To bear too tender, or too firm a heart, Why bade ye else, ye powers! her soul aspire From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die) And separate from their kindred dregs below; Nor left one virtue to redeem her race. But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, Thou mean deserter of thy brother's blood! See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks now fading at the blast of death; Cold is that breast which warmed the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball, Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall: On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates; There passengers shall stand, and pointing say, (While the long funerals blacken all the way) "Lo! these were they, whose souls the furies steeled, And cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield." Thus unlamented pass the proud away, The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day! What can atone (oh, ever injured shade!) To midnight dances, and the public show? While angels with their silver wings o'ershade So, peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, A heap of dust alone remains of thee, "T is all thou art, and all the proud shall be! Poets themselves must fall like those they sung, Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. E'en he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays; Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart, Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, The muse forgot, and thou beloved no more! What, were ye born to be And so to bid good-night? 'T was pity Nature brought ye forth But you are lovely leaves, where we And after they have shown their pride, O LUVE will venture in where it daurna weel be seen, O luve will venture in where wisdom ance has been; But I will down yon river rove, amang the fields sae green, And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. The primrose I will pu', the firstling of the year, And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear— For she 's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a peer: And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller gray, The woodbine I will pu' when the evening star is near, I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken bands o' luve, And I'll place it in her breast, and I 'll swear by a' above, That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er remove : And this will be a posie to my ain dear May. BURNS. |