For Mercy has a human heart,
Pity a human face,

And Love, the human form divine,
And Peace, the human dress.

Then every man, of every clime,
That prays in his distress,

Prays to the human form divine,
Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.

And all must love the human form,
In heathen, Turk, or Jew;

Where Mercy, Love and Pity dwell,
There God is dwelling too.

FRESH from the dewy hill, the merry year

Smiles on my head and mounts his flaming car; Round my young brows the laurel wreathes a shade, And rising glories beam around my head.

My feet are wing'd, while o'er the dewy lawn,

I meet my maiden risen like the morn:

Oh bless those holy feet, like angel's feet;

Oh bless those limbs, beaming with heav'nly light.

Like as an angel glitt'ring in the sky
In times of innocence and holy joy;

The joyful shepherd stops his grateful song
To hear the music of an angel's tongue.

So when she speaks, the voice of heaven I hear;
So when we walk, nothing impure comes near;
Each field seems Eden, and each calm retreat
Each village seems the haunt of holy feet.

But that sweet village where my black-ey'd maid
Closes her eyes in sleep beneath night's shade,
Whene'er I enter, more than mortal fire
Burns in my soul, and does my song inspire.

361

JOHN COLLINS

[d. 1808 (?)]

TO-MORROW

IN the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining,
May my fate no less fortunate be

Than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining,
And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;

With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn,
While I carol away idle sorrow,

And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn
Look forward with hope for to-morrow.

With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too.
As the sun-shine or rain may prevail;

And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too, With a barn for the use of the flail:

A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,

And a purse when a friend wants to borrow;

I'll envy no nabob his riches or fame,

Nor what honours may wait him to-morrow.

From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely Secured by a neighbouring hill;

And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly By the sound of a murmuring rill:

And while peace and plenty I find at my board,

With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,

With my friends may I share what today may afford,
And let them spread the table to-morrow.

And when I at last must throw off this frail covering,
Which I've worn for three-score years and ten,
On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering,
Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again:

But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey,

And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow; And this old worn-out stuff which is threadbare today, May become everlasting to-morrow.

ROBERT TANNAHILL

[1774-1810]

362
JESSIE, THE FLOWER O' DUNBLANE
THE sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond,
And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene,
While lanely I stray in the calm simmer gloamin'

To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane.
How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft faulding blossom,
And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green;
Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,
Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane.

She's modest as ony, and blythe as she's bonny;
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain;
And far be the villain, divested o' feeling,

Wha'd blight, in its bloom, the sweet flower o' Dunblane.
Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening,
Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen;
Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,
Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane.

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie,
The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain;
I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie,
Till charm'd wi' sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane.
Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur,
Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain;

And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour,
If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane.

363

GLOOMY WINTER'S Now AWA'

GLOOMY winter's now awa',
Saft the westlan' breezes blaw,
'Mang the birks o' Stanley-shaw
The mavis sings fu' cheerie, O!

Sweet the crawflower's early bel
Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell,
Blooming like thy bonnie sel',

My young, my artless dearie, O!

Come, my lassie, let us stray
O'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae,
Blithely spend the gowden day

O!

'Midst joys that never weary,
Towering o'er the Newton wuds,
Laverocks' fan the snaw-white cluds,
Siller saughs, wi' downy buds,

Adorn the banks sae briery, O!

Round the sylvan fairy nooks
Feath'ry breckans fringe the rocks,
'Neath the brae the burnie jouks,*

And ilka thing is cheerie, O!
Trees may bud, and birds may sing,
Flowers may bloom, and verdure spring,
Joy to me they canna bring,

Unless wi' thee, my dearie, O!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

[1770-1850]

364 ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLEC TIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD

THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight

To me did seem
Apparell'd in celestial light,

The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it has been of yore;-
Turn wheresoe'er I may,

By night or day,

The things which I have seen I now can see no more!

1 Larks.

a Silver willows.

$ Brakes.

• Dodges. • Each

The rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the rose;

The moon doth with delight

Look round her when the heavens are bare;
Waters on a starry night

Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;

But yet I know, where'er I go,

That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound

As to the tabor's sound,

To me alone their came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong.

The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,-
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong:
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay,
Land and sea

Give themselves up to jollity,

And with the heart of May
Doth every beast keep holiday;—

Thou child of joy

Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy!

Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see

The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My heart is at your festival,

My head hath its coronal,

The fulness of your bliss, I feel-I feel it all.
O evil day! if I were sullen
While Earth herself is adorning

This sweet May morning;

And the children are pulling

On every side