Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
144 . A Winter Night
W
Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless bow’r;
When Phœbus gies a short-liv’d glow’r,
Far south the lift,
Dim-dark’ning thro’ the flaky show’r,
Or whirling drift:
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked, While burns, wi’ snawy wreaths up-choked, Wild-eddying swirl; Or, thro’ the mining outlet bocked, Down headlong hurl: I thought me on the ourie cattle, Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle O’ winter war, And thro’ the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle Beneath a scar. That, in the merry months o’ spring, Delighted me to hear thee sing, What comes o’ thee? Whare wilt thou cow’r thy chittering wing, An’ close thy e’e? Lone from your savage homes exil’d, The blood-stain’d roost, and sheep-cote spoil’d My heart forgets, While pityless the tempest wild Sore on you beats! Dark-muff’d, view’d the dreary plain; Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, Rose in my soul, When on my ear this plantive strain, Slow, solemn, stole:— And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost! Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows! Not all your rage, as now united, shows More hard unkindness unrelenting, Vengeful malice unrepenting. Than heaven-illumin’d Man on brother Man bestows! Or mad Ambition’s gory hand, Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, Woe, Want, and Murder o’er a land! Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, How pamper’d Luxury, Flatt’ry by her side, The parasite empoisoning her ear, With all the servile wretches in the rear, Looks o’er proud Property, extended wide; And eyes the simple, rustic hind, Whose toil upholds the glitt’ring show— A creature of another kind, Some coarser substance, unrefin’d— Plac’d for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below! With lordly Honour’s lofty brow, The pow’rs you proudly own? Is there, beneath Love’s noble name, Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, To bless himself alone? Mark maiden-innocence a prey To love-pretending snares: This boasted Honour turns away, Shunning soft Pity’s rising sway, Regardless of the tears and unavailing pray’rs! Perhaps this hour, in Misery’s squalid nest, She strains your infant to her joyless breast, And with a mother’s fears shrinks at the rocking blast! Feel not a want but what yourselves create, Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, Whom friends and fortune quite disown! Ill-satisfy’d keen nature’s clamorous call, Stretch’d on his straw, he lays himself to sleep; While through the ragged roof and chinky wall, Chill, o’er his slumbers, piles the drifty heap! Think on the dungeon’s grim confine, Where Guilt and poor Misfortune pine! Guilt, erring man, relenting view, But shall thy legal rage pursue By cruel Fortune’s undeserved blow? Affliction’s sons are brothers in distress; A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!” Shook off the pouthery snaw, And hail’d the morning with a cheer, A cottage-rousing craw. But deep this truth impress’d my mind— Thro’ all His works abroad, The heart benevolent and kind The most resembles God.