And hang his head, to think himself a man? ̧ 30 35 40 45 Of all your empire; that where Britain's power Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. Sonnet to Mrs. Unwin Mary! I want a lyre with other strings, Such aid from heaven as some have feigned they drew, An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new, And undebased by praise of meaner things! That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings, I may record thy worth, with honor due, In verse as musical as thou art true, 5 Verse that immortalizes whom it sings. But thou hast little need. There is a book, By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, 10 On which the eyes of God not rarely look; A chronicle of actions just and bright; There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine, And since thou ownest that praise, I spare thee mine. ROBERT BURNS To a Mouse ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785 Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie ! Wi' bickerin brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee I'm truly sorry man's dominion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve: 'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! An' bleak December's winds ensuin 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. |