Speak gently to the aged one,
Grieve not the care-worn heart,
The sands of life have nearly run;
Let such in peace depart.
Speak gently, kindly to the poor-
Let no harsh tone be heard;
They have enough they must endure,
Without an unkind word!
Speak gently to the erring ones,
They must have toil'd in vain;
Perchance unkindness made them so:
Oh, win them back again!
Speak gently! He who gave his life
To bend man's stubborn will,
When elements were fierce with strife,
Said to them, "Peace, be still!"
Speak gently! 'tis a little thing Dropp'd in the heart's deep well, The good, the joy that it may bring, Eternity shall tell.
WITH cheerful step the traveller
Pursues his early way,
When first the dimly-dawning east
Reveals the rising day.
He bounds along his craggy road,
He hastens up the height,
And all he sees, and all he hears,
Administer delight.
And if the mist, retiring slow,
Roll round its wavy white,
He thinks the morning vapours hide
Some beauty from his sight.
But when behind the western clouds
Departs the fading day,
How wearily the traveller
Pursues his evening way.
Sorely along the craggy road
His painful footsteps creep;
And slow, with many a feeble pause,
He labours up the steep.
And if the mists of night close round,
They fill his soul with fear;
He dreads some unseen precipice,
Some hidden danger near.
So cheerfully does youth begin
Life's pleasant morning stage;
Alas! the evening traveller feels
The fears of weary age.
Howl! howl! and from the forest
Sweep the red leaves away!
Would the sins that thou abhorrest,
O soul, could thus decay,
And be swept away!
THE gloomy night is gath'ring fast,
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast,
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving o'er the plain;
The hunter now has left the moor,
The scatter'd coveys meet secure,
While here I wander, press'd with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.
The autumn mourns her rip'ning corn
By early winter's ravage torn;
Across her placid, azure sky,
She sees the scowling tempest fly:
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.
"Tis not the surging billow's roar,
"Tis not that fatal deadly shore;
Though death in ev'ry shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear:
But round my heart the ties are bound,
That heart transpierced with many a wound;
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr,
Farewell! old Coila's hills and dales,
Her healthy moors and winding vales;
The scenes where wretched fancy roves,
Pursuing past, unhappy loves!
Farewell, my friends! Farewell, my foes!
My peace with these, my love with those-
The bursting tears my heart declare;
Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr!
THE hollow winds begin to blow,
The clouds look black, the glass is low;
The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep,
And spiders from their cobwebs creep.
Last night the sun went pale to bed,
The moon in halos hid her head:
The boding shepherd heaves a sigh;
For see, a rainbow spans the sky:
The walls are damp, the ditches smell,
Closed is the pink-eyed pimpernel;
The squalid toads at dusk were seen,
Slowly crawling o'er the
green;
Loud quack the ducks, the peacocks cry,
The distant hills are looking nigh:
Hark, how the chairs and tables crack!
Old Betty's joints are on the rack;
And see yon rooks, how odd their flight, They imitate the gliding kite;
Or seem precipitate to fall,
As if they felt the piercing ball:
How restless are the snorting swine;
The busy flies disturb the kine;
|