"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 ! When hinnied hopes around our hearts O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left To wander by the green burnside, The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, The throssil whusslit in the wood, The burn sang to the trees, And we, with nature's heart in tune, Concerted harmonies; And on the knowe abune the burn 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 Thine ear as it does mine! O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit I've wandered east, I've wandered west. But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sindered young I've never seen your face nor heard The music o' your tongue; But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I die, Did I but ken your heart still dreamed THERE lived a singer in France of old There shone one woman, and none but she. 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, How shall I praise them, or how take rest? There is not room under all the sky For me that know not of worst or best, Dream or desire of the days before, Sweet things or bitterness, any more. Love will not come to me now though I die, As love came close to you, breast to breast. 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, An armed archangel whose hands raise up Till flesh and spirit are molten in sunder, — 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 I am sick of loneliness! Thou, to whom I love to hearken, Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling, Yet but torture, if comprest THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. LINGER not long. Home is not home without thee: Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn. O, 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 Costs the fond heart that sighs to have thee here? Linger not long. How shall I watch thy coming, As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell; When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming, And silence hangs on all things like a spell! 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 may I teach my drooping hope to live Until that blessed time, and thou art here? 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 KEMBLR DISAPPOINTMENT AND ESTRANGEMENT. THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 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? Thou 'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons through the flowering thorn; Thou minds me o' departed joys, Departed— never to return. 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? O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say; 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, The day comes to me, but delight brings me Of beauty!- Art became the shadow 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, Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes! Men called me vain, not; some, mad, -- I heeded - for it was sweet, But still toiled on, hoped on, If not to win, to feel more worthy, thee! I then might hae hoped she wad smiled upon At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour me! O, how past describing had then been my bliss, As now my distraction no words can express! ROBERT BURNS. The thoughts that burst their channels into song, And sent them to thee, such a tribute, lady, As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest. The name — appended by the burning heart That longed to show its idol what bright things It had created-yea, the enthusiast's name, CLAUDE MELNOTTE'S APOLOGY AND That should have been thy triumph, was thy 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, |