HIMSELF YOUNG, UPON SEEING
WHY boast your strength at fifty-eight?
Which can't much longer last!
Be jovial; but be temperate,
And thankful for the past!
The sturdy oak's autumnal state,
And bark, its age declare:
Good wine the man may elevate;
But not deceive the Fair!
View honoured PARKER'S setting sun,
How cheerful! how august!
Resulting from a course well run,
Where all was wise and just.
In Courts, he had no private end!
His virtue none dare try!
Aspire to live like him, my friend!
Like him, prepare to die!
As I came through Glendochart Vale,
Whare mists o'ertap the mountains gray,
A wee bit Lassie met my view,
As cantily she held her way;
But, O, sic love each feature bore,
She made my saul wi' rapture glow!
An' aye she spake sae kind an' sweet,
I couldna keep my heart in tow!
O, speak na o' your courtly Queans!
My wee bit Lassie fools them a'!
The little cuttie 's done me skaith;
She's stown my thoughtless heart awa!
Her smile was like the gray-e'ed Morn,
Whan spreading on the mountain green;
Her voice, saft as the mavis' sang;
An' sweet the twinkle o' her een!
Aboon her brow, sae bonny brent,
Her raven locks waved o'er her e'e;
An' ilka slee bewitching glance
Conveyed a dart o' love to me.
O, speak na o' your courtly Queans! &c.
The Lasses fair, in Scotia's isle,
Their beauties a', what tongue can tell?
But o'er the fairest o' them a',
My wee bit Lassie bears the bell!
O, had I never marked her smile,
Nor seen the twinkle o' her e'e;
It might na been my lot, the day,
A waefu' lade o' care to dree!
O, speak na o' your courtly Queans! &c.
O, MARY! turn awa
That bonny face o' thine!
O, dinna, dinna, shaw that breast,
That never can be mine!
Can aught o' warld's gear
Relieve my bosom's care?
Na Na! for ilka look o' thine
Can only feed despair!
O, MARY! turn awa
That bonny face o' thine!
O, dinna, dinna, shaw that breast,
That never can be mine!
Wi' love's severest pangs
My heart is laden sair;
An' o'er my breast the grass maun wave,
Ere I am free from care!
Go then, and join the roaring City's throng!
Me thou dost leave to solitude and tears,
To busy phantasies, and boding fears
Lest ill betide thee! But 'twill not be long,
And the hard season shall be past! Till then,
Live happy! sometimes the forsaken shade
Remembering, and these trees now left to fade:
Nor, 'mid the busy scenes and 'hum of men,'
Wilt thou my cares forget! In heaviness,
To me the hours shall roll, weary and slow,
Till (mournful Autumn past, and all the snow
Of Winter pale) the glad hour I shall bless,
That shall restore thee from the crowd again,
To the green hamlet in the peaceful plain.
How blest with thee, the path could I have trod
Of quiet life, above cold Want's hard fate!
And little wishing more; nor of the Great
Envious, or their proud name!
To take thee to his mercy.
But it pleased GOD Thou didst go,
In youth and beauty, go to thy death-bed! E'en whilst on dreams of bliss we fondly fed, Of years to come of comfort. Be it so!
Ere this I have felt sorrow! and, e'en now (Though sometimes the unbidden thought must start, And half un-man the miserable heart!),
The cold dew I shall wipe from my sad brow,
And say, since hopes of bliss on earth are vain,
Best friend! farewell! till we do meet again!'
THERE was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs And islands of Winander! Many a time, At evening, when the stars had just begun To move along the edges of the hills, Rising or setting, would he stand alone, Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake; And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,
Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,
That they might answer him. And they would shout
Across the wať'ry vale, and shout again,
Responsive to his call, with quivering peals,
And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud
Redoubled and redoubled! a wild scene
Of mirth and jocund din! And when it chanced
That pauses of deep silence mocked his skill,
Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise
Has carried far into his heart the voice
Of mountain torrents! or the visible scene
Would enter, unawares, into his mind;
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received
Into the bosom of the steady Lake. . .
|