Mossgiel.

Wordsworth.

THERE," said a stripling, pointing with much pric
Towards a low roof, with green trees half-conceal
"Is Mossgiel farm; nd that's the very field.
Where Burns plough'd up the daisy!" Far and wid
A plain below stretch'd seaward; while, descried
Above sea clouds, the peaks of Arran rose;
And, by that simple notice, the repose
Of earth, sky, sea and air was vivified.

Beneath the random field of clod or stone
Myriads of daisies here shone forth in flower
Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour

Have passed away; less happy than the one That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.

To a Mountain Daisy.

On turning one down with the plough in April, 1786.

For I maun crush amang the stoure

Thy slender stem;

To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou bonnie gem!

Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,
Wi' speckled breast,

When upward-springing blythe to greet
The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north

Upon thy early, humble birth,

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth

High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield; But thou, beneath the random bield

O' clod or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble-field,
Unseen, alane.

There in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betray'd,
And guileless trust,

Till she, like thee, all soil'd is laid
Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd,
Unskilful he to note the card

то

A MOUNTAIN DAISY.

51

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'er.

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,
By human pride or cunning driv'n
To mis'ry's brink,

Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,
He ruin'd sink.

Evin thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine-no distant date;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,
Full on thy bloom,

Till, crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,
Shall be thy doom!

The Dandelion.

James Russell Lowell.

EAR common flower, that grow'st beside the way,

DEAR

Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold;

First pledge of blithesome May,

Which children pluck, and full of pride, behold,
High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they
An El Dorado in the grass have found,

Which not the rich earth's ample round
May match in wealth,-thou art more dear to me
Than all the prouder Summer-blooms may be.

Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow
Through the primeval hush of Indian seas,

Nor wrinkled the lean brow

Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease,

'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now

To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand,
Though most hearts never understand
To take it at God's value, but pass by
The offered wealth with unrewarded eye.