Here rests his head upon the lap of earthA youth, to fortune and to fame unknown;Fair science frown'd not on his humble birthAnd melancholy mark'd him for her own.Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;Heaven did a recompense as largely send:He gave to misery (all he had) a tear,He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.No farther seek his merits to disclose,Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)The bosom of his Father and his God.
Here rests his head upon the lap of earthA youth, to fortune and to fame unknown;Fair science frown'd not on his humble birthAnd melancholy mark'd him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;Heaven did a recompense as largely send:He gave to misery (all he had) a tear,He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)The bosom of his Father and his God.
T. Gray
O Mary, at thy window be,It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!Those smiles and glances let me seeThat make the miser's treasure poor:How blithely wad I bide the stoure,A weary slave frae sun to sun,Could I the rich reward secure,The lovely Mary Morison.Yestreen when to the trembling stringThe dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',To thee my fancy took its wing,—I sat, but neither heard nor saw:Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,And yon the toast of a' the town,I sigh'd, and said amang them a','Ye are na Mary Morison.'O Mary, canst thou wreck his peaceWha for thy sake wad gladly dee?Or canst thou break that heart of his,Whase only faut is loving thee?If love for love thou wilt na gie,At least be pity to me shown;A thought ungentle canna beThe thought o' Mary Morison.
O Mary, at thy window be,It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!Those smiles and glances let me seeThat make the miser's treasure poor:How blithely wad I bide the stoure,A weary slave frae sun to sun,Could I the rich reward secure,The lovely Mary Morison.
Yestreen when to the trembling stringThe dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',To thee my fancy took its wing,—I sat, but neither heard nor saw:Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,And yon the toast of a' the town,I sigh'd, and said amang them a','Ye are na Mary Morison.'
O Mary, canst thou wreck his peaceWha for thy sake wad gladly dee?Or canst thou break that heart of his,Whase only faut is loving thee?If love for love thou wilt na gie,At least be pity to me shown;A thought ungentle canna beThe thought o' Mary Morison.
R. Burns
O saw ye bonnie LesleyAs she gaed o'er the border?She's gane, like Alexander,To spread her conquests farther.To see her is to love her,And love but her for ever;For Nature made her what she is,And ne'er made sic anither!Thou art a queen, Fair Lesley,Thy subjects we, before thee;Thou art divine, Fair Lesley,The hearts o' men adore thee.The Deil he could na scaith thee,Or aught that wad belang thee;He'd look into thy bonnie face,And say 'I canna wrang thee!'The Powers aboon will tent thee;Misfortune sha' na steer thee;Thou'rt like themselves sae lovelyThat ill they'll ne'er let near thee.Return again, Fair Lesley,Return to Caledonie!That we may brag we hae a lassThere's nane again sae bonnie.
O saw ye bonnie LesleyAs she gaed o'er the border?She's gane, like Alexander,To spread her conquests farther.
To see her is to love her,And love but her for ever;For Nature made her what she is,And ne'er made sic anither!
Thou art a queen, Fair Lesley,Thy subjects we, before thee;Thou art divine, Fair Lesley,The hearts o' men adore thee.
The Deil he could na scaith thee,Or aught that wad belang thee;He'd look into thy bonnie face,And say 'I canna wrang thee!'
The Powers aboon will tent thee;Misfortune sha' na steer thee;Thou'rt like themselves sae lovelyThat ill they'll ne'er let near thee.
Return again, Fair Lesley,Return to Caledonie!That we may brag we hae a lassThere's nane again sae bonnie.
R. Burns
O my Luve's like a red, red roseThat's newly sprung in June:O my Luve's like the melodieThat's sweetly play'd in tune.As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,So deep in luve am I:And I will luve thee still, my dear,Till a' the seas gang dry:Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,And the rocks melt wi' the sun;I will luve thee still, my dear,While the sands o' life shall run.And fare thee weel, my only Luve!And fare thee weel awhile!And I will come again, my Luve,Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
O my Luve's like a red, red roseThat's newly sprung in June:O my Luve's like the melodieThat's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,So deep in luve am I:And I will luve thee still, my dear,Till a' the seas gang dry:
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,And the rocks melt wi' the sun;I will luve thee still, my dear,While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only Luve!And fare thee weel awhile!And I will come again, my Luve,Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
R. Burns
Ye banks and braes and streams aroundThe castle o' Montgomery,Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,Your waters never drumlie!There simmer first unfauld her robes,And there the langest tarry;For there I took the last fareweelO' my sweet Highland Mary.How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,How rich the hawthorn's blossom,As underneath their fragrant shadeI clasp'd her to my bosom!The golden hours on angel wingsFlew o'er me and my dearie;For dear to me as light and lifeWas my sweet Highland Mary.Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embraceOur parting was fu' tender;And pledging aft to meet again,We tore oursels asunder;But, Oh! fell Death's untimely frost,That nipt my flower sae early!Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,That wraps my Highland Mary!O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!And closed for aye the sparkling glanceThat dwelt on me sae kindly;And mouldering now in silent dustThat heart that lo'ed me dearly!But still within my bosom's coreShall live my Highland Mary.
Ye banks and braes and streams aroundThe castle o' Montgomery,Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,Your waters never drumlie!There simmer first unfauld her robes,And there the langest tarry;For there I took the last fareweelO' my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,How rich the hawthorn's blossom,As underneath their fragrant shadeI clasp'd her to my bosom!The golden hours on angel wingsFlew o'er me and my dearie;For dear to me as light and lifeWas my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embraceOur parting was fu' tender;And pledging aft to meet again,We tore oursels asunder;But, Oh! fell Death's untimely frost,That nipt my flower sae early!Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,That wraps my Highland Mary!
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!And closed for aye the sparkling glanceThat dwelt on me sae kindly;And mouldering now in silent dustThat heart that lo'ed me dearly!But still within my bosom's coreShall live my Highland Mary.
R. Burns
When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye a hame,And a' the warld to rest are gane,The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,While my gudeman lies sound by me.Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;But saving a croun he had naething else beside:To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea;And the croun and the pund were baith for me.He hadna been awa' a week but only twa,When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa;My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea—And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin;I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win;Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'eSaid, Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!My heart it said nay; I look'd for Jamie back;But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;His ship it was a wrack—why didna Jamie dee?Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me?My father urgit sair: my mother didna speak;But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break:They gi'ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea;Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.I hadna been a wife a week but only four,When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door,I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it heTill he said, I'm come hame to marry thee.O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;We took but ae kiss, and I bad him gang away;I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee;And why was I born to say, Wae's me!I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be,For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.
When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye a hame,And a' the warld to rest are gane,The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,While my gudeman lies sound by me.
Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;But saving a croun he had naething else beside:To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea;And the croun and the pund were baith for me.
He hadna been awa' a week but only twa,When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa;My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea—And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.
My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin;I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win;Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'eSaid, Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!
My heart it said nay; I look'd for Jamie back;But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;His ship it was a wrack—why didna Jamie dee?Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me?
My father urgit sair: my mother didna speak;But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break:They gi'ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea;Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.
I hadna been a wife a week but only four,When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door,I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it heTill he said, I'm come hame to marry thee.
O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;We took but ae kiss, and I bad him gang away;I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee;And why was I born to say, Wae's me!
I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be,For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.
Lady A. Lindsay.
Duncan Gray cam here to woo,Ha, ha, the wooing o't;On blythe Yule night when we were fou,Ha, ha, the wooing o't:Maggie coost her head fu' high,Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;Ha, ha, the wooing o't!Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd;Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig;Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',Spak o' lowpin ower a linn!Time and chance are but a tide,Slighted love is sair to bide;Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,For a haughty hizzie dee?She may gae to—France for me!How it comes let doctors tell,Meg grew sick—as he grew well;Something in her bosom wrings,For relief a sigh she brings;And O, her een, they spak sic things!Duncan was a lad o' grace;Maggie's was a piteous case;Duncan couldna be her death,Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;Now they're crouse and canty baith:Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
Duncan Gray cam here to woo,Ha, ha, the wooing o't;On blythe Yule night when we were fou,Ha, ha, the wooing o't:Maggie coost her head fu' high,Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd;Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig;Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',Spak o' lowpin ower a linn!
Time and chance are but a tide,Slighted love is sair to bide;Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,For a haughty hizzie dee?She may gae to—France for me!
How it comes let doctors tell,Meg grew sick—as he grew well;Something in her bosom wrings,For relief a sigh she brings;And O, her een, they spak sic things!
Duncan was a lad o' grace;Maggie's was a piteous case;Duncan couldna be her death,Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;Now they're crouse and canty baith:Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
R. Burns
And are ye sure the news is true?And are ye sure he's weel?Is this a time to think o' wark?Ye jades, lay by your wheel;Is this the time to spin a thread,When Colin's at the door?Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,And see him come ashore.For there's nae luck about the house,There's nae luck at a';There's little pleasure in the houseWhen our gudeman's awa'.And gie to me my bigonet,My bishop's satin gown;For I maun tell the baillie's wifeThat Colin's in the town.My Turkey slippers maun gae on,My stockins pearly blue;It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,For he's baith leal and true.Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,Put on the muckle pot;Gie little Kate her button gownAnd Jock his Sunday coat;And mak their shoon as black as slaes,Their hose as white as snaw;It's a' to please my ain gudeman,For he's been long awa.There's twa fat hens upo' the coopBeen fed this month and mair;Mak haste and thraw their necks about,That Colin weel may fare;And spread the table neat and clean,Gar ilka thing look braw,For wha can tell how Colin faredWhen he was far awa?Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,His breath like caller air;His very foot has music in'tAs he comes up the stair—And will I see his face again?And will I hear him speak?I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,In troth I'm like to greet!If Colin's weel, and weel content,I hae nae mair to crave:And gin I live to keep him sae,I'm blest aboon the lave:And will I see his face again,And will I hear him speak?I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,In troth I'm like to greet.For there's nae luck about the house,There's nae luck at a';There's little pleasure in the houseWhen our gudeman's awa'.
And are ye sure the news is true?And are ye sure he's weel?Is this a time to think o' wark?Ye jades, lay by your wheel;Is this the time to spin a thread,When Colin's at the door?Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,And see him come ashore.For there's nae luck about the house,There's nae luck at a';There's little pleasure in the houseWhen our gudeman's awa'.
And gie to me my bigonet,My bishop's satin gown;For I maun tell the baillie's wifeThat Colin's in the town.My Turkey slippers maun gae on,My stockins pearly blue;It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,For he's baith leal and true.
Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,Put on the muckle pot;Gie little Kate her button gownAnd Jock his Sunday coat;And mak their shoon as black as slaes,Their hose as white as snaw;It's a' to please my ain gudeman,For he's been long awa.
There's twa fat hens upo' the coopBeen fed this month and mair;Mak haste and thraw their necks about,That Colin weel may fare;And spread the table neat and clean,Gar ilka thing look braw,For wha can tell how Colin faredWhen he was far awa?
Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,His breath like caller air;His very foot has music in'tAs he comes up the stair—And will I see his face again?And will I hear him speak?I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,In troth I'm like to greet!
If Colin's weel, and weel content,I hae nae mair to crave:And gin I live to keep him sae,I'm blest aboon the lave:And will I see his face again,And will I hear him speak?I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,In troth I'm like to greet.For there's nae luck about the house,There's nae luck at a';There's little pleasure in the houseWhen our gudeman's awa'.
W. J. Mickle
When I think on the happy daysI spent wi' you, my dearie;And now what lands between us lie,How can I be but eerie!How slow ye move, ye heavy hours,As ye were wae and weary!It was na sae ye glinted byWhen I was wi' my dearie.
When I think on the happy daysI spent wi' you, my dearie;And now what lands between us lie,How can I be but eerie!
How slow ye move, ye heavy hours,As ye were wae and weary!It was na sae ye glinted byWhen I was wi' my dearie.
Anon.
Of a' the airts the wind can blawI dearly like the West,For there the bonnie lassie lives,The lassie I lo'e best:There wild woods grow, and rivers row,And mony a hill between;But day and night my fancy's flightIs ever wi' my Jean.I see her in the dewy flowers,I see her sweet and fair:I hear her in the tunefu' birds,I hear her charm the air:There's not a bonnie flower that springsBy fountain, shaw, or green,There's not a bonnie bird that singsBut minds me o' my Jean.O blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saftAmang the leafy trees;Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and daleBring hame the laden bees;And bring the lassie back to meThat's aye sae neat and clean;Ae smile o' her wad banish care,Sae charming is my Jean.What sighs and vows amang the knowesHae pass'd atween us twa!How fond to meet, how wae to partThat night she gaed awa!The Powers aboon can only kenTo whom the heart is seen,That nane can be sae dear to meAs my sweet lovely Jean!
Of a' the airts the wind can blawI dearly like the West,For there the bonnie lassie lives,The lassie I lo'e best:There wild woods grow, and rivers row,And mony a hill between;But day and night my fancy's flightIs ever wi' my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flowers,I see her sweet and fair:I hear her in the tunefu' birds,I hear her charm the air:There's not a bonnie flower that springsBy fountain, shaw, or green,There's not a bonnie bird that singsBut minds me o' my Jean.
O blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saftAmang the leafy trees;Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and daleBring hame the laden bees;And bring the lassie back to meThat's aye sae neat and clean;Ae smile o' her wad banish care,Sae charming is my Jean.
What sighs and vows amang the knowesHae pass'd atween us twa!How fond to meet, how wae to partThat night she gaed awa!The Powers aboon can only kenTo whom the heart is seen,That nane can be sae dear to meAs my sweet lovely Jean!
R. Burns
John Anderson my jo, John,When we were first acquentYour locks were like the raven,Your bonnie brow was brent;But now your brow is bald, John,Your locks are like the snow;But blessings on your frosty pow,John Anderson my jo.John Anderson my jo, John,We clamb the hill thegither,And mony a canty day, John,We've had wi' ane anither:Now we maun totter down, John,But hand in hand we'll go,And sleep thegither at the foot,John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson my jo, John,When we were first acquentYour locks were like the raven,Your bonnie brow was brent;But now your brow is bald, John,Your locks are like the snow;But blessings on your frosty pow,John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson my jo, John,We clamb the hill thegither,And mony a canty day, John,We've had wi' ane anither:Now we maun totter down, John,But hand in hand we'll go,And sleep thegither at the foot,John Anderson my jo.
R. Burns
I'm wearing awa', Jean,Like snaw when its thaw, Jean,I'm wearing awa'To the land o' the leal.There's nae sorrow there, Jean,There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,The day is aye fairIn the land o' the leal.Ye were aye leal and true, Jean,Your task's ended noo, Jean,And I'll welcome youTo the land o' the leal.Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean,She was baith guid and fair, Jean;O we grudged her right sairTo the land o' the leal!Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean,My soul langs to be free, Jean,And angels wait on meTo the land o' the leal.Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean,This warld's care is vain, Jean;We'll meet and aye be fainIn the land o' the leal.
I'm wearing awa', Jean,Like snaw when its thaw, Jean,I'm wearing awa'To the land o' the leal.There's nae sorrow there, Jean,There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,The day is aye fairIn the land o' the leal.
Ye were aye leal and true, Jean,Your task's ended noo, Jean,And I'll welcome youTo the land o' the leal.Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean,She was baith guid and fair, Jean;O we grudged her right sairTo the land o' the leal!
Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean,My soul langs to be free, Jean,And angels wait on meTo the land o' the leal.Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean,This warld's care is vain, Jean;We'll meet and aye be fainIn the land o' the leal.
Lady Nairn
Ye distant spires, ye antique towersThat crown the watery glade,Where grateful Science still adoresHer Henry's holy shade;And ye, that from the stately browOf Windsor's heights th' expanse belowOf grove, of lawn, of mead survey,Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers amongWanders the hoary Thames alongHis silver-winding way:Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!Ah fields beloved in vain!Where once my careless childhood stray'd,A stranger yet to pain!I feel the gales that from ye blowA momentary bliss bestow,As waving fresh their gladsome wingMy weary soul they seem to soothe,And, redolent of joy and youth,To breathe a second spring.Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seenFull many a sprightly raceDisporting on thy margent greenThe paths of pleasure trace;Who foremost now delight to cleaveWith pliant arm, thy glassy wave?The captive linnet which enthral?What idle progeny succeedTo chase the rolling circle's speedOr urge the flying ball?While some on earnest business bentTheir murmuring labours ply'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraintTo sweeten liberty:Some bold adventurers disdainThe limits of their little reignAnd unknown regions dare descry:Still as they run they look behind,They hear a voice in every wind,And snatch a fearful joy.Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,Less pleasing when possest;The tear forgot as soon as shed,The sunshine of the breast:Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue,Wild wit, invention ever new,And lively cheer, of vigour born;The thoughtless day, the easy night,The spirits pure, the slumbers lightThat fly th' approach of morn.Alas! regardless of their doomThe little victims play;No sense have they of ills to comeNor care beyond to-day:Yet see how all around 'em waitThe ministers of human fateAnd black Misfortune's baleful train!Ah show them where in ambush standTo seize their prey, the murderous band!Ah, tell them they are men!These shall the fury Passions tear,The vultures of the mind,Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,And Shame that sculks behind;Or pining Love shall waste their youth,Or Jealousy with rankling toothThat inly gnaws the secret heart,And Envy wan, and faded Care,Grim-visaged comfortless Despair,And Sorrow's piercing dart.Ambition this shall tempt to rise,Then whirl the wretch from highTo bitter Scorn a sacrificeAnd grinning Infamy.The stings of Falsehood those shall tryAnd hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,That mocks the tear it forced to flow;And keen Remorse with blood defiled,And moody Madness laughing wildAmid severest woe.Lo, in the vale of years beneathA griesly troop are seen,The painful family of Death,More hideous than their queen:This racks the joints, this fires the veins,That every labouring sinew strains,Those in the deeper vitals rage:Lo! Poverty, to fill the band,That numbs the soul with icy hand,And slow-consuming Age.To each his sufferings: all are men,Condemn'd alike to groan;The tender for another's pain,Th' unfeeling for his own.Yet, ah! why should they know their fate,Since sorrow never comes too late,And happiness too swiftly flies?Thought would destroy their paradise.No more;—where ignorance is bliss,'Tis folly to be wise.
Ye distant spires, ye antique towersThat crown the watery glade,Where grateful Science still adoresHer Henry's holy shade;And ye, that from the stately browOf Windsor's heights th' expanse belowOf grove, of lawn, of mead survey,Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers amongWanders the hoary Thames alongHis silver-winding way:
Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!Ah fields beloved in vain!Where once my careless childhood stray'd,A stranger yet to pain!I feel the gales that from ye blowA momentary bliss bestow,As waving fresh their gladsome wingMy weary soul they seem to soothe,And, redolent of joy and youth,To breathe a second spring.
Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seenFull many a sprightly raceDisporting on thy margent greenThe paths of pleasure trace;Who foremost now delight to cleaveWith pliant arm, thy glassy wave?The captive linnet which enthral?What idle progeny succeedTo chase the rolling circle's speedOr urge the flying ball?
While some on earnest business bentTheir murmuring labours ply'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraintTo sweeten liberty:Some bold adventurers disdainThe limits of their little reignAnd unknown regions dare descry:Still as they run they look behind,They hear a voice in every wind,And snatch a fearful joy.
Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,Less pleasing when possest;The tear forgot as soon as shed,The sunshine of the breast:Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue,Wild wit, invention ever new,And lively cheer, of vigour born;The thoughtless day, the easy night,The spirits pure, the slumbers lightThat fly th' approach of morn.
Alas! regardless of their doomThe little victims play;No sense have they of ills to comeNor care beyond to-day:Yet see how all around 'em waitThe ministers of human fateAnd black Misfortune's baleful train!Ah show them where in ambush standTo seize their prey, the murderous band!Ah, tell them they are men!
These shall the fury Passions tear,The vultures of the mind,Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,And Shame that sculks behind;Or pining Love shall waste their youth,Or Jealousy with rankling toothThat inly gnaws the secret heart,And Envy wan, and faded Care,Grim-visaged comfortless Despair,And Sorrow's piercing dart.
Ambition this shall tempt to rise,Then whirl the wretch from highTo bitter Scorn a sacrificeAnd grinning Infamy.The stings of Falsehood those shall tryAnd hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,That mocks the tear it forced to flow;And keen Remorse with blood defiled,And moody Madness laughing wildAmid severest woe.
Lo, in the vale of years beneathA griesly troop are seen,The painful family of Death,More hideous than their queen:This racks the joints, this fires the veins,That every labouring sinew strains,Those in the deeper vitals rage:Lo! Poverty, to fill the band,That numbs the soul with icy hand,And slow-consuming Age.
To each his sufferings: all are men,Condemn'd alike to groan;The tender for another's pain,Th' unfeeling for his own.Yet, ah! why should they know their fate,Since sorrow never comes too late,And happiness too swiftly flies?Thought would destroy their paradise.No more;—where ignorance is bliss,'Tis folly to be wise.
T. Gray
O happy shades! to me unblest!Friendly to peace, but not to me!How ill the scene that offers rest,And heart that cannot rest, agree!This glassy stream, that spreading pine,Those alders quivering to the breeze,Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine,And please, if anything could please.But fix'd unalterable CareForegoes not what she feels within,Shows the same sadness everywhere,And slights the season and the scene.For all that pleased in wood or lawnWhile Peace possess'd these silent bowers,Her animating smile withdrawn,Has lost its beauties and its powers.The saint or moralist should treadThis moss-grown alley, musing, slow,They seek like me the secret shade,But not, like me, to nourish woe!Me, fruitful scenes and prospects wasteAlike admonish not to roam;These tell me of enjoyments past,And those of sorrows yet to come.
O happy shades! to me unblest!Friendly to peace, but not to me!How ill the scene that offers rest,And heart that cannot rest, agree!
This glassy stream, that spreading pine,Those alders quivering to the breeze,Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine,And please, if anything could please.
But fix'd unalterable CareForegoes not what she feels within,Shows the same sadness everywhere,And slights the season and the scene.
For all that pleased in wood or lawnWhile Peace possess'd these silent bowers,Her animating smile withdrawn,Has lost its beauties and its powers.
The saint or moralist should treadThis moss-grown alley, musing, slow,They seek like me the secret shade,But not, like me, to nourish woe!
Me, fruitful scenes and prospects wasteAlike admonish not to roam;These tell me of enjoyments past,And those of sorrows yet to come.
W. Cowper
Daughter of Jove, relentless power,Thou tamer of the human breast,Whose iron scourge and torturing hourThe bad affright, afflict the best!Bound in thy adamantine chainThe proud are taught to taste of pain,And purple tyrants vainly groanWith pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.When first thy Sire to send on earthVirtue, his darling child, design'd,To thee he gave the heavenly birthAnd bade to form her infant mind.Stern, rugged nurse! thy rigid loreWith patience many a year she bore;What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know,And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe.Scared at thy frown terrific, flySelf-pleasing Folly's idle brood,Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy,And leave us leisure to be good.Light they disperse, and with them goThe summer friend, the flattering foe;By vain Prosperity received,To her they vow their truth, and are again believed.Wisdom in sable garb array'dImmersed in rapturous thought profound,And Melancholy, silent maid,With leaden eye, that loves the ground,Still on thy solemn steps attend:Warm Charity, the general friend,With Justice, to herself severe,And Pity dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.Oh! gently on thy suppliant's headDread goddess, lay thy chastening hand!Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,Nor circled with the vengeful band(As by the impious thou art seen)With thundering voice, and threatening mien,With screaming Horror's funeral cry,Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty;—Thy form benign, oh goddess, wear,Thy milder influence impart,Thy philosophic train be thereTo soften, not to wound my heart.The generous spark extinct revive,Teach me to love and to forgive,Exact my own defects to scan,What others are to feel, and know myself a Man.
Daughter of Jove, relentless power,Thou tamer of the human breast,Whose iron scourge and torturing hourThe bad affright, afflict the best!Bound in thy adamantine chainThe proud are taught to taste of pain,And purple tyrants vainly groanWith pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.
When first thy Sire to send on earthVirtue, his darling child, design'd,To thee he gave the heavenly birthAnd bade to form her infant mind.Stern, rugged nurse! thy rigid loreWith patience many a year she bore;What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know,And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe.
Scared at thy frown terrific, flySelf-pleasing Folly's idle brood,Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy,And leave us leisure to be good.Light they disperse, and with them goThe summer friend, the flattering foe;By vain Prosperity received,To her they vow their truth, and are again believed.
Wisdom in sable garb array'dImmersed in rapturous thought profound,And Melancholy, silent maid,With leaden eye, that loves the ground,Still on thy solemn steps attend:Warm Charity, the general friend,With Justice, to herself severe,And Pity dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.
Oh! gently on thy suppliant's headDread goddess, lay thy chastening hand!Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,Nor circled with the vengeful band(As by the impious thou art seen)With thundering voice, and threatening mien,With screaming Horror's funeral cry,Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty;—
Thy form benign, oh goddess, wear,Thy milder influence impart,Thy philosophic train be thereTo soften, not to wound my heart.The generous spark extinct revive,Teach me to love and to forgive,Exact my own defects to scan,What others are to feel, and know myself a Man.
T. Gray
I am monarch of all I survey;My right there is none to dispute;From the centre all round to the seaI am lord of the fowl and the brute.O Solitude! where are the charmsThat sages have seen in thy face?Better dwell in the midst of alarms,Than reign in this horrible place.I am out of humanity's reach,I must finish my journey alone,Never hear the sweet music of speech;I start at the sound of my own.The beasts that roam over the plainMy form with indifference see;They are so unacquainted with man,Their tameness is shocking to me.Society, Friendship, and LoveDivinely bestow'd upon man,Oh, had I the wings of a doveHow soon would I taste you again!My sorrows I then might assuageIn the ways of religion and truth,Might learn from the wisdom of age,And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.Ye winds that have made me your sport,Convey to this desolate shoreSome cordial endearing reportOf a land I shall visit no more:My friends, do they now and then sendA wish or a thought after me?O tell me I yet have a friend,Though a friend I am never to see.How fleet is a glance of the mind!Compared with the speed of its flight,The tempest itself lags behind,And the swift-wingéd arrows of light.When I think of my own native landIn a moment I seem to be there;But alas! recollection at handSoon hurries me back to despair.But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,The beast is laid down in his lair;Even here is a season of rest,And I to my cabin repair.There's mercy in every place,And mercy, encouraging thought!Gives even affliction a graceAnd reconciles man to his lot.
I am monarch of all I survey;My right there is none to dispute;From the centre all round to the seaI am lord of the fowl and the brute.O Solitude! where are the charmsThat sages have seen in thy face?Better dwell in the midst of alarms,Than reign in this horrible place.
I am out of humanity's reach,I must finish my journey alone,Never hear the sweet music of speech;I start at the sound of my own.The beasts that roam over the plainMy form with indifference see;They are so unacquainted with man,Their tameness is shocking to me.
Society, Friendship, and LoveDivinely bestow'd upon man,Oh, had I the wings of a doveHow soon would I taste you again!My sorrows I then might assuageIn the ways of religion and truth,Might learn from the wisdom of age,And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.
Ye winds that have made me your sport,Convey to this desolate shoreSome cordial endearing reportOf a land I shall visit no more:My friends, do they now and then sendA wish or a thought after me?O tell me I yet have a friend,Though a friend I am never to see.
How fleet is a glance of the mind!Compared with the speed of its flight,The tempest itself lags behind,And the swift-wingéd arrows of light.When I think of my own native landIn a moment I seem to be there;But alas! recollection at handSoon hurries me back to despair.
But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,The beast is laid down in his lair;Even here is a season of rest,And I to my cabin repair.There's mercy in every place,And mercy, encouraging thought!Gives even affliction a graceAnd reconciles man to his lot.
W. Cowper
Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,Such aid from Heaven as some have feign'd they drew,An eloquence scarce given to mortals, newAnd undebased by praise of meaner things,That ere through age or woe I shed my wingsI may record thy worth with honour due,In verse as musical as thou art true,And that immortalizes whom it sings:—But thou hast little need. There is a BookBy seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,On which the eyes of God not rarely look,A chronicle of actions just and bright—There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine;And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.
Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,Such aid from Heaven as some have feign'd they drew,An eloquence scarce given to mortals, newAnd undebased by praise of meaner things,
That ere through age or woe I shed my wingsI may record thy worth with honour due,In verse as musical as thou art true,And that immortalizes whom it sings:—
But thou hast little need. There is a BookBy seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
A chronicle of actions just and bright—There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine;And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.
W. Cowper
The twentieth year is well-nigh pastSince first our sky was overcast;Ah would that this might be the last!My Mary!Thy spirits have a fainter flow,I see thee daily weaker grow—'Twas my distress that brought thee low,My Mary!Thy needles, once a shining store,For my sake restless heretofore,Now rust disused, and shine no more;My Mary!For though thou gladly wouldst fulfilThe same kind office for me still,Thy sight now seconds not thy will,My Mary!But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,And all thy threads with magic artHave wound themselves about this heart,My Mary!Thy indistinct expressions seemLike language utter'd in a dream;Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,My Mary!Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,Are still more lovely in my sightThan golden beams of orient light,My Mary!For could I view nor them nor thee,What sight worth seeing could I see?The sun would rise in vain for me,My Mary!Partakers of thy sad declineThy hands their little force resign;Yet, gently prest, press gently mine,My Mary!Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'stThat now at every step thou mov'stUpheld by two; yet still thou lov'st,My Mary!And still to love, though prest with ill,In wintry age to feel no chill,With me is to be lovely still,My Mary!But ah! by constant heed I knowHow oft the sadness that I showTransforms thy smiles to looks of woe,My Mary!And should my future lot be castWith much resemblance of the past,Thy worn-out heart will break at last—My Mary!
The twentieth year is well-nigh pastSince first our sky was overcast;Ah would that this might be the last!My Mary!
Thy spirits have a fainter flow,I see thee daily weaker grow—'Twas my distress that brought thee low,My Mary!
Thy needles, once a shining store,For my sake restless heretofore,Now rust disused, and shine no more;My Mary!
For though thou gladly wouldst fulfilThe same kind office for me still,Thy sight now seconds not thy will,My Mary!
But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,And all thy threads with magic artHave wound themselves about this heart,My Mary!
Thy indistinct expressions seemLike language utter'd in a dream;Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,My Mary!
Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,Are still more lovely in my sightThan golden beams of orient light,My Mary!
For could I view nor them nor thee,What sight worth seeing could I see?The sun would rise in vain for me,My Mary!
Partakers of thy sad declineThy hands their little force resign;Yet, gently prest, press gently mine,My Mary!
Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'stThat now at every step thou mov'stUpheld by two; yet still thou lov'st,My Mary!
And still to love, though prest with ill,In wintry age to feel no chill,With me is to be lovely still,My Mary!
But ah! by constant heed I knowHow oft the sadness that I showTransforms thy smiles to looks of woe,My Mary!
And should my future lot be castWith much resemblance of the past,Thy worn-out heart will break at last—My Mary!
W. Cowper
Obscurest night involved the sky,The Atlantic billows roar'd,When such a destined wretch as I,Wash'd headlong from on board,Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,His floating home for ever left.No braver chief could Albion boastThan he with whom he went,Nor ever ship left Albion's coastWith warmer wishes sent.He loved them both, but both in vain,Nor him beheld, nor her again.Not long beneath the whelming brine,Expert to swim, he lay;Nor soon he felt his strength decline,Or courage die away;But waged with death a lasting strife,Supported by despair of life.He shouted: nor his friends had fail'dTo check the vessel's course,But so the furious blast prevail'd,That, pitiless perforce,They left their outcast mate behind,And scudded still before the wind.Some succour yet they could afford;And such as storms allow,The cask, the coop, the floated cord,Delay'd not to bestow.But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore,Whate'er they gave, should visit more.Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could heTheir haste himself condemn,Aware that flight, in such a sea,Alone could rescue them;Yet bitter felt it still to dieDeserted, and his friends so nigh.He long survives, who lives an hourIn ocean, self-upheld;And so long he, with unspent power,His destiny repell'd;And ever, as the minutes flew,Entreated help, or cried 'Adieu!'At length, his transient respite past,His comrades, who beforeHad heard his voice in every blast,Could catch the sound no more;For then, by toil subdued, he drankThe stifling wave, and then he sank.No poet wept him; but the pageOf narrative sincere,That tells his name, his worth, his age,Is wet with Anson's tear:And tears by bards or heroes shedAlike immortalize the dead.I therefore purpose not, or dream,Descanting on his fate,To give the melancholy themeA more enduring date:But misery still delights to traceIts semblance in another's case.No voice divine the storm allay'd,No light propitious shone,When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,We perish'd, each alone:But I beneath a rougher sea,And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.
Obscurest night involved the sky,The Atlantic billows roar'd,When such a destined wretch as I,Wash'd headlong from on board,Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,His floating home for ever left.
No braver chief could Albion boastThan he with whom he went,Nor ever ship left Albion's coastWith warmer wishes sent.He loved them both, but both in vain,Nor him beheld, nor her again.
Not long beneath the whelming brine,Expert to swim, he lay;Nor soon he felt his strength decline,Or courage die away;But waged with death a lasting strife,Supported by despair of life.
He shouted: nor his friends had fail'dTo check the vessel's course,But so the furious blast prevail'd,That, pitiless perforce,They left their outcast mate behind,And scudded still before the wind.
Some succour yet they could afford;And such as storms allow,The cask, the coop, the floated cord,Delay'd not to bestow.But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore,Whate'er they gave, should visit more.
Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could heTheir haste himself condemn,Aware that flight, in such a sea,Alone could rescue them;Yet bitter felt it still to dieDeserted, and his friends so nigh.
He long survives, who lives an hourIn ocean, self-upheld;And so long he, with unspent power,His destiny repell'd;And ever, as the minutes flew,Entreated help, or cried 'Adieu!'
At length, his transient respite past,His comrades, who beforeHad heard his voice in every blast,Could catch the sound no more;For then, by toil subdued, he drankThe stifling wave, and then he sank.
No poet wept him; but the pageOf narrative sincere,That tells his name, his worth, his age,Is wet with Anson's tear:And tears by bards or heroes shedAlike immortalize the dead.
I therefore purpose not, or dream,Descanting on his fate,To give the melancholy themeA more enduring date:But misery still delights to traceIts semblance in another's case.
No voice divine the storm allay'd,No light propitious shone,When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,We perish'd, each alone:But I beneath a rougher sea,And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.
W. Cowper