet !

Wi' spreckled breast, When upward-springing, blythe to greet

The purpling east.

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

Amid the storm,
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth

Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow’rs our gardens yield,
High shelt'ring 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 sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head

In humble guise ;
But now the share up-tears thy bed,

And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet flow'ret 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,
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd !
Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suff'ring worth is giv’n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,
By human pride or cunning driv'n

To mis'ry's brink,
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,

He, ruin'd, sink !

Ev'n 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 crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,

Shall be thy doom!

BURNS.

BANKS OF DEVON.

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon, With green-spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair ; But the Bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon, Was, once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr.

Mild be the sun on this sweet-blushing flower,
In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew!
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower,
That steals on the evening each leaf to renew.

O, spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes,
With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn !
And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes
The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn !

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies,
And England, triumphant, display her proud rose ;
A fairer than either adorns the green valleys,
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.

BURNS

VERS A MADAME DE CH

SUR SES TABLEAUX DES FLEURS,

J'ENJOUIS de ces fleurs si belles ;

J'admire ce pinçeau divin, Et ces roses si naturelles,

Que le papillon incertain Viendra voltiger autour d'elles,

L'abeille y chercher son butin, Les fleurs ne brillent qu'un matin ;

Les votres sont immortelles.

Ah! si j'avois votre talent, Je peindrais un objệt charmant,

Paré dès graces du jeune âge, Qui plait dès le premier instant,

Et chaque instant plait d'avantage ; Dans l'amitié tendre et constant, Sincère sans être imprudent,

Naïf et fin, sensible et sage. Aisément on devineroit

Quel auroit été mon modèle ; Ch * * * seule ignoreroit,

Que le portrait est d'après elle.

M: DE ST. LAMBERT.

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