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Ye winds, that have made me your sport,

Convey to this desolate shore
Some cordial endearing report

Of a land, I shall visit no more.
My friends, do they now and then send

A wish or a thought after me?
O tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind;

Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land,

In a moment I seem to be there; But alas ! recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,

The beast is laid down in his lair; Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every place,

And mercy, encouraging thought! Gives even aflliction a grace,

And reconciles man to his lot.



See the kitten on the wall,
Sporting with the leaves that fall,
Withered leaves,—one—two—and three—
From the lofty elder tree!

Through the calm and frosty air

Of this morning bright and fair,

Eddying round and round they sink

Softly, slowly: one might think

From the motions that they made,

Every little leaf conveyed

Sylph or Fairy hither tending,

To this lower world descending,

Each invisible and mute,

In his wavering parachute.
But the kitten, now she starts,

Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts!

First at one, and then its fellow,

Just as light and just as yellow;

There are many now—now one—

Now they stop and there are none:

What intenseness of desire

In her upward eye of fire!

With a tiger-leap half-way

Now she meets the coming prey,

Lets it go as fast, and then

Has it in ber power again:

Now she works with three or four,

Like an Indian conjuror;

Quick as he in feats of art,

Far beyond in joy of heart.

Were her antics played in the eye

Of a thousand standers by,

Clapping hands with shouts and stare,

What would little Tabby care

For the plaudits of the crowd?

Over happy to be proud,

Over wealthy in the treasure

Of her own exceeding pleasure!


Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,
With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd
(Albeit labouring for a scanty band
Of white-robed Scholars only) this immense
And glorious work of fine intelligence!
Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore
Of nicely calculated less or more:—
So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense
These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
Self poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells
Where light and shade repose, where music dwells
Lingering and wandering on as loth to die—
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
That they were born for immortality—



A Nightingale, that all day long
Had cheer'd the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When looking eagerly around,
He spied far off upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glow-worm by his spark;
So, stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus, right eloquent—

Did you admire my lamp, quoth he,
As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your song;
For 'twas the self-same power divine
Taught you to sing, and me to shine;
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night.
The songster heard his short oration,
And warbling out his approbation,
Releas'd him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.


On his morning rounds the master

Goes to learn how all things fare;
Searches pasture after pasture,

Sheep and cattle eyes with care;
And for silence, or for talk,
He hath comrades in his walk;
Four dogs, each of a different breed,
Distinguished, two for scent, and two for speed.

See a hare before him started;

Off they fly in earnest chase;
Every dog is eager-hearted,

All the four are in the race!
And the hare whom they pursue
Knows from instinct what to do;
Her hope is near, no turn she makes:
But like an arrow to the river takes.

Deep the river was and crusted
Thinly by a one night's frost;

But the nimble hare hath trusted

To the ice, and safely crost;
She hath crost, and without heed
All are following at full speed,
When lo, the ice so thinly spread,
Breaks, and the greyhound Dart is overhead!
Better fate have Prince and Swallow—

See them cleaving to the sport!
Music has no heart to follow,

Little Music, she stops short. She hath neither wish nor heart, Hers is now another part: A loving creature she, and brave! And fondly strives her struggling friend to save.

From the brink her paws she stretches,

Very hands as you would say! And afflicting moans she fetches,

As he breaks the ice away. For herself she hath no fears,— Him alone she sees and hears,— Makes efforts with complaining; nor gives o'er, Until her fellow sinks to re-appear no more.


But are ye sure the news is true?

And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?
Ye jades, fling by your wheel!

For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck at a';
There's nae luck about the house,

When our gudeman's awa'.

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