ELEGY

"One morn I miss'd him on the 'customed hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.

"The next, with dirges due in sad array

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Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown:
Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:

He gave to Misery all he had, a tear:

He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend.

No further seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God.

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JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE

GERMANY, 1749-1832

Rest

Rest is not quitting

The busy career;

Rest is the fitting

Of self to one's sphere:

'Tis the brook's motion,
Clear without strife;
Fleeting to ocean,
After its life:

'Tis loving and serving
The highest and best;
'Tis onward, unswerving,
And this is true rest.

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ROBERT BURNS

SCOTLAND, 1759-1796

Auld Lang Syne

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' lang syne?

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We'll take a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne!

We twa hae run about the braes,

And pu'd the gowans fine;

But we've wandered mony a weary foot,

Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll take a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,

Frae mornin' sun till dine :

But seas between us braid hae roared,

Sin' days o' lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll take a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne!

To a Mountain Daisy

On turning one down with the Plow in April, 1786

Wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flow'r,

Thou's met me in an evil hour;

For I maun crush among the stoure

Thy slender stem;

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To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou bonnie gem!

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet!
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,

Wi' spreckl'd breast,

When upward-springing, blithe to greet
The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth

Amid the storm,

Scarce rear'd above the parent earth

Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield;
But thou, beneath the random bield

O' clod or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble-field,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head

In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,

And low thou lies.

Such is the fate of simple bard,

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Unskillful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n,

Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,
By human pride or cunning driv'n

To mis'ry's brink,

Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,

He, ruin'd, sink!

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine - no distant date;

Stern ruin's plowshare drives elate,

Full on thy bloom,

Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight,

Shall be thy doom!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

ENGLAND, 1770-1850

Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

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