SHAKSPEARE.
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"This poem," says my friend Thomas Carlyle, "is worth severalhomilies on mercy, for it is the voice of Mercy herself. Burns,indeed, lives in sympathy: his soul rushes forth into all the realmsof being: nothing that has existence can be indifferent to him."] When biting Boreas, fell and doure,Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r;When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'rFar south the lift,Dim-darkening through the flaky show'r,Or whirling drift: Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked,While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-choked,Wild-eddying swirl.Or through the mining outlet bocked,Down headlong hurl. Listening, the doors an' winnocks rattle,I thought me on the ourie cattle,Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattleO' winter war,And through the drift, deep-lairing sprattleBeneath a scar. Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing,That, in the merry months o' spring,Delighted me to hear thee sing,What comes o' thee?Whare wilt thou cower thy chittering wing,An' close thy e'e? Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd,Lone from your savage homes exiled,The blood-stained roost, and sheep-cote spoiledMy heart forgets,While pitiless the tempest wildSore on you beats. Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign,Dark muffled, viewed the dreary plain;Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train,Rose in my soul,When on my ear this plaintive strainSlow, solemn, stole:-- "Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust!And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost:Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows!Not all your rage, as now united, showsMore hard unkindness, unrelenting,Vengeful malice unrepenting,Than heaven-illumined man on brother man bestows;See stern oppression's iron grip,Or mad ambition's gory hand,Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip,Woe, want, and murder o'er a land!Even in the peaceful rural vale,Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale,How pamper'd luxury, flattery by her side,The parasite empoisoning her ear.With all the servile wretches in the rear,Looks o'er proud property, extended wide;And eyes the simple rustic hind,Whose toil upholds the glittering show,A creature of another kind,Some coarser substance, unrefin'd,Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below.Where, where is love's fond, tender throe,With lordly honour's lofty brow,The powers you proudly own?Is there, beneath love's noble name,Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim,To bless himself alone!Mark maiden innocence a preyTo love-pretending snares,This boasted honour turns away,Shunning soft pity's rising sway,Regardless of the tears and unavailing prayers!Perhaps this hour, in misery's squalid nest,She strains your infant to her joyless breast,And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking blast!Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down,Feel not a want but what yourselves create,Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate,Whom friends and fortune quite disown!Ill satisfied keen nature's clamorous call,Stretched on his straw he lays himself to sleep,While through the ragged roof and chinky wall,Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap!Think on the dungeon's grim confine,Where guilt and poor misfortune pine!Guilt, erring man, relenting view!But shall thy legal rage pursueThe wretch, already crushed lowBy cruel fortune's undeserved blow?Affliction's sons are brothers in distress,A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!" I heard nae mair, for ChanticleerShook off the pouthery snaw,And hailed the morning with a cheer--A cottage-rousing craw! But deep this truth impressed my mind--Through all his works abroad,The heart benevolent and kindThe most resembles GOD. * * * * *
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