25 When wolves and tigers howl for prey
They pitying stand and weep,
Seeking to drive their thirst away,
And keep them from the sheep.
But if they rush dreadful,
The angels, most heedful,
Receive each mild spirit,
New worlds to inherit.

30

And there the lion's ruddy eyes Shall flow with tears of gold: 35 And pitying the tender cries, And walking round the fold: Saying: 'Wrath by His meekness, And by His health, sickness,

40

45

Are driven away

From our immortal day.

'And now beside thee, bleating lamb,
I can lie down and sleep,

Or think on Him who bore thy name,
Graze after thee, and weep.

For wash'd in life's river,
My bright mane forever
Shall shine like the gold,

As I guard o'er the fold.'

TO THE DIVINE IMAGE

(From the same)

To mercy, pity, peace, and love,
All pray in their distress,
And to these virtues of delight

Return their thankfulness.

5 For mercy, pity, peace, and love Is God our Father dear;

10

And mercy, pity, peace, and love,
Is man, His child and care.

For Mercy has a human heart,
Pity, a human face;

And Love, the human form divine;
And Peace, the human dress.

Then every man, of every clime,
That prays in his distress,
15 Prays to the human form divine;
Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.

20

And all must love the human form,
In heathen, Turk, or Jew;
Where mercy, love, and pity dwell,
There God is dwelling too.

ON ANOTHER'S SORROW

(From the same)

Can I see another's woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another's grief,
And not seek for kind relief?

5 Can I see a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrow's share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow fill'd?

Can a mother sit and hear,

10 An infant groan, an infant fear? No, no! never can it be! Never, never can it be!

And can He, who smiles on all, Hear the wren, with sorrow small, 15 Hear the small bird's grief and care, Hear the woes that infants bear?

And not sit beside the nest, Pouring Pity in their breast, And not sit the cradle near, 20 Weeping tear on infant's tear?

And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
Oh, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

25 He doth give His joy to all:
He becomes an infant small
He becomes a man of woe,
He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,

30 And thy Maker is not by:

Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not near.

Oh! He gives to us His joy, That our griefs He may destroy. 35 Till our grief is fled and gone He doth sit by us and moan.

THE TIGER

(From The Songs of Experience, 1794)

Tiger, Tiger, burning bright
In the forest of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Framed thy fearful symmetry?

5 In what distant deeps or skies Burned that fire within thine eyes? On what wings dared he aspire?

What the hand dared seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art, 10 Could twist the sinews of thy heart? When thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer, what the chain, Knit thy strength and forged thy brain? 15 What the anvil? What dread grasp Dared thy deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears, And water'd heaven with their tears, Did He smile His work to see? 20 Did He who made the lamb make thee?

AH! SUNFLOWER

(From the same)

Ah! Sunflower! weary of time,

Who countest the steps of the sun, Seeking after that sweet golden prime Where the traveller's journey is done; 5 Where the Youth pined away with desire, And the pale virgin shrouded in snow, Arise from their graves, and aspire Where my sunflower wishes to go!

Robert Burns

(1759–1796)

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT

(1785)

"Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor."-Gray.

5

10

15

My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his homage pays;

With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and
praise:

To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene;

The native feelings strong, the guileless

ways,

What Aiken in a cottage would have been; Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there I ween!

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;

The short'ning winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;

The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose:
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,—

This night his weekly moil is at an end,

Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his

hoes,

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,

And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.