Mossgiel. Wordsworth. THERE," said a stripling, pointing with much pric Beneath the random field of clod or stone Have passed away; less happy than the one That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love. To a Mountain Daisy. On turning one down with the plough in April, 1786. For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem; To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet, When upward-springing blythe to greet Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth, Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield; But thou, beneath the random bield O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, There in thy scanty mantle clad, But now the share uptears thy bed, Such is the fate of artless maid, Till she, like thee, all soil'd is laid Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd, то A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 51 Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, Evin thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, Till, crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, The Dandelion. James Russell Lowell. EAR common flower, that grow'st beside the way, DEAR Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold; First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and full of pride, behold, Which not the rich earth's ample round Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow Nor wrinkled the lean brow Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease, 'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, |