CXIV.

I PLUCKED THE BERRY.

I'VE plucked the berry from the bush, the brown nut from

the tree,

But heart of happy little bird ne'er broken was by me;

I saw them in their curious nests, close couching, slyly peer, With their wild eyes, like glittering beads, to note if harm

were near:

I passed them by, and blessed them all; I felt that it was good

To leave unmoved the creatures small whose home is in the wood.

And here, even now, above my head, a lusty rogue doth sing, He pecks his swelling breast and neck, and trims his little

wing,

He will not fly; he knows full well, while chirping on that

spray,

I would not harm him for a world, or interrupt his lay;

Sing on, sing on, blythe bird! and fill my heart with summer gladness,

It has been aching many a day with measures full of sadness!

CXV.

SONG.

O LICHT, licht was maid Ellen's fit

It left nae print behind,

Until a belted Knicht she saw

Adown the valley wind!

And winsome was maid Ellen's cheek,

As is the rose on brier,

Till halted at her father's yett
A lordly cavalier.

And merrie, merrie was her sang,
Till he knelt at her bouir-
As lark's rejoicin' in the sun,
Her princely paramour.

But dull, dull now is Ellen's eye,
And wan, wan is her cheek,

And slow an' heavy is her fit

That lonesum paths would seek :

And never sang does Ellen sing
Amang the flowers sae bricht,
Since last she saw the dancin' plume
Of that foresworne Knicht!

I NEVER dreamed that lips so sweet,

That eyes of such a heavenly hue, Were framed for falsehood and deceit,

Would prove, as they have proved―untrue.

Methought if love on earth e'er shone,
'Twas in the temple of thine eyes,
And if truth's accents e'er were known,
'Twas in the music of thy sighs.

Has then thy love been all a show,
Thy plighted troth an acted part-
Did no affection ever glow

In the chill region of that heart?

And could'st thou seem to me to cling
Like tendril of the clasping vine,
Yet all prove vain imagining,

Thy soul yield no response to mine?

It has been so-so let it be

Rejoice, thou false one, in thy guile,
Others, perhaps, may censure thee,
I would not dim thy fickle smile.
Farewell!-In kindness I would part,
As once I deemed in love we met—
Farewell!This wrong'd and bleeding heart
Can thee Forgive, but not Forget!

CXVII.

THE KNIGHT'S REQUIEM.

THEY have waked the knight so meikle of might,
They have cased his corpse in oak ;
There was not an eye that then was dry,
There was not a tongue that spoke.

The stout and the true lay stretched in view,
Pale and cold as the marble stone;

And the voice was still that like trumpet shrill,
Had to glory led them on;

And the deadly hand whose battle brand

Mowed down the reeling foe,

Was laid at rest on the manly breast,

That never more mought glow.

With book, and bell, and waxen light,
The mass for the dead is sung;

Thorough the night in the turret's height,
The great church-bells are rung.

Oh wo! oh wo! for those that go

From light of life away,

Whose limbs may rest with worms unblest,

In the damp and silent clay!

With a heavy cheer they upraised his bier,
Naker and drum did roll;

The trumpets blew a last adieu

To the good knight's martial soul.

With measured tread thro' the aisle they sped,
Bearing the dead knight on,

And before the shrine of St. James the divine,

They covered his corpse with stone :

"Twas fearful to see the strong agony

Of men who had seldom wept,

And to hear the deep groan of each mail-clad one, As the lid on the coffin swept.

With many a groan, they placed that stone

O'er the heart of the good and brave,

And many a look the tall knights took
Of their brother soldier's grave.
Where banners stream and corslets gleam
In fields besprent with gore,

That brother's hand and shearing brand
In the van should wave no more:
The clarions call on one and all

To arm and fight amain,

Would never see, in chivalry,
Their brother's make again!

With book, and bell, and waxen light,
The mass for the dead is sung,

And thorough the night in the turret's height,
The great church-bells are rung.

Oh wo! oh wo! for those that go

From the light of life away,

Whose limbs may rest with worms unblest,
In the damp and silent clay!

CXVIII.

THE ROCKY ISLET.

PERCHANCE, far out at sea, thou may'st have found
Some lean, bald cliff-a lonely patch of ground,
Alien amidst the waters :-some poor Isle
Where summer blooms were never known to smile,
Or trees to yield their verdure-yet, around
That barren spot, the dimpling surges throng,
Cheering it with their low and plaintive song,
And clasping the deserted cast-away
In a most strict embrace--and all along
Its margin, rendering freely its array

Of treasured shell and coral. Thus we may

Note love in faithful woman; oft among

The rudest shocks of life's wide sea she shares

Man's lot, and more than half his burden bears

Around whose path are flowers, strewn by her tender cares.

CXIX.

TRUE WOMAN.

NO QUAINT Conceit of speech,
No golden, minted phrase-
Dame Nature needs to teach

To echo Woman's praise;
Pure love and truth unite
To do thee, Woman, right !