Part 44

And when the lark, ’tween light and dark, Blythe waukens by the daisy’s side, And mounts and sings on flittering wings, A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. And maun I still, &c.

Come winter, with thine angry howl, And raging, bend the naked tree; Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, When nature all is sad like me! And maun I still, &c.

To A Mountain Daisy,

On turning down with the Plough, in April, 1786.

Wee, modest crimson-tipped flow’r, Thou’s 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 bonie gem.

Alas! it’s no thy neibor sweet, The bonie lark, companion meet, Bending thee ’mang the dewy weet, Wi’ spreckl’d 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 snawie bosom sun-ward 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 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 suffering 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 plough-share drives elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight, Shall be thy doom!

To Ruin

All hail! inexorable lord! At whose destruction-breathing word, The mightiest empires fall! Thy cruel, woe-delighted train, The ministers of grief and pain, A sullen welcome, all!

With stern-resolv’d, despairing eye, I see each aimed dart; For one has cut my dearest tie, And quivers in my heart. Then low’ring, and pouring, The storm no more I dread; Tho’ thick’ning, and black’ning, Round my devoted head.

And thou grim Pow’r by life abhorr’d, While life a pleasure can afford, Oh! hear a wretch’s pray’r! Nor more I shrink appall’d, afraid; I court, I beg thy friendly aid, To close this scene of care! When shall my soul, in silent peace, Resign life’s joyless day— My weary heart its throbbing cease, Cold mould’ring in the clay? No fear more, no tear more, To stain my lifeless face, Enclasped, and grasped, Within thy cold embrace!

The Lament

Occasioned by the unfortunate issue of a Friend’s Amour.

Alas! how oft does goodness would itself, And sweet affection prove the spring of woe!

Home.

O thou pale orb that silent shines While care-untroubled mortals sleep! Thou seest a wretch who 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, distant hill; I joyless view thy trembling horn, Reflected in the gurgling rill: My fondly-fluttering heart, be still! Thou busy pow’r, remembrance, cease! Ah! must the agonizing thrill 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 pow’rs above, The promis’d father’s tender name; These were the pledges of my love!

Encircled in her clasping arms, How have the raptur’d 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?

Oh! 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 thro’ 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, Enraptur’d more, the more enjoy’d, Your dear remembrance in my breast My fondly-treasur’d thoughts employ’d: That breast, how dreary now, and void, For her too scanty once of room! Ev’n ev’ry 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, were Phoebus, low, Shall kiss the distant western main.