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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.
(This one half blown) shall be my Maia's portion,
Behold, behold, Proserpina!
Comes onward. As he moves along the ground,
Companions him; and from his face doth shine, Proclaiming him divine,
A light that darkens all the vale around.
'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,
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. Stay, oh! stay.
In love upon me, though it knew me not;
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?
They are gone, afar—afar:
(Cyane is gradually transformed.)
But, ah! what frightful change is here?
Oh! then farewell: and now with hearts that mourn
Your head in silence.
Farewell again; and yet,
For me, my days are gone:
But on my bier I'll lay
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
ROBERT BURNS.—A. D. 1759–96.
THE TWA DOGS.
'Twas in that place o’ Scotland's isle,
The first I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar,
His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar,
The tither was a ploughman's collie,
He was a gash an’ faithful tyke,
Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither,
I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath,
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.
Trowth, Caesar, whyles thy're fasht enough;
An' when they meet wi' sair disasters,
I see how folk live that hae riches; But surely poor folk maun be wretches.
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–
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’.
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.