In lang, lang days o' simmer, when the clear and cloudless sky
Refuses ae wee drap o' rain to nature parched and dry,
The genial night, wi' balmy breath, gars verdure spring anew,
And ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.
Sae, lest 'mid fortune's sunshine we should feel owre proud and hie,
And in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith's ee,
Some wee dark clouds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo,
But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.
JAMES BALLANTINE.
In early days methought that all must last;
Then I beheld all changing, dying, fleeting; But though my soul now grieves for much that's past,
And changeful fortunes set my heart oft beating, I yet believe in mind that all will last,
Because the old in new I still am meeting.
From the German of
FRIEDRICH MARTIN VON BODENSTEDT.
Pain's furnace heat within me quivers,
God's breath upon the flame doth blow, And all my heart in anguish shivers,
And trembles at the fiery glow: And yet I whisper, As God will!
And in his hottest fire hold still.
He comes and lays my heart, all heated,
On the hard anvil, minded so Into his own fair shape to beat it
With his great hammer, blow on blow: And yet I whisper, As God will!
And at his heaviest blows hold still.
He takes my softened heart and beats it,—
The sparks fly off at every blow; He turns it o'er and o'er, and heats it,
And lets it cool, and makes it glow: And yet I whisper, As God will!
And, in his mighty hand, hold still.