And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand and what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee? Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? TO THE MUSES WHETHER on Ida’s shady brow, Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the sun, that now From ancient melody have ceased; Whether in heaven ye wander fair, Or the green corners of the earth, Or the blue regions of the air, Where the melodious winds have birth; Whether on crystal rocks ye rove Beneath the bosom of the sea, Wandering in many a coral grove,— Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry; How have you left the ancient love That bards of old enjoyed in you! The languid strings do scarcely move, The sound is forced, the notes are few. LOVE’S SECRET NEVER seek to tell thy love, Love that never told can be; For the gentle wind doth move Silently, invisibly. I told my love, I told my love, I told her all my heart, Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears Ah! she did depart. Soon after she was gone from me A traveller came by, Silently, invisibly: He took her with a sigh. ROBERT BURNS 1759–1796 TO A MOUSE _On turning her up in her nest with the plough_, _November_, 1785 WEE, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie, O what a panic’s in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi’ bickerin’ brattle! I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee Wi’ murd’ring pattle! 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, whiles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen-icker in a thrave ’S a sma’ request: I’ll get a blessin’ wi’ the lave, And never miss’t! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin’: And naething, now, to big a new ane, O’ foggage green! An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin’ Baith snell and keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste, An’ weary winter comin’ fast, An’ cozy here beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter past Out through thy cell.