by Paul Keegan
Fearless, a soul that does not always think.
Me oft has fancy ludicrous and wild
Sooth’d with a waking dream of houses, tow’rs,
Trees, churches, and strange visages express’d
In the red cinders, while with poring eye
I gazed, myself creating what I saw.
Nor less amused have I quiescent watch’d
The sooty films that play upon the bars
Pendulous, and foreboding in the view
Of superstition prophesying still
Though still deceived, some stranger’s near approach.
’Tis thus the understanding takes repose
In indolent vacuity of thought,
And sleeps and is refresh’d. Meanwhile the face
Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask
Of deep deliberation, as the man
Were task’d to his full strength, absorb’d and lost.
Thus oft reclin’d at ease, I lose an hour
At evening, till at length the freezing blast
That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons home
The recollected powers, and snapping short
The glassy threads with which the fancy weaves
Her brittle toys, restores me to myself.
How calm is my recess, and how the frost
Raging abroad, and the rough wind, endear
The silence and the warmth enjoy’d within.
(…)
[The Winter Walk at Noon]
Where now the vital energy that moved
While summer was, the pure and subtle lymph
Through th’ imperceptible mæandring veins
Of leaf and flow’r? It sleeps; and the icy touch
Of unprolific winter has impress’d
A cold stagnation on th’ intestine tide.
But let the months go round, a few short months,
And all shall be restored. These naked shoots
Barren as lances, among which the wind
Makes wintry music, sighing as it goes,
Shall put their graceful foliage on again,
And more aspiring and with ampler spread
Shall boast new charms, and more than they have lost.
Then, each in its peculiar honors clad,
Shall publish even to the distant eye
Its family and tribe. Laburnum rich
In streaming gold; syringa iv’ry-pure;
The scented and the scentless rose; this red
And of an humbler growth, the 1other tall,
And throwing up into the darkest gloom
Of neighb’ring cypress or more sable yew
Her silver globes, light as the foamy surf
That the wind severs from the broken wave.
The lilac various in array, now white,
Now sanguine, and her beauteous head now set
With purple spikes pyramidal, as if
Studious of ornament, yet unresolved
Which hue she most approved, she chose them all.
Copious of flow’rs the woodbine, pale and wan,
But well compensating their sickly looks
With never-cloying odours, early and late.
Hypericum all bloom, so thick a swarm
Of flow’rs like flies cloathing her slender rods
That scarce a leaf appears. Mezerion too
Though leafless well attired, and thick beset
With blushing wreaths investing ev’ry spray.
Althæa with the purple eye, the broom,
Yellow and bright as bullion unalloy’d
Her blossoms, and luxuriant above all
The jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets,
The deep dark green of whose unvarnish’d leaf
Makes more conspicuous, and illumines more
The bright profusion of her scatter’d stars. –
These have been, and these shall be in their day.
And all this uniform uncoloured scene
Shall be dismantled of its fleecy load,
And flush into variety again.
ROBERT BURNS To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest, with the Plough, November, 1785 1786
Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic ’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering brattle!
5
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,
10
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!
15
A daimen-icker in a thrave
‘S a sma’ request:
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
An’ never miss’t!
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
20
It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,
Baith snell an’ keen!
25
Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ wast,
An’ weary Winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
30
Out thro’ thy cell.
That wee-bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou ’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald,
35
To thole the Winter’s sleety dribble,
An’ cranreuch cauld!
But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men,
40
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!
Still, thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee:
45
But Och! I backward cast my e’e,
On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear!
ROBERT BURNS Address to the Unco Guid, Or the Rigidly Righteous 1787
My Son, these maxims make a rule,
And lump them ay thegither;
The Rigid Righteous is a fool,
The Rigid Wise anither:
5
The cleanest corn that e’er was dight
May hae some pyles o’ caff in;
So ne’er a fellow-creature slight
For random fits o’ daffin.
SOLOMON. – Eccles. ch. vii. vers. 16.
O ye wha are sae guid yoursel,
Sae pious and sae holy,
Ye’ve nought to do but mark and tell
Your Neebours’ fauts and folly!
5
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,
Supply’d wi’ store o’ water,
The heaped happer ’s ebbing still,
And still the clap plays clatter.
Hear me, ye venerable Core,
10
As counsel for poor mortals,
That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door
For glaikit Folly’s portals;
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes
Would here propone defences,
15
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,
Their failings and mischances.
Ye see your state wi’ theirs compar’d,
And shudder at the niffer,
But cas
t a moment’s fair regard
20
What maks the mighty differ;
Discount what scant occasion gave,
That purity ye pride in,
And (what ’s aft mair than a’ the lave)
Your better art o’ hiding.
25
Think, when your castigated pulse
Gies now and then a wallop,
What ragings must his veins convulse,
That still eternal gallop:
Wi’ wind and tide fair i’ your tail,
30
Right on ye scud your sea-way;
But, in the teeth o’ baith to sail,
It maks an unco leeway.
See Social-life and Glee sit down,
All joyous and unthinking,
35
Till, quite transmugrify’d, they’re grown
Debauchery and Drinking:
O would they stay to calculate
Th’ eternal consequences;
Or your more dreaded h-11 to state,
40
D-mnation of expences!
Ye high, exalted, virtuous Dames,
Ty’d up in godly laces,
Before ye gie poor Frailty names,
Suppose a change o’ cases;
45
A dear-lov’d lad, convenience snug,
A treacherous inclination –
But, let me whisper i’ your lug,
Ye’re aiblins nae temptation.
Then gently scan your brother Man,
50
Still gentler sister Woman;
Tho’ they may gang a kennin wrang,
To step aside is human:
One point must still be greatly dark,
The moving Why they do it;
55
And just as lamely can ye mark,
How far perhaps they rue it.
Who made the heart, ’tis He alone
Decidedly can try us,
He knows each chord its various tone,
60
Each spring its various bias:
Then at the balance let’s be mute,
We never can adjust it;
What ’s done we partly may compute,
But know not what ’s resisted.
WILLIAM BLAKE from Songs of Innocence 1789
Holy Thursday
Twas on a Holy Thursday their innocent faces clean
The children walking two & two in red & blue & green
Grey headed beadles walkd before with wands as white as snow
Till into the high dome of Pauls they like Thames waters flow
O what a multitude they seemd these flowers of London town
Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own
The hum of multitudes was there but multitudes of lambs
Thousands of little boys & girls raising their innocent hands
Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among
Beneath them sit the aged men wise guardians of the poor
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door
CHARLOTTE SMITH Sonnet. Written in the Church-yard at Middleton in Sussex
Pressed by the Moon, mute arbitress of tides,
While the loud equinox its power combines,
The sea no more its swelling surge confines,
But o’er the shrinking land sublimely rides.
The wild blast, rising from the Western cave,
Drives the huge billows from their heaving bed,
Tears from their grassy tombs the village dead,
And breaks the silent sabbath of the grave!
With shells and seaweed mingled, on the shore
Lo! their bones whiten in the frequent wave;
But vain to them the winds and waters rave;
They hear the warring element no more:
While I am doomed – by life’s long storm oppressed,
To gaze with envy on their gloomy rest.
ELIZABETH HANDS On an Unsociable Family
O what a strange parcel of creatures are we,
Scarce ever to quarrel, or even agree;
We all are alone, though at home altogether,
Except to the fire constrained by the weather;
Then one says, ‘’Tis cold,’ which we all of us know,
And with unanimity answer, “Tis so’:
With shrugs and with shivers all look at the fire,
And shuffle ourselves and our chairs a bit nigher;
Then quickly, preceded by silence profound,
A yawn epidemical catches around:
Like social companions we never fall out,
Nor ever care what one another’s about;
To comfort each other is never our plan,
For to please ourselves, truly, is more than we can.
1791 ROBERT BURNS Tam o’ Shanter. A Tale
Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this buke.
GAWIN DOUGLAS.
When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet,
As market-days are wearing late,
An’ folk begin to tak the gate;
5
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
And getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,
That lie between us and our hame,
10
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam o’ Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter,
15
(Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonny lasses.)
O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise,
As ta’en thy ain wife Kate’s advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
20
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was nae sober;
That ilka melder, wi’ the miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
25
That every naig was ca’d a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the L – d’s house, even on Sunday,
Thou drank wi’ Kirkton Jean till Monday.
She prophesied that late or soon,