X.

Yet, let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast;
This partial view of human kind
Is surely not the last!

The poor, oppressed, honest man,

Had never, sure, been born,

Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn.

XI.

O Death! the poor man's dearest friend
The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn;
But oh, a blest relief to those
That weary-laden mourn!

A WINTER NIGHT.

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm!
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness defend you
From seasons such as these?-SHAkspeare.

WHEN biting Boreás, fell and doure,
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r;
When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r,
Far south the lift.

Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r,
Or whirlin drift!

Ae night the storm the steeples rock'd,
Poor Labor sweet in sleep was lock'd,
While burns, wi' snawy wreaths up-chock'a,
Wild-eddying swirl,

Or thro' the mining outlet bock'd,

Down headlong hurl.

List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle,
I thought me on the ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle
O' winter war,

And thro' the drift, deep-lairing sprattle,
Beneath a scar.

Ilk happing bird, wee helpless thing,
That in the merry months o' spring,
Delighted me to hear thee sing,

What comes o' thee?

Where wilt thou cow'r thy chitt'ring wing,
An' close thy e'e?

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd,

Lone, from your savage homes exil'd,

'The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd,

My heart forgets,

While pitiless the tempest wild

Sore on you beats.

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign,
Dark-muffled, view'd the dreary plain;
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train,
Rose in my soul,

When on my ear this plaintive strain,

Slow, solemn, stole :

“Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust!
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost!
Descend, ye chilly, smoth'ring snows!
Not all your rage, as now united, shows
More hard unkindness, unrelenting,
Vengeful malice, unrepenting,

Than heav'n-illumin'd man on brother man bestows

"See stern Oppression's iron grip,

Or mad Ambition's gory hand,

Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip,

Wo, want, and murder, o'er a land!

"Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale,
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale,
How pamper'd luxury, flatt'ry by her side,
The parasite empoisoning her ear,

With all the servile wretches, in the rear,
Look o'er proud property extended wide,
And eyes the simple rustic hind,
Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show,

A creature of another kind,

Some coarser substance, unrefin❜d,

Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below.

"Where, where is love's fond, tender throe

With lordly Honor's lofty brow,

The pow'rs you proudly own?
Is there, beneath love's noble name,
Can harbor, dark, the selfish aim,
To bless himself alone?

104

BURNS'S POEMS.

*Mark maiden innocence, a prey
To love-pretending snares,
This boasted honor turns away,
Shunning soft pity's rising sway,

Regardless of the tears, and unavailing prayers!
Perhaps, this hour, in mis'ry's squalid nest,

She strains your infant to her joyless breast,
And with a mother's fears shrieks at the rocking blast

"O ye! who, sunk in beds of down,

Feel not a want but what yourselves create,
Think for a moment on his wretched fate,
Whom friends and fortune quite disown!
Ill satisfied keen nature's clam'rous call,

Stretch'd on his straw, he lays himself to sleep,
While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall,
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap!
Think on the dungeon's grim confine,
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine!
Guilt, erring man, relenting view!
But shall thy legal rage pursue

The wretch already crushed low
By cruel fortune's undeserved blow!
Affliction's son's are brothers in distress,
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!”

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer
Shook off the pouthery snaw,

And hail'd the morning with a cheer,
A cottage-rousing craw.

But deep this truth impress'd my mind

Thro' all his works abroad,

The heart, benevolent and kind,

The most resembles God.

THE wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;

Or, the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:

While tumbling brown, the burn comes down

And roars frae bank to brae;

And bird and beast in covert rest,

And pass the heartless day.

II.

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"*

The joyless winter day,

Let others fear, to me more dear

Than all the pride of May!

The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,

My griefs it seems to join,

The leafless trees my fancy please,

Their fate resembles mine!

III.

Thou Pow'r Supreme, whose mighty scheme

These woes of mine fulfil,

Here, firm, I rest- they must be best,
Because they are thy will!

# Dr. Young.