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So soon may I follow, When friends.h.i.+ps decay, And from Love's s.h.i.+ning circle The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered, And fond ones are flown, O who would inhabit This bleak world alone?
Thomas Moore [1779-1852]
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread; The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.
And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.
And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side.
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief: Yet not unmeet it was that one like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.
William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878]
G.o.d'S CREATURES
ONCE ON A TIME
Once on a time I used to dream Strange spirits moved about my way, And I might catch a vagrant gleam, A glint of pixy or of fay; Their lives were mingled with my own, So far they roamed, so near they drew; And when I from a child had grown, I woke--and found my dream was true.
For one is clad in coat of fur, And one is decked with feathers gay; Another, wiser, will prefer A sober suit of Quaker gray: This one's your servant from his birth, And that a Princess you must please, And this one loves to wake your mirth, And that one likes to share your ease.
O gracious creatures, tiny souls!
You seem so near, so far away, Yet while the cloudland round us rolls, We love you better every day.
Margaret Benson [18--
TO A MOUSE On Turning Up Her Nest With The Plow, November, 1785
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa' sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle!
I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessin' wi' the laive, And never miss't!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' f.a.ggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin', Baith snell an' keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin' fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell,-- Till, cras.h.!.+ the cruel coulter pa.s.sed Out through thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld!
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain:-- The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men, Gang aft a-gley, An' lea'e us naught but grief an' pain, For promised joy!
Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee: But, och! I backward cast my e'e On prospects drear!
An' forward, though I canna see, I guess an' fear!
Robert Burns [1759-1796]
THE GRa.s.sHOPPER
Happy insect, what can be In happiness compared to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill; 'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread, Nature's self's thy Ganymede.
Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, Happier than the happiest king!
