The great Creator to revere

Must sure become the creature;
But still the preaching cant forbear,
And ev'n the rigid feature:

Yet ne'er with wits profane to range,
Be complaisance extended;

An Atheist laugh's a poor exchange
For Deity offended!

When ranting round in Pleasure's ring,

Religion may be blinded;

Or if she gie a random sting,

It may be little minded;

But when on life we're tempest driven,
A conscience but a canker,

A correspondence fix'd wi' Heaven
Is sure a noble anchor!

Adieu, dear, amiable youth,

Your heart can ne'er be wanting!

May prudence, fortitude, and truth
Erect your brow undaunting!

In plowman phrase, "God send you speed,"
Still daily to grow wiser;

And may you better reck the rede

Than ever did th' adviser!

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT

S

ROBERT BURNS

Is there, for honest poverty,

That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by;
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,

Our toils obscure, and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden gray, and a' that;

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that!

For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that;

The honest man, though e'er sae poor,

Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; Though hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that;

For a' that, and a' that,

His ribband, star, and a' that;
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can make a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;

But an honest man's aboon his might,

Guid faith, he maunna fa' that.
For a' that, and a' that;

Their dignities, and a' that;

The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a' that,

That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, and a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,

It's comin' yet, for a' that,

That man to man, the warld o'er
Shall brothers be for a' that.

THERE

ODE ON IMMORTALITY

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

HERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight

To me did seem

Appareled in celestial light,

The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it has been of yore:

Turn wheresoe'er I may,

By night or day,

The things which I have seen I now can see no more!

The rainbow comes and goes,

And lovely is the rose;

The moon doth with delight

Look round her when the heavens are bare;

Waters on a starry night

Are beautiful and fair;

The sunshine is a glorious birth;

But yet I know, where'er I go,

That there has passed away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound

As to the tabor's sound,

To me alone there came a thought of grief;
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong.

The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong.
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;

Land and sea

Give themselves up to jollity,

And with the heart of May

Doth every beast keep holiday!

Thou child of joy.

Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy shepherd boy!

Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call

Ye to each other make; I see

The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My heart is at your festival,

My head hath its coronal;

The fullness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all.

Y

Oh, evil day! If I were sullen

While the earth herself is adorning
This sweet May morning;

And the children are pulling,

On every side,

In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm

And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm :
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!

But there's a tree, of many, one,

A single field which I have look'd upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone;
The pansy at my feet

Doth the same tale repeat.

Whither is fled the visionary gleam?

Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The soul that rises with us, our life's star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar;

Not in entire forgetfulness,

And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come

From God, who is our home.

Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

Shades of the prison-house begin to close

Upon the growing boy.

But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;

The youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature's priest,

And by the vision splendid

Is on his way attended;