TO CAMPBELL. TRUE bard and simple, -as the race Of heaven-born poets always are, When stooping from their starry place They're children near, though gods afar. MOORE. STANZAS TO *** THOUGH the day of my destiny's over, And the star of my fate hath declined, Thy soft heart refused to discover The faults which so many could find. Though human, thou didst not deceive me; Though woman, thou didst not forsake; Though loved, thou foreborest to grieve me; Though slandered, thou never couldst shake. Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me; Though parted, it was not to fly; Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me, Nor mute that the world might belie. Awaking with a start, The waters heave around me; and on high The winds lift up their voices: I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by, When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye. Once more upon the waters! yet once more! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar! Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead! Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed, And the rent canvas fluttering, strew the gale, Still must I on; for I am as a weed, Flung from the rock, on ocean's foam, to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail. BYRON. Think of him thy love had blessed! Should her lineaments resemble Those thou never more mayst see, Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me. All my faults perchance thou knowest, All my madness none can know; All my hopes, where'er thou goest, Whither, yet with thee they go. Every feeling hath been shaken; Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee, - by thee forsaken, Even my soul forsakes me now; But 'tis done, — all words are idle, Words from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridle Force their way without the will. Fare thee well! thus disunited, -- ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST, WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785. WEE, sleekit, cowrin, 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, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! O' foggage green! |