Читать книгу The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 388, September 5, 1829 - Various - Страница 4

Ye imp o' death, how durst ye dwell

Within this pure and hallow'd cell,

Thy purposes I ken fu' well

Are to destroy,

And wi' a mortal breathing spell,

To blast each joy!

Yet why upo' so sma' a flower,

Dost thou exert thy deadly pow'r,

And nip fair beauty's natal hour,

Wi' thy vile breath,

It is when wint'ry storms do low'r,

We look for death.

But thou, thou evil one, hast come,

To bring this wee rose to its doom,

Not i' time of woe and gloom,

But i' the spring,

When flowerets just begin to bloom.

And birds to sing.

O fie, begone fra out my sight,

Nor dare attempt such joy to blight,

Thou evil wicked-doing doit,