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'T was then we sat on ae laigh bink,
To leir ilk ither lear; And tones and looks and smiles were shed,
I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,
When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof,
What our wee heads could think.
Wi' ae buik on our knee,
My lesson was in thee.
I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,
Gin I hae been to thee
As ye hae been to me ?
Thine ear as it does mine!
Wi' dreamings o' langsyne ?
I've borne a weary lot ;
Ye never were forgot.
Still travels on its way ;
The luve o' life's young day.
Since we were sindered young
The music o' your tongue ;
And happy could I die,
0, mind ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin', said
We cleeked thegither hame ? And mind ye o' the Saturdays,
(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,
O' scule-time, and o' thee.
O lichtsome days and lang,
Like simmer blossoms sprang !
The deavin' dinsome toun,
And hear its waters croon?
The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wood
The throssil whusslit sweet ;
THERE lived a singer in France of old
By the tideless, dolorous, midland sea.
There shone one woman, and none but she.
And praised God, seeing ; and so died he.
For she bowed down to him weeping, and said, “Live"; and her tears were shed on his face
Or ever the life in his face was shed. The sharp tears fell through her hair, and stung Once, and her close lips touched him and clung Once, and grew one with his lips for a space;
And so drew back, and the man was dead.
The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees,
Concerted harmonies ;
For hours thegither sat
Wi' very gladness grat.
Tears trickled doun your cheek
Had ony power to speak ! That was a time, a blessed time,
When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth,
Unsyllabled — unsung!
O brother, the gods were good to you.
Sleep, and be glad while the world endures. Be well content as the years wear through ;
Give thanks for life, and the loves and lures ; Give thanks for life, O brother, and death, For the sweet last sound of her feet, her breath, For gifts she gave you, gracious and few,
Tears and kisses, that lady of yours.
Willie, all to you and me
How shall I watch for thee, when fears grow Is that spot, whate'er it be,
stronger, Where he stands no other word
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 ! Near the Alma River.
Ah ! art thou absent, art thou absent still ? Willie, listen to the bells
Yet I should grieve not, though the eye that seeth Ringing in the town to-day ; That's for victory. No knell swells
Gazeth through tears that makeitssplendor dull; For the many swept away,
For oh! I sometimes fear when thou art with me, Hundreds, thousands. Let us weep,
My cup of happiness is all too full.
Haste, haste thee home to thy mountain dwelling, Till the morning comes again ;
Haste, as a bird unto its peaceful nest ! Till the third dread morning tell
Haste, as a skiff, through tempests wide and Who they were that fought and — fell
Flies to its haven of securest rest!
- poor and hard ; But thy father, far exiled,
What shall I do with all the days and hours Dreaming of us two at home;
That must be counted ere I see thy face? Or, beneath the starry dome,
How shall I charm the interval that lowers Digs out trenches in the dark,
Between this time and that sweet time of grace ? Where he buries — Willie, mark ! Where he buries those who died
Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,
Weary with longing ? Shall I flee away
Into past days, and with some fond pretence Willie, Willie, go to sleep ;
Cheat myself to forget the present day?
Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin
Of casting from me God's great gift of time ? Faster, and send news of joy ;
Shall I, these mists of memory locked within, When I need not shrink to meet
Leave and forget life's purposes sublime ? Those great placards in the street, That for weeks will ghastly stare
0, how or by what means may I contrive In some eyes — child, say that prayer
To bring the hour that brings thee back more
near ? - a different one, Say, "O God! Thy will be done
How may I teach my drooping hope to live By the Alma River."
Until that blessed time, and thou art here? I'll tell thee ; for thy sake I will lay hold
Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee,
In worthy deeds, each moment that is told THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND.
While thou, beloved one ! art far from me. LINGER not long. Home is not home without thee : For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try
Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn. All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains; 0, let its memory, like a chain about thee,
For thy dear sake I will walk patiently Gently compel and hasten thy return !
Through these long hours, nor call their min. Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy
utes pains. staying,
I will this dreary blank of absence make Bethink thee, can the mirth of thy friends,
A noble task-time; and will therein strive though dear,
To follow excellence, and to o'ertake Compensate for the grief thy long delaying More good than I have won since yet I live. Costs the fond heart that sighs to have thee here?
So may this doomed time build up in me Linger not long. How shall I watch thy coming,
A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine ; As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell; So may my love and longing hallowed be, When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming, And thy dear thought an influence divine.
And silence hangs on all things like a spell !
DINAH MARIA MULOCK.
FRANCES ANNE KEMBLR
DISAPPOINTMENT AND ESTRANGEMENT.
THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and socht me for his
bride ; MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM."
But, saving a croun, he had naething else beside.
To mak that croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to For aught that ever I could read,
sea ; Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth :
And the croun and the pund were baith for me : But, either it was different in blood,
He hadna been awa a week but only twa, Or else misgrated in respect of years ;
When my mother she fell sick, and the cow was Or else it stood upon the choice of friends ;
stown awa; Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,
My father brak his arm, and young Jamie at the War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it,
sea, Making it momentary as a sound,
And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin' me.
My father cou'dna work, and my mother cou'dna
spin ; And ere a man liath power to say,
I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I cou'dna
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears
Said, “Jenny, for their sakes, O marry me !"
in his ee,
THE BANKS O' DOON.
My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie
back ; Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a
wrack ; How can ye chant, ye little birds,
The ship it was a wrack! Why didna Jamie
That wantons through the flowering thorn ;
My father argued sair, - my mother didna speak,
But she lookit in my face till my heart was like
to break; Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,
Sae they gied him my hand, though my heart
was in the sea ; And ilka bird sang o' its luve,
And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me.
I hadna been a wife, a week but only four,
When, sitting sae mournfully at the door,
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I cou'dna think it he,
Till he said, “I'm come back for to marry thee !"
O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say ;
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,
I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; And a' the warld to sleep are gane ;
But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee,
For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me. When my gudeman lies sound by me.
LADY ANNE BARNARD
AULD ROB MORRIS.
| Beside the sceptre. Thus I made my home
In the soft palace of a fairy Future ! There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, My father died ; and I, the peasant-born, He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise
Out of the prison of my mean estate ; He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And, with such jewels as the exploring mind And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. Brings froin the caves of Knowledge, buy my She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; From those twin jailers of the daring heart, She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay;
Low birth and iron fortune. Thy bright image, As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
Glassed in my soul, took all the hues of glory, And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.
And lured me on to those inspiring toils But 0, she's an heiress, auld Robin 's a laird,
By which man masters men! For thee, I grew And my daddie has naught but a cot-house and A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages !
For thee, I sought to borrow from each Grace yard;
And every Muse such attributes as lend
Ideal charms to Love. I thought of thee,
And on the painter's canvas grew the life The day comes to me, but delight brings me of beauty ! - Art became the shadow
Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes ! The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane ;
Men called me vain, some, mad, - I heeded I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
not ; And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast. But still toiled on, hoped on, for it was sweet,
If not to win, to feel more worthy, thee !
The thoughts that burst their channels into song, 0, how past describing had then been my bliss, And sent them to thee, — such a tribute, lady, As now my distraction no words can express ! As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest.
The name — appended by the burning heart
It had created — yea, the enthusiast's name, CLAUDE MELNOTTE'S APOLOGY AND That should have been thy triumph, was thy
That very hour -- when passion, turned to wrath, PAULINE, by pride Resembled hatred most ; when thy disdain Angels have fallen ere thy time ; by pride, Made my whole soul a chaos - in that hour That sole alloy of thy most lovely mould The tempters found me a revengeful tool The evil spirit of a bitter love
For their revenge! Thou hadst trampled on the And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee. From my first years my soul was filled with thee; It turned, and stung thee ! I saw thee midst the flowers the lowly boy Tended, unmarked by thee, — a spirit of bloom, And joy and freshness, as spring itself Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape ! I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man
LEFT BEHIND. Entered the breast of the wild-dreaming boy ; And from that hour I grew — what to the last It was the autumn of the year ; I shall be — thine adorer ! Well, this love, The strawberry-leaves were red and sear; Vain, frantic, — guilty, if thou wilt, became October's airs were fresh and chill, A fountain of ambition and bright hope ;
When, pausing on the windy hill, I thought of tales that by the winter hearth The hill that overlooks the sea, Old gossips tell, - how maidens sprung from You talked confidingly to me, kings
Me whom your keen, artistic sight Have stooped from their high sphere ; how Love, Has not yet learned to read aright, like Death,
Since I have veiled my heart from you, Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook And loved you better than you knew.
LORD EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.