MUSINGS.

And persecution, obloquy, and wrong,

Until my heart grew bitter. I have made
The desert, and the mountain snow, my bed-
Spoken strange tongues, and congregated with
The tameless savage of the wilderness,
Until I felt as tameless as himself.

The morning of my life has passed away,
And clouds and dimness rest upon its shapes
Of pain or pleasure. I am well content.
The golden stars that smile above my head-
The planet-peopled heaven-and the sea
Glorious in terror or in beauty-all

Of brilliant and magnificent on earth,

37

Have yet a charm for me-and more than all,
My quiet home;-and she who makes that home
A living paradise, will cheer me on-
And I will live, and sing my humble strain,
Although the cold world close its careless ears
Unto the quiet music of my song.

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AN EPISTLE.

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend,
A something to hae sent you,
Tho' it should serve nae other end

Than just a kind memento;
But how the subject-theme may gang,
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.

Ye'll try the world fu' soon, my lad,
And, Andreun, dear, believe me,
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,
And muckle they may grieve ye:
For care and trouble set your thought,
E'en when your end 's attained:
And a' your views may come to nought,
Where ev'ry nerve is strained.

The great Creator to revere,

Must sure become the creature;
But still the preaching cant forbear,

And e'en the rigid feature:

Yet ne'er with wits profane to range,
Be complaisance extended;

An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange
For Deity offended!

AN EPISTLE.

When ranting round in pleasure 's ring,
Religion may be blinded;

Or if she gie a random sling,

It may be little minded;

But when on life we 're tempest driv'n,
A conscience but a canker-

A correspondence fixed wi' Heaven,
Is sure a noble anchor!

Adieu, dear amiable youth!

Your heart can ne'er be wanting;

May prudence, fortitude, and truth,
Erect your brow undaunting!

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In ploughman's phrase, "God send you speed," Still daily to grow wiser!

And may you better reck the rede,

Than ever did the adviser!

ROBERT BURNS.

40

A VISION.

A VISION.

IN visions which are not of night, a shadowy vale

I see,

The path of pilgrim tribes, who are, who have been,

or shall be ;

At either end are lowering clouds, impervious to the sight,

And frequent shadows veil, throughout, each gleam of passing light.

A path it is of joys and griefs, of many hopes and

fears;

Gladdened at times by sunny smiles, but oftener dimmed by tears.

Green leaves are there, they quickly fade-bright flowers, but soon they die;

Its banks are lav'd by pleasant streams, but soon their bed is dry;

And some that roll on to the last with undiminish'd

force,

Have lost that limpid purity which graced their early source;

They seem to borrow in their flow the tinge of dark

ening years,

And e'en their mournful, murmuring sound befits the vale of tears.

A VISION.

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Pleasant that valley's opening scenes appear to

childhood's view,

The flowers are bright, the turf is green, the sky above is blue;

A blast may blight, a beam may scorch, a cloud may intervene,

But, lightly marked and soon forgot, they mar not such a scene;

Fancy still paints the future bright, and Hope the present cheers,

Nor can we deem the path we tread leads through a vale of tears.

But soon, too soon, the flowers that deck'd our early pathway side

Have drooped and withered on their stalks, and one by one have died;

The turf by noon's fierce heat is sear'd, the sky is overcast,

There's thunder in the torrent's tone, and tempest in the blast;

Fancy is but a phantom found, and hope a dream

appears,

And more and more our hearts confess this life a vale of tears.

Darker and darker seems the path! how sad to

journey on,

When hands and hearts which gladdened ours appear forever gone!