Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
     Upon thy early, humble birth;
     Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
     Amid the storm,
     Scarce rear’d above the parent-earth
     Thy tender form.

     The flaunting flow’rs our gardens yield,
     High shelt’ring woods and wa’s maun shield;
     But thou, beneath the random bield
     O’ clod or stane,
     Adorns the histie stibble field,
     Unseen, alane.

     There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
     Thy snawie bosom sun-ward 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 flow’ret of the rural shade! 
     By love’s simplicity betray’d,
     And guileless trust;
     Till she, like thee, all soil’d, is laid
     Low i’ the dust.

     Such is the fate of simple bard,
     On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d! 
     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 giv’n,
     Who long with wants and woes has striv’n,
     By human pride or cunning driv’n
     To mis’ry’s brink;
     Till wrench’d of ev’ry stay but Heav’n,
     He, ruin’d, sink!

     Ev’n thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate,
     That fate is thine—­no distant date;
     Stern Ruin’s plough-share drives elate,
     Full on thy bloom,
     Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight,
     Shall be thy doom!

To Ruin

     All hail! inexorable lord! 
     At whose destruction-breathing word,
     The mightiest empires fall! 
     Thy cruel, woe-delighted train,
     The ministers of grief and pain,
     A sullen welcome, all!

     With stern-resolv’d, despairing eye,
     I see each aimed dart;
     For one has cut my dearest tie,
     And quivers in my heart. 
     Then low’ring, and pouring,
     The storm no more I dread;
     Tho’ thick’ning, and black’ning,
     Round my devoted head.

     And thou grim Pow’r by life abhorr’d,
     While life a pleasure can afford,
     Oh! hear a wretch’s pray’r! 
     Nor more I shrink appall’d, afraid;
     I court, I beg thy friendly aid,
     To close this scene of care! 
     When shall my soul, in silent peace,
     Resign life’s joyless day—­
     My weary heart is throbbing cease,
     Cold mould’ring in the clay? 
     No fear more, no tear more,
     To stain my lifeless face,
     Enclasped, and grasped,
     Within thy cold embrace!

The Lament

     Occasioned by the unfortunate issue of a Friend’s Amour.