Where are the fields and the long green grass, The weeds, the mosses, the ferns ?—gone, alas! Wide open the door for my spirit to pass
"Out of this darkness into the light;
There, heaven again may give me my sight—
Clothe me in garments not black, but white.
My brain is on fire-I long to die,
In the lap of my mother, ah! let me lie,
And forget to live, and forget to sigh!”
She spread her white arms, and away she flew :
She's sprinkl'd all over with heavenly dew,
The lights of her soul more tenderly blue :
She's crept to the throne of the myriad eyes,
Hush'd on the bosom of the All Wise,
Where faith, where purity never dies!
Her sweet little form we envelop'd in flowers,
All dripping and wet with affection's showers;
We gave her, in silence, to deathless hours!
On the wee grassy mound the violet grows,
The blossom of winter breaks thro' the snows-
A bright, living streamlet around it flows.
Summer winds whisper! rains softly fall!
The nightingale watches in night's great hall-
Seems wildly and sweet on the child to call;
Tho' her voice is mute, the encircling air
Seems full of her music, her human care—
The stars point to God, and say, "She is there!”
Depart ye as ye came, O, clouds of night!
From whence I am too ignorant to know;
Return to us again, O, fervid glow;
Illume our world, celestial morning light!
Tho' moon and stars are welcome to our sight,
Tho' scented gales upon the night may blow,
And tho' they are perchance the friends of woe,
I love to see the firmament all bright!
O, mighty sun, deck it with silvery clouds;
Upon the blue serene rear snowy peaks—
Gild and tinge them with faint rosy streaks; Chase, chase away these dark and dismal shrouds : Awake the world to watch the break of day, Let man look up--in adoration pray!
Bard o' nature, gifted triple
Heart, mind, conscience in yer sang;
Flowin' like a streamlet's ripple,
Singin' as it winds alang :
Ruff'd noo, then headlang rushin';
Smooth as siller in yer palm;
O'er rude rocks an' pebbles gushin';
Sinkin' saftly into calm.
Ye can roar e'en like the ocean'
If ony dare to wound yer pride :
Far too natural for caution,
Far too frank a faut to hide.
Wild, sweet birdie o' the forest,
Singin' tunefu' notes at morn;
Aften by the cauld warld sair prest,
Aften is yer spirit torn.
Keenly sensitive to feelin',
Stricken doon by conscience aft;
Prompt to aid wi' love's true healin',
High and low, and strang and saft.
Bold as sturdy winds o' heaven,
Cuttin' as a leathern thang,
Aft to desperation driven
By the weight o' waefu' wrang.
Kindly Robin, ye're a teacher,
When ye tak' the poor man's part;
Ye are prized by every creature
Wha feels a glow within the heart.
Ye remind me o' the spring-tide
Leapin' o'er its barricade :
Yer fame is, an' will be—warld wide
Stamp'd by nature, nae to fade.
Bard o' passions, feelin's, reasons,
Ye ken weel man's laid o' care;
Ye spring to life in a' the seasons—
Seem to breathe the common air.
Frien', an' bard, an' brither chant ye,
Thro' the forest, o'er the brae :
Blithesome Robin, wha'll supplant ye,
Here on earth in mortal clay?
Let us gang, let us gang to the auld kirkyard:
There mony a dear frien' o' mine
Solemnly, silently sleeps the lang rest,
Beloved, leal frien's o' lang syne.
When blissfu', when happy, forgetfu' o' care,
Then the warld seems a warld divine ;
Faithfully, tenderly memories come back-
Sweet memories o' auld lang syne.
Mirth is check'd, saftly curb'd, by a noiseless spell;
Then I warn this poor heart o' mine
Of loving too fondly new frien's-for they too
May die, like the frien's o' lang syne.
Great the love, great the loss to the tender soul,
When love fills the heart an' the min':
War than pain to endure is sic mental grief,
E'en noo, as in days o' lang syne.
Sure in life there is death-sae I strive to nerve This sensitive spirit o' mine;
Storin' mind wi' high thoughts that canna depart, That bless the dear frien's o' lang syne.
Let us gang in our joy to the auld kirkyard,
E'en noo, while the stars blink an' shine:
Gentle hands planted there bonny wild flowers,
On the grave o' the buried lang syne.
Mony hearts 'neath the turf loved fondly and weel,
As fondly as your's or mine;
Affections they cherish'd as tenderly true,
Did the frien's o' that dear lang syne.
It may be it may be! that you an' I part,
At the will o' the Great Divine:
The ane left the ane left maun fill up the heart
Wi' the love o' the loved lang syne.
NERVES OVERWROUGHT.
O, nerves, ye are like the sensitive plant,
To pain and to rapture thrilling:
The slightest touch bids ye tremble and pant-
Your task for ever fulfilling.
Nerves! ye are terrible fibrous things,
I cannot get rid of your sound :
Surely electrical springs must turn
The wheels of my mind around.
Ye boom in mine ear like the voice of the sea;
I inwardly quiver and start:
Redoubl'd my pain and my misery
Beating too quick at my heart.
Like rustling leaves, when the wind is high,
Clanging in stormy weather;
Or like a deluge of rain from the sky,
Or hail and rain mingling together.
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