Unseen, alane.
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet floweret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betrayed,
And guileless trust,
Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid
Low i' the dust.
Such is the fate of simple bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless starred!
Unskilful he to note the card
Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard
And whelm him o'er!
Such fate to suffering worth is given,
Who long with wants and woes has striven,
By human pride or cunning driven
To misery's brink,
Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven,
He, ruined, sink!
Even thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate,
That fate is thine,--no distant date:
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,
Full on thy bloom,
Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight,
Shall be thy doom!
FOOTNOTES:
[8-1] _Maun_ is the Scotch word for _must_.
[8-2] _Stoure_ is the Scotch name for dust.
[8-3] _Spreckled_ is the Scotch and provincial English form of
_speckled_.
[9-4] _Bield_ means _shelter_.
[9-5] _Histie_ means _dry_ or _barren_.
THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET[11-1]
_By_ SAMUEL WOODWORTH
How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond[11-2] recollection presents them to view;
The orchard, the meadow, the deep, tangled wild-wood,
And every loved spot that my infancy[11-3] knew.
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill[11-4] that stood by it;
The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy house[11-5] nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well--
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.
That moss-covered bucket I hail as a treasure;
For often at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell[12-6];
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