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o o: Ennal every thing that comes rom the green earth, springs here more graciously; And the blue day, methinks, smiles . o Than it was wont, even in Sicily. . o: as triumphing, and my heart,

le red blood hides, seems tumulted By some delicious passion. Look, above, Above—how nobly through the cloudless sky The great Apollo goes!—Jove's radiant son— My father's son: and here, below, the bosom of the green earth is almost hid by flowers. Who would be sad to-day ! come round, and cast Each one her odorous heap from out her lap, Into one pile. Some we'll divide amongst us, And, for the rest, we'll fling them to the hours; So may Aurora's path become more fair, And we be blest in giving.

Here—this rose

(This one half blown) shall be my Maia's portion,
For that like it her blush is beautiful:
And this deep violet, almost as blue
As Pallas' eye, or thine, Lycimnia,
I'll give to thee; for like thyself it wears
Its sweetness, never obtruding. For this lily,
Where can it hang but at Cyane's breast 2
And yet 'twill wither on so white a bed,
If flowers have sense for envy:–It shall lie
Amongst thy raven tresses, Cytheris,
Like one star on the bosom of the night.
The cowslip, and the yellow primrose-they
Are gone, my sad Leontia, to their graves;
And April hath wept o'er them, and the voice
of March hath sung, even before their deaths,
The dirge of those young children of the year.
But here is heart's-ease for your wo". And now,
The honeysuckle flower I give to thee,
And love it for my sake, my ow" Cyane:
It hangs upon the stem it loves, as thou
Hast clung to me, thro’ every joy and sorrow ;
it flourishes with its guardian's growth, as thou dost;
And if the woodman's axe should droop the tree,
The woodbine too must perish.-Hark! what
Do ye see aught? [sound-

chorus.

Behold, behold, Proserpina!
Dark clouds from out the earth arise,
And wing their way towards the skies,
As they would veil the burning blush of day.
And, look! upon a rolling car,
some fearful being from afar

Comes onward. As he moves along the ground,
A dull and subterranean sound

Companions him; and from his face doth shine, Proclaiming him divine,

A light that darkens all the vale around.

semichorus (Cyane).

'Tis he, 'tis he: he comes to us From the depths of Tartar". For what of evil doth he roam From his red and gloomy home,

In the centre of the world,
Where the sinful dead are hurled?
Mark him as he moves along
Drawn by horses black and strong,
Such as may belong to night
Ere she takes her morning flight.
Now the chariot stops: the god
On our grassy world hathtrod;
Like a Titan steppeth he,
Yet full of his divinity.
On his mighty shoulderslie
Raven locks, and in his eye
A cruel beauty, such as none
Of us may wisely Nok upon.

Proser. He comes indeed. Howlike agodhelooki! Terribly lovely—shall I shun his eye, which even here looks brightly beautiful? what a wild leopard glance he has.—I am Jove's daughter, and shall I then deign to fly? I will not; yet, methinks, I fear to *}. Come, let us go, Cyane.

[Pluto enters.]

Pluto. Stay, oh! stay.
Proserpina, Proserpina, I come
From my Tartarean kingdom to behold you.
The brother of Jove am I. I come ""
Gently, beside this blue Sicilian stream"
How much I love you, fair Proserpina.
Think me not rude that thus at Ono I tell
My passion. I disarm me of all power;
And in the accents of a man I sue, -
Bowing before your beauty. Brightest maid!
Let me—still unpresuming-oy I have
Roamed through the earth ,where many a

smiled

In love upon me, though it knew me not;
But I have passed free from amongst them."
To gaze on you alone. I might have clasped
Lovely and royal maids, and throned queens,
Sea nymphs, and airy shapes, that glide along
Like iight across the hills, or those that make
Mysterious music in the desert woods,
or lend a voice to fountains or **
Or answering hush the river's sweet reproo"
Oh! I've escaped from all, to." and tell
How much I love you, sweet Proserpina.

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Proser. You are too harsh, Cyane. Pluto. Oh! my love, Fairer than the white Naiad—fairer far Than aught on earth, and fair as aught in heaven: Hear me, Proserpina: Proser. Away, away. I'll not believe you. What a cunning tongue He has, Cyane; has he not ?—Away. Can the gods flatter? Pluto. By my burning throne! I love you, sweetest: I will make you queen Of my great kingdom. One third of the world Shall you reign over, my Proserpina; And you shall rank as high as any she, Save one, within the starry court of Jove. Proser. Will you be true? Pluto. I swear it. By myself!— Come then, my bride. Proser. Speak thou again, my friend. Speak, harsh Cyane, in a harsher voice, And bid me not believe him. Ah! you droop

Come round me, virgins. Am I then betrayed?
O fraudful king!
Pluto. No, by this kiss, and this:
I am your own, my love ; and you are mine
For ever and for ever.—Weep Cyane.

chorus.

They are gone, afar—afar:
Like the shooting of a star,
See, their chariot fades away.
Farewell, lost Proserpina.

(Cyane is gradually transformed.)

But, ah! what frightful change is here?
Cyane, raise your eyes, and hear!
We call thee,_vainly; on the ground
She sinks, without a single sound,
And all her garments float around.
Again, again, she rises—light;
Her head is like a fountain bright,
And her glossy ringlets fall,
With a murmur musical,
O'er her shoulders, like a river
That rushes and escapes for ever.
—Is the fair Cyane gone?
And is this fountain left alone
For a sad remembrance, where
We may in after times repair,
With heavy heart, and weeping eye,
To sing songs to her memory?

Oh! then farewell: and now with hearts that mourn

Your head in silence.
Pluto. Come, my brightest queen!
Come, beautiful Proserpina, and see
The regions over which your husband reigns;
His palaces, and radiant treasures, which
Mock and outstrip all fable; his great power,
Which the living own, and wandering ghosts obey,
And all the elements.—Oh! you shall sit
On my illuminated throne, and be
A queen indeed; and round your forehead shall run
Circlets of gems, as bright as those which bind
The brows of Juno on heav'n's festal nights,
When all the gods assemble, and bend down
In homage before Jove.
Proser. Speak out, Cyane!
Pluto. But, above all, in my heart shall you reign
Supreme, a goddess and a queen indeed,
Without a rival. Oh! and you shall share
My subterranean power, and sport upon
The fields Elysian, where, 'midst softest sounds,
And odours springing from immortal flowers,
And mazy rivers, and eternal groves
Of bloom and beauty, the good spirits walk:
And you shall take your station in the skies
Nearest the queen of heaven, and with her hold
Celestial talk, and meet Jove's tender smile,
So beautiful
Proser. Away, away, away.
Nothing but force shall ever—Ah! away—
"Il not believe—sool that I am to smile.

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Farewell again; and yet,
Must it indeed be so—and on this shore
Shall you and I no more
Together see the sun of the summer set?

For me, my days are gone:
No more shall I, in vintage times, prepare
Chaplets to bind my hair,
As I was wont; oh 'twas for you alone.

But on my bier I'll lay
Me down in frozen beauty, pale and wan,
Martyr of love to man,
And, like a broken flower, gently decay.

SONNETS.

oN A sequestEREd Rivulet.

There is no river in the world more sweet, Or fitter for a sylvan poet's dream, Than this romantic solitary stream, Over whose banks so many branches meet, Entangling:—a more shady bower or neat

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ROBERT BURNS.—A. D. 1759–96.

THE TWA DOGS.
A TALE.

'Twas in that place o’ Scotland's isle,
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil,
Upon a bonie day in June,
When wearing through the afternoon,
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame,
Forgather'd ance upon a time.

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar,
Was keepit for his honour's pleasure:
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs;
But whalpit some place far abroad,
Where sailors gang to fish for cod.

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar,
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar;
But though he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride nae pride had he 5
But wad hae spent an hour caressin,
Ev’n wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin:
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie,
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him,
And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him.

The tither was a ploughman's collie,
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie,
Wha for his friend an’ comrade had him,
And in his freaks had Luath ca’d him,
After some dog in Highland sang,
Was made lang syne—lord knows how lang.

He was a gash an’ faithful tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sonsie, baws’nt face,
Aygat him friends in ilka place.
His breast was white, his touzie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black;
His gavcie tail, wi upward curl,
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl.

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither,
An' unco pack an' thick thegither;
Wi’ social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit,
Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit;
Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion,
An' worry'd ither in diversion;
Until wi' daffin weary grown,
Upon a knowe they sat them down,
And there began a lang digression
About the Lords o' the Creation.

Caesar.

I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath,
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have ;
An' when the gentry's life I saw,
What way poor bodies liv'd ava.

Our laird gets in his racked rents, His coals, his kain, and a' his stents: He rises when he likes himsel; His flunkies answer at the bell: He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse; He draws a bonie silken purse As lang's my tail, where, through the steeks, The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks.

Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling, At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; An' though the gentry first are stechin, Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan Wi’ sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, That's little short o' downright wastrie. Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner, Better than ony tenant man His honour has in a the lan”: An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, I own it's past my comprehension.

Luath.

Trowth, Caesar, whyles thy're fasht enough;
A cotter howkin in a sheugh,
Wi’ dirty stanes biggin a dyke,
Baring a quarry, and sic like,
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans,
An' nought but his han’ darg, to keep
Them right and tight in thack an’ rape.

An' when they meet wi' sair disasters,
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters,
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer,
An' they maun starve o'cauld and hunger:
But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet,
They're maistly wonderfu' contented;
An' buirdly chiels, and clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.

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I see how folk live that hae riches; But surely poor folk maun be wretches.

Luath.

They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think; Though constantly on poortith's brink: They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, The view o't gies them little fright. Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, They're ay in less or mair provided; An' though fatigu'd wi' close employment, A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. The dearest comfort o' their lives; Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives; The prattling things are just their pride, That sweetens a' their fire-side. An' whyles twalpennie-worth o' nappie Can make the bodies unco happy; They lay aside their private cares, To mind the kirk and state affairs: They'll talk o' patronage and priests, Wi’kindling fury in their breasts, Or tell what new taxation's comin, An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns, They get the jovial, ranting kirns, When rural life, o' every station, Unite in common recreation: Love blinks, wit slaps, and social mirth, Forgets there's care upon the earth. That merry day the year begins, They bar the door on frosty winds; The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam; The luntin pipe, an’sneeshin mill, Are handed round wi' right guid will; The cantie auld folks crackin crouse, The young ones rantin through the house— My heart has been sae fain to see them, That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. Still its owre true that ye hae said, Sic game is now owre aften play’d. There's monie a creditable stock O' decent, honest, fawsont folk, Are riven out baith root and branch, Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster In favour wi' some gentle master, Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parliamentin, For Britain's guid his saul indentin–

Caesar.

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it; For Britain's guid! guid faith: I doubt it. Say rather, gaun as premiers lead him, An' saying aye or no’s they bid him: At operas an' plays parading, Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading; Or, maybe, in a frolic daft, To Hague or Calais takes a waft, To make a tour, an’ tak a whirl, To learn bon ton an' see the worl’.

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Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate They waste saemony a braw estate! Are we sae foughten an' harass'd For gear to gang that gate at last!

O would they stay aback frae courts, An' please themselves wi' countra sports, It wad for ev'ry ane be better, The laird, the tenant, an' the cotter! For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows! Except for breakin o' their timmer, Or speakin lightly o' their limmer, Or shootin o' a hare or moor-cock, The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk.

But will you tell me, Master Cesar, Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure? Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them, The vera thought o't need na fear them.

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