Journeys Through Bookland, Volume 7 | Page 3

this poem the feet are iambic and there are four of them, consequently we name the meter of this poem iambic tetrameter. Whenever you hear those words you think of a poem whose meter is exactly like that of The Daffodils.
These words seem long and hard to remember. It may help you to remember them if you think that the word iam′bic contains an iambic foot.
In naming the meter we use the Greek numerals--mono (one), di (two), tri (three), tetra (four), penta (five), hexa (six), hepta (seven), and octa (eight), and add to them the word meter, thus: Mo-nom′e-ter, a line containing one foot, dim′e-ter, trim′e-ter, te-tram′e-ter, pen-tam′e-ter, hex-am′e-ter, hep-tam′e-ter, and oc-tam′e-ter.

TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN
By WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
Thou blossom, bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue, That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night;
[Illustration]
Thou comest not when violets lean O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, Or columbines, in purple dressed, Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.
Thou waitest late, and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, And frosts and shortening days portend The aged Year is near his end.
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Look through its fringes to the sky, Blue--blue--as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall.
I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart.

TO A MOUSE
ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOW, NOVEMBER, 1785
By ROBERT BURNS
Wee, sleekit,[5-1] cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle![5-2] I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murdering pattle![5-3]
I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen-icker[6-4] in a thrave[6-5] 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave[6-6] And never miss't!
[Illustration: THOU NEED NA START AWA]
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage[7-7] green! An' bleak December's winds ensuin', Baith snell[7-8] and keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, And weary winter comin' fast, And cozie, here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter[7-9] past Out thro' thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald,[7-10] To thole[7-11] the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch[7-12] cauld!
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,[7-13] In proving foresight may be vain; The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men, Gang aft a-gley,[7-14] An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, For promis'd joy.
Still them are blest, compar'd wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But, Och! I backward cast my e'e On prospects drear; An' forward, tho' I canna see,[8-15] I guess an' fear.
FOOTNOTES:
[5-1] Sleekit means sly.
[5-2] Brattle means a short race.
[5-3] A pattle is a scraper for cleaning a plow.
[6-4] Daimen-icker means an ear of corn occasionally.
[6-5] A thrave is twenty-four sheaves.
[6-6] Lave is the Scotch word for remainder.
[7-7] Foggage is coarse uncut grass.
[7-8] Snell means sharp.
[7-9] The coulter is the sharp iron which cuts the sod before the plow.
[7-10] Hald means a resting place. But here means without.
[7-11] Thole is the Scotch word for endure.
[7-12] Cranreuch is hoar-frost.
[7-13] No thy lane means not alone.
[7-14] Gang aft a-gley means often go wrong.
[8-15] In this poem and the one To a Mountain Daisy, does the allusion to the poet's own hard fate add to or detract from the beauty of the composition? Do these allusions give any insight into his character? What was always uppermost in his mind?
[Illustration: ROBERT BURNS 1759-1796]

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY
ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786
By ROBERT BURNS
Wee, modest, crimson-tippéd flower, Thou's met me in an evil hour, For I maun[8-1] crush amang the stoure[8-2] Thy slender stem; To spare thee now is past my power, Thou bonny gem.
Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet, The bonny lark, companion meet, Bending thee' mang the dewy weet, Wi' spreckled[8-3] breast, When upward springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce reared above the parent earth Thy tender form.
[Illustration: THOU BONNY GEM]
The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield. But thou beneath the random bield[9-4] O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie[9-5] stibble-field, Unseen, alane.
There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming