Nor knew the gulf between—
Malignant Fate sat by and smiled-
The slippery verge her feet beguiled;
She tumbled headlong in!

Eight times emerging from the flood
She mewed to every watery God
Some speedy aid to send:—
No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred,
Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard-
A favorite has no friend!

From hence, ye Beauties, undeceived,
Know one false step is ne'er retrieved,
And be with caution bold:

Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize,
Nor all that glisters, gold!

Thomas Gray

228 ON THE DEATH OF LESBIA'S SPARROW1

OVES and Graces mourn with me,

LOVES

Mourn, fair youths, where'er ye be!

Dead my Lesbia's sparrow is,
Sparrow, that was all her bliss,
Than her very eyes more dear;
For he made her dainty cheer,
Knew her well, as any maid
Knows her mother, never strayed
From her bosom, but would go
Hopping round her, to and fro,
And to her, and her alone,

1 Translated by Sir Theodore Martin.

Chirruped with such pretty tone.
Now he treads that gloomy track,
Whence none ever may come back.
Out upon you, and your power,
Which all fairest things devour,
Orcus' gloomy shades, that e'er
Ye took my bird that was so fair!
Ah, the pity of it! Thou

Poor bird, thy doing 'tis, that now

My loved one's eyes are swollen and red,
With weeping for her darling dead.

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOW,

NOVEMBER, 1785

EE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,

WEE

O what a panic's in thy breastie!

Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion

Has broken Nature's social union,

An' justifies that ill opinion

Which makes thee startle

At me, thy poor earth-born companion,

An' fellow-mortal!

ckering brattle: hurrying pace

ith: loath

Pattle: paddle (used to clean the plow
Sleekit: sleek

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave

'S a sma' request:

I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave,

And never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin':
And naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin'
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste

An' weary winter comin' fast,

An' cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell,

Till, crash! the cruel coulter past

Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!

Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble,

But house or hald,

To thole the winter's sleety dribble

An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousic, thou art no thy lane
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men

Big: build

But: without
Cranreuch: hoar-frost
Daimen-icker: occasional

ear of corn

Foggage: grass
Hald: shelter
Lave: remainder
Snell: biting
Thole: endure

Thrave: twenty-four

sheaves of grain Thy lane: thyself alon Wa's: walls

Whiles: sometimes

Gang aft a-gley,

An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promised joy.

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But, och! I backward cast my e'e
On prospects drear!

An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!

Even yet thou art to me

No bird, but an invisible thing,

A voice, a mystery;

gley: wrong, awry

Lea'e: leave

The same whom in my schoolboy days
I listened to; that Cry

Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove

Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.

O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be

An unsubstantial, fairy place,
That is fit home for Thee!

William Wordsworth

steps of day,

231

TO A WATERFOWL

WHITHER, midst falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last

Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,

As, darkly seen against the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.