Hartley Coleridge.

[BORN 1796. DIED 1849.]

SONG.

HE is not fair to outward view,
As many maidens be;

Her loveliness I never knew

Until she smiled on me.

O then I saw her eye was bright,
A well of love, a spring of light.

But now her looks are coy and cold,
To mine they ne'er reply;

And

yet I cease not to behold

The love-light in her eye:

Her very frowns are fairer far

Than smiles of other maidens are.

Bryan Waller Proctor.

[BORN 1796 (?).]

SONG.

Y love is a lady of gentle line,

Towards some like the cedar bending, Towards me she flies, like a shape divine From heaven to earth descending.

Her very look is life to me,

Her smile like the clear moon rising, And her kiss is sweet as the honeyed bec, And more and more enticing.

Mild is my love as the summer air,

And her cheek (her eyes half closing) Now rests on her full-blown bosom fair, Like Languor on Love reposing.

W

H

SONG.

ERE'S a health to thee, Mary,

Here's a health to thee;

The drinkers are gone,

And I am alone,

To think of home and thee, Mary.

There are some who may shine o'er thee, Mary, And many as frank and free,

And a few as fair;

But the summer air

Is not more sweet to me, Mary.

I have thought of thy last low sigh, Mary,
And thy dimmed and gentle eye;

And I've called on thy name

When the night-winds came,

And heard thy heart reply, Mary.

Be thou but true to me, Mary,

And I'll be true to thee;

And at set of sun,

When my task is done,

Be sure that I'm ever with thee, Mary!

SERENADE.

ISTEN! from the forest boughs The voice-like angel of the spring Utters his soft vows

To the proud rose blossoming.

And now beneath the lattice, dear!
I am like thy bird complaining:
Thou above, I fear,

Like the rose, disdaining.

From her chamber in the skies

Shoots the lark at break of morning,

And when daylight flies

Comes the raven's warning.

This of gloom and that of mirth
In their mystic numbers tell;
But thoughts of sweeter birth
Teacheth the nightingale.

William Motherwell.

[BORN 1797.

DIED 1835.]

JEANIE MORRISON.

'VE wandered east, I've wandered west, Through mony a weary way!

But never, never can forget

The luve o' life's young day.

The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en

May weel be black gin Yule;

But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond luve grows cool.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

The thochts o' bygane years

Still fling their shadows ower my path,
And blind my een wi' tears!
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears,

And sair and sick I pine,

As memory idly summons up

The blythe blinks o' lang syne.