« 上一頁繼續 »
TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON,
On crowning his Bust, at Ednam, Roxburghshire,. with Bays.
BY ROBERT BURNS.
WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood,
While Summer, with a matron grace,
The progress of the spiky blade:
By Tweed erects his aged head, And sees, with self-approving mind, Each creature on his bounty fed: While maniac Winter rages o'er
The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent's roar,
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows:
So long, sweet poet of the year,
Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won ;
While Scotia, with exulting tear,
Proclaims that Thomson was her son.
On seeing a wounded Hare limp by me, which a Fellow had just shot at.
BY ROBERT BURNS.
INHUMAN man! curse on thy barbarous art,
Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field,
No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains To thee shall home, or food, or pastime, yield.
Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest;
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head,
Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.
ON MISS J. SCOTT, OF AFR.
OH! had each Scor of ancient times,
THE FAKENHAM GHOST.
BY ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.
THE lawns were dry in Euston Park :
Benighted was an ancient dame,
Her footsteps knew no idle stops,
And echo'd to the darksome copse,
Where clamorous rooks, yet scarcely hush'd,
And many a wing the foliage brush'd,
The dappled herd of grazing deer,
Darker it grew; and darker fears
She turn'd; it stopp'd-nought could she see
Upon the gloomy plain;
But, as she strove the sprite to flee,
Now terror seized her quaking frame :
Yet once again, amidst her fright,
Regardless of whate'er she felt,
It follow'd down the plain!
Then on she sped; and hope grew strong,
Her heart-strings like to crack:
Still on, pat, pat, the goblin went,
Her strength and resolution spent,
Out came her husband, much surprised;
Good-natured souls! all unadvised
The candle's gleam pierced through the night,
An ass's foal had lost its dam
No goblin he; no imp of sin:
His little hoofs would rattle round
The matron learn'd to love the sound
A favorite the ghost became;
For many a laugh went through the vale,
Each thought some other goblin tale,