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Hope was awaken'd, as for home he sail'd,
But quickly sank, and never more prevail'd.

He call'd his friend, and prefac'd with a sigh
A lover's message-" Thomas, I must die:
Would I could see my Sally, and could rest
My throbbing temples on her faithful breast,
And gazing, go!-if not, this trifle take,
And say, till death I wore it for her sake;
Yes! I must die-blow on, sweet breeze, blow on!
Give me one look, before my life be gone,
Oh! give me that, and let me not despair,
One last fond look-and now repeat the prayer."

He had his wish, had more; I will not paint
The lovers' meeting: she beheld him faint,-
With tender fears, she took a nearer view,
Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew;
He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said,
"Yes! I must die;" and hope for ever fled.

Still long she nursed him; tender thoughts, meantime, Were interchang'd, and hopes and views sublime.

To her he came to die, and every day

She took some portion of the dread away:
With him she pray'd, to him his Bible read,

Sooth'd the faint heart, and held the aching head;
She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer;
Apart, she sigh'd; alone, she shed the tear;
Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.

One day he lighter seem'd, and they forgot
The care,
the dread, the anguish of their lot;
They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think,
Yet said not so-"Perhaps he will not sink;
A sudden brightness in his look appear'd,
A sudden vigour in his voice was heard ;-
She had been reading in the book of prayer,
And led him forth, and placed him in his chair;

Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew,
The friendly many, and the favourite few;
Nor one that day did he to mind recall,

But she has treasur'd, and she loves them all;
When in her way she meets them, they appear
Peculiar people-death has made them dear.
He nam'd his friend, but then his hand she prest,
And fondly whisper'd "Thou must go to rest; "
"I go," he said; but, as he spoke, she found
His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound!
Then gaz'd affrighten'd; but she caught a last,
A dying look of love, and all was past!

She plac'd a decent stone his grave above,
Neatly engrav'd-an offering of her love;
For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed,
Awake alike to duty and the dead;

She would have griev'd, had friends presum'd to spare
The least assistance-'twas her proper care.

Here will she come, and on the grave will sit,
Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit;
But, if observer pass, will take her round,
And careless seem, for she would not be found;
Then go again, and thus her hour employ,
While visions please her, and while woes destroy.

Forbear, sweet maid! nor be by fancy led,
To hold mysterious converse with the dead;
For sure at length thy thoughts, thy spirit's pain,
In this sad conflict, will disturb thy brain;

All have their tasks and trials; thine are hard,
But short the time, and glorious the reward;
Thy patient spirit to thy duties give,

Regard the dead, but, to the living, live.

1. Tasks task, Fr. tâche, comes from M. L. taxa, something demanded or exacted; which word is also the origin of tax.

Robert Burns. 1759-1796. (History, p. 208.)

177. To A MOUNTAIN DAISY.

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thou's met me in an evil hour:

For I maun crush amang the stoure1
Thy slender stem;

To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neebour sweet,
The bonny 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;

Yet cheerfully thou glinted 2 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 3 shield,

But thou beneath the random bield 4

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There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawy bosom sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies! 6

1. Stoure: stour means properly battle, conflict; but a provincial use of it is dust, rubbish.

2. Glinted, peeped.

3. Maun, mun, must. See note 4, ex

tract 41.

4. Bield, shelter, the sheltered part of a wood.

5. Histie, dry, barren.

6. Thou lies: the old peculiarities of

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 given,
Who long with wants and woes has striven,
By human pride or cunning driven

To mis'ry's brink,

Till wrench'd of every stay but Heaven,

He, ruin'd, sink!

E'en 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!

the Northern dialect still survive among p. 18, and Mr. Morris's "Specimens of the Lowland Scotch.

See "History,"

Early English," p. xii.

178. TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray,
That loves to greet the early morn,

Again thou usher'st in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.

O Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget,

Can I forget the hallow'd grove,
Where by the winding Ayr we met,
To live one day of parting love!
Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past;
Thy image at our last embrace;

Ah, little thought we 'twas our last!

Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods thick'ning green:
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twined amorous round the raptured scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest;
The birds sang love on every spray;
Till too, too soon the glowing west
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care;
Time but the impression stronger makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

179. BANNOCKBURN.

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled;

Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;

Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to glorious victorie!

Now's the day and now's the hour-
See the front o' battle lour;

See approach proud Edward's power-
Edward! chains and slaverie!

SPECS. ENG. LIT.

S

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