« FöregåendeFortsätt »
With equal care, as through immensity
The burning comet and the seraph's flight.
But who by searching can Thee comprehend ?
How futile even are our best essays ? What height, what depth, can with Thee co-extend ?
“O let expressive silence muse thy praise !"
PORTRAITURE OF REAL LIFE.
CURSED above all on this accursed earth!
Child of misfortune, who but pities thee ?
Grim incarnation, rank of misery,
But for your sunless, frowning, blasted fate,
Arraign not Heaven, who otherwise designed; But blame the dunghill, purse-proud, would-be-great,
Those basest tyrants, vipers of our kind, And your own truckling and ignoble soul, Where Reason seems to have the least control.
Mute as a statue, trembling, hat in hand,
I spurn your cringing, servile attitude;
Like “ Patience on a monument" you stand,
And have for hours thus so obsequious stood,
Speak! why so cowardly conceal the cause
Of your absurd, humiliating plight ?
Poor sneaking, timid, melancholy wight?
Solicit you a beggar's bite of bread,
From such a grovelling brother of the soil ? No !-why then hang as self-condemned your head ?
Go, ask mock-consequence for leave to toilWithout reserve, your wish a child might scanAnd show yourself, poor devil, once a man.
That “Britons never shall be slaves,” how vain
That boast with you ! so henceforth sing it not; Nor any of your smutty trade and train,
Who equally with you may curse their lot,
ANSWER TO ROBERT GILFILLAN.
PEALTH, sir, to you! I've lang essay'd
A gratefu' tribute to hae paid; But aye the Muse, that fickle jade,
Still jinket meSyne by the pen I've aften laid
Wi' tearfu' ee.
Then up the pipe wi' vengeance cocket,
As tak an aith
Till my last breath
In scented breer,
Save bards, I swear.
When seated at the clean fireside,
Could ne'er compare.
Her flowin' robes were driven snaw,
While round her brows Bloom'd flowers the sweetest e'er I saw,
Thought I, guid keep me; Lord, be here !
And felt undone:
"Fear not, my son.”
Then beckon'd to me and drew nigher,
And gied it me;
T' the day I die.
Hail, favours sacred ever new!
I ’nhaled in store,
For rhymin' lore,
My heart wi' gratefu' feelings glowed,
A thousand thanks I felt I owed
My heavenly Donor, Which, while I reverently bowed,
I poured upon her.
But by degrees a flood o' light Enwrapt her glorious image bright, That stunned my senses wi' the sight,
And maist my brain; But when I rallied on that night,
I found her gane,
Now on my harp, hail three times ten, Lang life and health to thee I sen'; While inspiration guides my pen,
Thy praise I'll sound, And honest worth, thou wale o' men,
Till a' resound.
Your kind reply to what I sent
Believe me, sir, for frae my youth,
In prose or lays,