Alike to screen the birdie's nest, And little fishes' caller rest; The sun blinks kindly in the biel', Where blithe I turn my spinnin' wheel. On lofty aiks the cushats wail, The craik amang the clover hay, Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, Oh, wha wad leave this humble state, Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, Of Bessy at her spinnin' wheel? ROBERT BURNS, 1759-1796. ENJOY, BUT NOT ABUSE! HARRY! my little blue-eyed boy! I love to see the lines of mirth Mantle thy cheek and forehead fair, As if all pleasures of the earth Had met to revel there. For gazing on thee do I sigh That these most happy hours will flee, And thy full share of misery Must fall in life to thee. There is no lasting grief below, My Harry, that flows not from guiltThou can'st not read my meaning now, In after times thou wilt. Thou 'It read it when the church-yard clay They'll tell thee this terrestrial ball, To man for his enjoyment given, To keep the soul from heaven. My boy! the verdure-crownèd hills, The vales where flowers innumerous blow, The music of ten thousand rills, Will tell thee 'tis not so. God is no tyrant, who would spread No! all can do His creatures good He scatters round with broad profuse- "Enjoy, but not abuse." WILLIAM H. TIMROD, 1792-1838. What though thy lot be hidden, And proud ones pass thee by! Act as beneath His eye, Cleave to thy humble place, Make fruitless cumb'rers feel Scorn naught as plain or mean, Work while life is given, Nor shrink though hardship scars! True suffering fits for heaven, There sin alone debars! For work is Holy! Angels' ears now listen Thy earth-spurn'd plaintive tale! Angels' eyes shall glisten When they thy scars unveil, For work is Holy! They'll know these are the proof That thou hast striven well, Nor idly stood aloof While other brave ones fell! Work while life is given, Pine not although 'tis hard! THOMAS KNOX, 1818 LIFE. O LIFE! I breathe thee in the breeze, I see thee in these stretching trees, These flowers, this still rock's mossy stains. This stream of odours flowing by From clover-field and clumps of pine, This music, thrilling all the sky, From all the morning birds, are thine. F |