CCXLI. ANNA SEWARD, 1747—1809.
DECEMBER MORNING.
I love to rise ere gleams the tardy light,
Winter's pale dawn; and, as warm fires illume, And cheerful tapers shine around the room, Through misty windows bend my musing sight, Where round the dusky lawn, the mansions white, With shutters clos'd, peer faintly through the gloom, That slow recedes; while yon grey spires assume Rising from their dark pile, an added height By indistinctness given. Then to decree
The grateful thoughts to God, ere they unfold To friendship or the Muse, or seek with glee Wisdom's rich page. Oh, hours more worth than gold' By whose blest use we lengthen life, and, free From drear decays of age, outlive the old.
CCXLII. JOHN LOGAN, 1748-1788.
Hail, beauteous stranger of the wood,
Thou messenger of spring!
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.
Soon as the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear:
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?
Delightful visitant! with thee
I hail the time of flow'rs,
When heaven is fill'd with music sweet
Of birds among the bow'rs.
The school-boy, wand'ring in the wood,
To pull the flow'rs so gay,
Starts, thy curious voice to hear,
And imitates thy lay.
Soon as the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fly'st the vocal vale,
An annual guest, in other lands,
Another spring to hail.
Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year!
O could I fly, I'd fly with thee :
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the spring.
CCXLIII. MRS CHARLOTTE SMITH, 1749—1806.
The partial Muse has from my earliest hours
Smiled on the rugged path I'm doom'd to tread,
And still with sportive hand has snatched wild flowers,
To weave fantastic garlands for my head:
But far, far happier is the lot of those
Who never learned her dear delusive art ;
Which, while it decks the head with many a rose,
Reserves the thorn to fester in the heart.
For still she bids soft pity's melting eye
Stream o'er the ills she knows not to remove;
Points every pang, and deepens every sigh
Of mourning friendship or unhappy love.
Ah! then how dear the Muse's favours cost,
If those paint sorrow best, who feel it most.
CCXLIV. JEREMY BENTHAM, 1749-1832.
REFLECTIONS ON RETIRING TO REST.
It is good, when we lay on the pillow our head,
And the silence of night all around us is spread,
To reflect on the deeds we have done through the day,
Nor allow it to pass without profit away.
A day what a trifle!—and yet the amount
Of the days we have pass'd forin an awful account:
And the time may arrive when the world we would give,
Were it ours, might we have but another to live.
In whose service have we through the day been employ'd,
And what are the pleasures we mostly enjoyed?
Our desires and our wishes, to what did they tend-
To the world we are in, or the world without end?
Hath the sense of His presence encompass'd us round,
Without whom not a sparrow can fall to the ground?
Have our hearts turn'd to Him with devotion most true,
Or been occupied only with things that we view?
Have we often reflected how soon we must go
To the mansions of bliss, or the regions of woe ?
Have we felt unto God a repentance sincere,
And in faith to the Saviour of sinners drawn near?
Let us then with ourselves solemn conference hold,
Ere sleep's silken fetters our senses enfold!
And forgiveness implore for the sins of the day,
Nor allow them to pass unrepented away.
CCXLV. R. FERGUSON, 1750—1774.
My muse will no gae far frae hame,
Or scour a' airts to hound for fame;
In truth the jillet ye might blame
For thinking on't,
When eithly she can find the theme
Of aqua font.
This is the name that doctors use
Their patients' noddles to confuse ;
Wi' simples clad in terms abstruse
In kittle words to gar ye roose
Their want o' skill.
But we'll hae nae sic clitter-clatter,
And briefly to expound the matter,
It shall be ca'd guid Caller Water,
Than whilk I trew
Few drugs in doctors' shops are better
Tho' joints be stiff as ony rung,
Your pith wi' pain be sairly dung,
Be you in Caller Water flung
"Twill mak ye supple, swack, and young,
Though colic or the heart-scad teaze us,
Or any inward dwam should seize us,
It masters a' sic fell diseases,
That would ye spulzie,
And brings them to a cannie crisis
Wi' little tulzie.
Wer't na for it the bonnie lasses
Would glow'r nae mair in keeking glasses
And soon tine dint o' a' the graces
That aft conveen
In gleefu' looks and bonnie faces,
To catch our een.
The fairest then might die a maid,
And Cupid quit his shooting trade,
For wha through clarty masquerade
Could then discover
Whether the features under shade
Were worth a lover?
CCXLVI. LADY ANN BARNARD, 1750-1825.
When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye a' at hame,
And a' the warld to sleep are gane;
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,
When my gudeman lies sound by me.
Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and socht me for his bride;
But saving a croun, he had naething else beside:
To mak that croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea;
And the croun and the pund they were baith for me.
He hadna been awa a week but only twa,
When my mother she fell sick, and the cow was stown
My father brak his arm, and young Jamie at the sea,
And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin' me.
My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin ;
I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I couldna win ;
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in
his e'e,
Said, "Jennie, for their sakes, will you marry me!"
My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie back ;
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wreck:
The ship it was a wreck,—why didna Jenny dee?
Or why do I live to say, "Wae's me?"
My father argued sair; my mother didna speak;
But she lookit in my face till my heart was like to break:
Sae they gied him my hand, though my heart was in
the sea;
And so auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me.
I hadna been a wife a week but only four,
When mournful as I sat on the stane at the door,
I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I couldna think it he,
Till he said, "I'm come back, my love, for to marry thee."
Oh, sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;
We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away:
I wish that I were dead! but I'm no like to dee;
And why do I live to say, "Wae's me?"
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 is kind unto me.
CCXLVII. CURRAN, 1750—1817.
THE POOR MAN'S LABour.
My mother sighed, the stream of pain
Flowed fast and chilly o'er her brow,
My father prayed, nor prayed in vain ;
Sweet mercy cast a glance below.
"My husband dear," the sufferer cried,
My pains are o'er, behold your son.
"Thank heaven, sweet partner," he replied,
"The poor man's labour's then begun."
Alas! the hapless life she gave,
By fate was doomed to cost her own;
For, soon she found an early grave,
Nor stayed her partner long alone,
They left their orphan here below,
A stranger wild beneath the sun;
This lesson sad to learn from woe,
The poor man's labour's never done.
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