'T was then we sat on ae laigh bink, To leir ilk ither lear; And tones and looks and smiles were shed, Remembered evermair. I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, What our wee heads could think. When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, Wi' ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee. O, mind ye how we hung our heads, (The scule then skail't at noon,) When we ran off to speel the braes, — The broomy braes o' June? My head rins round and round about, My heart flows like a sea, As ane by ane the thochts rush back O mornin' life! O mornin' luve ! O, mind ye, luve, how ft we left The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, The throssil whusslit in the wood, And on the knowe abune the burn For hours thegither sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trickled doun your cheek When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled-unsung! I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts O, tell me gin their music fills O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit I've wandered east, I've wandered west. But in my wanderings, far or near, The fount that first burst frae this heart The luve o' life's young day. O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Did I but ken your heart still dreamed THERE lived a singer in France of old There shone one woman, and none but she. And praised God, seeing; and so died he. Died, praising God for his gift and grace : The sharp tears fell through her hair, and stung O brother, the gods were good to you.. Give thanks for life, and the loves and lures; Rest, and be glad of the gods; but I, For me that know not of worst or best, I shall never be friends again with roses; I shall loathe sweet tunes, where a note grown strong Relents and recoils, and climbs and closes, As a wave of the sea turned back by song. There are sounds where the soul's delight takes fire, Face to face with its own desire; A delight that rebels, a desire that reposes; The pulse of war and passion of wonder, The heavens that murmur, the sounds that shine, The stars that sing and the loves that thunder, These were a part of the playing I heard Once, ere my love and my heart were at strife; Love that sings and hath wings as a bird, Balm of the wound and heft of the knife. I shall go my ways, tread out my measure, Ah, had I not taken my life up and given The dreams reared high and the hopes brought low, Come life, come death, not a word be said; ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. DAY, IN MELTING PURPLE DYING DAY, in melting purple dying; Blossoms, all around me sighing; Fragrance, from the lilies straying; Zephyr, with my ringlets playing; Ye but waken my distress; I am sick of loneliness! Thou, to whom I love to hearken, Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure ; Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling, Yet but torture, if comprest Absent still! Ah! come and bless me ! In a look if death there be, Willie, all to you and me Is that spot, whate'er it be, Where he stands no other word How shall I watch for thee, when fears grow stronger, As night grows dark and darker on the hill! Stands-God sure the child's prayers heard - How shall I weep, when I can watch no longer! Poor the bed is, - poor and hard; But thy father, far exiled, Sleeps upon the open sward, Dreaming of us two at home; Willie, Willie, go to sleep; God will help us, O my boy! He will make the dull hours creep Faster, and send news of joy ; When I need not shrink to meet Those great placards in the street, That for weeks will ghastly stare In some eyes-child, say that prayer Once again, - a different one, Say, "O God! Thy will be done By the Alma River." DINAH MARIA MULOCK. THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. LINGER not long. Home is not home without thee: Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn. 0, let its memory, like a chain about thee, Gently compel and hasten thy return! Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy staying, Bethink thee, can the mirth of thy friends, though dear, Compensate for the grief thy long delaying WHAT shall I do with all the days and hours Of casting from me God's great gift of time Shall I, these mists of memory locked within, Leave and forget life's purposes sublime? O, how or by what means may I contrive To bring the hour that brings thee back more near? How I will this dreary blank of absence make More good than I have won since yet I live. So may this doomed time build up in me A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine; So may my love and longing hallowed be, And thy dear thought an influence divine. FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE DISAPPOINTMENT AND ESTRANGEMENT. THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 66 FROM MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM." FOR aught that ever I could read, The course of true love never did run smooth: SHAKESPEARE. THE BANKS O' DOON. YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, And I sae weary, fu' o' care? Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o' its luve, And, fondly, sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pou'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree; And my fause luver stole my rose, But ah! he left the thorn wi' me. ROBERT BURNS. AULD ROBIN GRAY. Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and socht me for his bride; But, saving a croun, he had naething else beside. To mak that croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea; And the croun and the pund were baith for me! He hadna been awa a week but only twa, stown awa; My father brak his arm, and young Jamie at the sea, And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin' me. My father cou'dna work, and my mother cou'dna spin; I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I cou'dna win; Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee, Said, "Jenny, for their sakes, O marry me!" My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie back; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack; The ship it was a wrack! Why didna Jamie dee? Or why do I live to say, Wae 's me? My father argued sair, - my mother didna speak, But she lookit in my face till my heart was like to break; Sae they gied him my hand, though my heart was in the sea; And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me. I hadna been a wife, a week but only four, I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I cou'dna think it he, O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say ; We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away: I wish I were dead, but I'm no like to dee; And why do I live to say, Wae's me? WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; hame, And a' the warld to sleep are gane; The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee, When my gudeman lies sound by me. I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin; LADY ANNE BARNARD AULD ROB MORRIS. THERE's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld men: He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay; As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea, And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e. But O, she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird, And my daddie has naught but a cot-house and yard; A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. Beside the sceptre. Thus I made my home ransom From those twin jailers of the daring heart, And passion taught me poesy, of thee, And on the painter's canvas grew the life - - Art became the shadow The day comes to me, but delight brings me Of beauty! nane: The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane; I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast. O, had she but been of a lower degree, I then might hae hoped she wad smiled upon me! O, how past describing had then been my bliss, As now my distraction no words can express! ROBERT BURNS. Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes! Men called me vain, some, mad, I heeded not; for it was sweet, But still toiled on, hoped on, If not to win, to feel more worthy, thee! At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour CLAUDE MELNOTTE'S APOLOGY AND That should have been thy triumph, was thy DEFENCE. PAULINE, by pride Angels have fallen ere thy time; by pride, And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee. Have stooped from their high sphere; how Love, like Death, Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook scorn! |