THE POET'S MORNING. JAMES HOGG. Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken! Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken! Deep the morn her draught has taken Of the babbling rivulet sheen, Far beyond the Ochel green; From her gauzy veil on high, Trills the laverock's melody; Round and round, from glen and grove, Pour a thousand hymns to love. The quail harps loud amid the clover, From the mountain whirrs the plover; Bat has hid, and heath-cock crowed, Courser neigh'd, and cattle lowed; Swifter still the dawn advances, In the light the wood-fly dances; Rouse thee, slumberer, from thy pillow! Wake thee-life is but a day, Gay its morn, and short as gay; Day of evil-day of sorrow, Hope, bright hope, can paint no morrow; Noon shall find thee faint and weary, Night shall find thee pale and dreary— Rise, O rise! to toil betake thee— Wake thee, drowsy slumberer, wake thee. THE RETURN OF SPRING. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. Cauld winter is awa', my love, And spring is in her prime; Upon the sprouting tree, A theme which pleaseth me. The blackbird is a pawky loon, The gowdspink woos in gentle note, Come here, come here, my spousal dame !— What says the sangster rose-linnet? Come here, come here, my ruddie mate, The way of love to try! The lavrock calls his freckled mate, Frae near the sun's ee-bree, Make on the knowe, our nest, my love! A theme which pleaseth me. The hares hae brought forth twins, my love, Sae has the cushat doo; The raven croaks a softer way, His sooty love to woo: And nought but love, love breathes around Frae hedge, frae field, and tree, Soft whispering love to Jeanie's heart : A theme which pleaseth me. O lassie! is thy heart mair hard Say, maun the hale creation wed, And Jean remain to woo? THE BLACK COCK. JOANNA BAILLIE. Good morrow to thy sable beak, A maid there is in yonder tower, A fleeting moment of delight THE WOUNDED HUSSAR. THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ. Alone to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar. From his bosom that heaved, the last torrent was streaming, And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar, And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming, That melted in love, and that kindled in war. |