That course nor Delhi's kingly gates, For sweet the bliss us both awaits Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, Across the dark blue sea; But ne'er were hearts so light and gay As then shall meet in thee ! REGINALD HEBER. JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. JOHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither. Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go : And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. And, love, what changes we have seen, what cares and pleasures, too, Though cares we've known, with hopeful hearts the worst we've struggled through; Since you became my own dear wife, when this Blessed be his name for all his love since this old ring was new! O, blessings on that happy day, the happiest of my life, When, thanks to God, your low, sweet "Yes" made you my loving wife! Your heart will say the same, I know; that day's as dear to you, That day that made me yours, dear wife, when this old ring was new. How well do I remember now your young sweet face that day! How fair you were, how dear you were, my tongue could hardly say; old ring was new! Your aged eyes will see in mine all they've still shown to you, Mild is Maire bhan astór, Mine is Maire bhan astór, And mine in yours all they have seen since this old ring was new. O FAIREST of creation, last and best How can I live without thee, how forego BRUTUS. Portia, what mean you? Wherefore rise you now? It is not for your health thus to commit POR. Nor for yours neither. You have ungently, Brutus, Stole from my bed: And yesternight, at supper, I urged you further; then you scratched your head, And too impatiently stamped with your foot: man. It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep, POR. Brutus is wise, and were he not in health, He would embrace the means to come by it. BRU. Why, so I do :-good Portia, go to bed. POR. Is Brutus sick, and is it physical To walk unbraced, and suck up the humors Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick, And will he steal out of his wholesome bed, To dare the vile contagion of the night, And tempt the rheumy and unpurgéd air To add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus ; You have some sick offence within your mind, Which, by the right and virtue of my place, I ought to know of: And upon my knees I charm you, by my once commended beauty, By all your vows of love, and that great vow Which did incorporate and make us one, That you unfold to me, yourself, your half, Why you are heavy; and what men to-night Have had resort to you, for here have been Some six or seven, who did hide their faces Even from darkness. Of your good pleasure? If it be no more, BRU. You are my true and honorable wife; POR. If this were true, then should I know this secret. I grant I am a woman; but, withal, A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife : VI. "But I," he replied, "have promised another, when love was free, To love her alone, alone, who alone and afar loves me." VII. "Why, that," she said, "is no reason. Love's always free, I am told. Will you vow to be safe from the headache on Tuesday, and think it will hold?" 1 At which he rose up in his anger, "Why, now, "Love's a virtue for heroes! -as white as the snow on high hills, Why, now, you no longer are fatal, but ugly and And immortal as every great soul is that strughateful, I swear.' XI. At which she laughed out in her scorn, gles, endures, and fulfils. XXI. "These "I love my Walter profoundly, -you, Maude, though you faltered a week, Who are shocked if a color not virtuous is frankly For the sake of... what was it? an eyebrow? or, put on by a vice." 'What reason had you, and what right, — I ap peal to your soul from my life, less still, a mole on a cheek? XXII. "And since, when all's said, you 're too noble to stoop to the frivolous cant About crimes irresistible, virtues that swindle, betray, and supplant, XXIII. "I determined to prove to yourself that, whate'er you might dream or avow To find me too fair as a woman? Why, sir, I am By illusion, you wanted precisely no more of me pure, and a wife. than you have now. ["In the Parish of St. Neots, Cornwall, is a well, arched over A WELL there is in the West country, An oak and an elm tree stand beside, Droops to the water below. A traveller came to the well of St. Keyne; Pleasant it was to his eye, For from cock-crow he had been travelling, He drank of the water so cool and clear, Under the willow-tree. There came a man from the nighboring town At the well to fill his pail, On the well-side he rested it, And bade the stranger hail. "I have left a good woman who never was here," The stranger he made reply; "But that my draught should be better for that, I pray you answer me why." "St. Keyne, "quoth the countryman, "many a time Drank of this crystal well, And before the angel summoned her "If the husband of this gifted well "But if the wife should drink of it first, "You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?" He to the countryman said. But the countryman smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head. "I hastened, as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch. But i' faith, she had been wiser than me, ROBERT SOUTHEY. |