Short Poems

Mouth o' horn, and beard o' leather;
Ye'll no guess that were ye hanged in a tether.

Sweet Content, be thine this cot,
Here be ev'ry care forgot;
Here Aonian maids attend,
Here each Muse will find a friend;
Contemplation! hither fly,
And waft the Virgins from the sky;
Or, O! Nymph, be still more kind,
And thither raise th' aspiring mind.

Rainy, rainy rattle-stanes,
Dinna rain on me;
But rain on Johnnie Groat's House,
Far owre the sea.

Again, when snow is falling: —

The slackened arches never lose their beauty of alarm;
The tall lines frown along the wall, like angels, sword in arm;
And where the vaults diverge, a grove with fancied snow o'erspread,
Goes Light among a myriad panes, with dust upon her head.
England of old most innocent, whose flower of skill achieved
Failed quick as Lammas lilies, when thy hand no more believed,
What hast thou here, beloved but dead, held to thy childless heart?
Alas, thy human all of Heaven: thine own and only Art.

Mine to the doleful city's curs'd abode,
Mine to immortal anguish is the road;
Mine , to the guilty race for ever lost,
For ever in the raging billows tost.
Me Justice made; and before me were none
But those with whom Eternity begun:
Myself to last for ever. — Entering there ,
Be hopeless! 'tis the portal of Despair .

Nature my model of beauty afforded, —
Art the bright model in beauty recorded.
I cherish the traits that fond fancy did weave you,
Though the more I am faithful, the more I deceive you.
Time does not wither nor render me colder;
I only grow too young as I become older.
The past I recall but to cause it to vanish,
And soon will my presence all thoughts of me banish.

I would be high, but that the cedar tree
Is blustred down whilst smaller shrubs go free.
I would be low, but that the lowly grass
Is trampled down by each unworthy ass.
For to be high, my means they will not doe;
And to be low, my mind it will not bow.
O Heavens! O Fate! when will you once agree
To reconcile my means, my mind, and me?

The tear for friends departed,
The faithful and true-hearted,
Cast midst the rubbish of the silent grave,
Is changed to smiles of pleasure,
While trusting that our treasure
A glorious Resurrection day will have!

[FROM THE GERMAN OF RAMLER.]

L O ! this fount is flowing ever;
But the fountain prattles never:
Traveller! at this fountain stay;
Learn of it, with pure endeavor,
Good to do, and nothing say.

Dawn paints quaint histories
In pageant on my wall;
Imminent destinies
Concern it not at all.