List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle O' winter war, And thro' the drift, deep-lairing sprattle, Beneath a scar, Ilk happing bird, wee helpless thing, That, in the merry months o' spring, Delighted me to hear thee sing, What comes o' thee? Where wilt thou cow'r thy chitt'ring wing, Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, Lone, from your savage homes exil'd, The blood-stained roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd, My heart forgets, While pitiless the tempest wild, Sore on you beats. Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, Dark muffled, vie'd the dreary plain Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, Rose in my soul, When on my ear this plaintive strain, Slow, solemn, stole "Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! Than heav'n-illumin'd man on brother man be stows! "See stern oppression's iron grip, Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show, Some coarser substance, unrefin'd, Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below. "Where, where is love's fond, tender throe, The pow'rs you proudly own? "Mark maiden-innocence a prey Regardless of the tears, and unavailing prayers Perhaps, this hour, in mis'ry's squalid nest, She strains your infant to her joyless breast, And with a mother's fears shrieks at the rocking blast! "Oye! who, sunk in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves create, Ill satisfy'd keen nature's clam'rous call, I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer And hail'd the morning with a cheer, But deep this truth impress'd my mind→→→ WINTER, A DIRGE. I. THE wintry west extends his blast, Or, the stormy north sends driving forth Voc. 1.-K While tumbling brown, the burn comes down II. "The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,'* The tempest's howl, it sooths my soul, The leafless trees my fancy please, III. Thou Pow'r Supreme, whose mighty scheme Because they are thy will! Then all I want (O do thou grant This one request of mine!) Since to enjoy thou dost deny, Assist me to resign. DESPONDENCY, AN ODE. OPPRESS'D with grief, oppress'd with care, * Dr. Young, A long, a rough, a weary road, Dim backward as I cast my view, Still caring, despairing, Must be my bitter doom; II. Happy, ye sons of busy life Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd, Meet ev'ry sad returning night, Find every prospect vain. III. How blest the Solitary's lot, The cavern wild with tangling roots, Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought, |