Should give each feature

Of thy face a rich lustrous smiling,—

Thy thoughts from that gloom beguiling
Which cold hours bring.

Farewell to our delights!

Love! we are parted.
Come with thy silvery nights,
Autumn, gold-hearted!

Let our two hearts be wreathing
Their hopes when the eve is breathing
Through leaf-starr'd lights!

SONG.

Go where the water glideth gently ever,
Glideth by meadows that the greenest be;
Go, listen to our own beloved river :

And think of me!

Wander in forests where the small flower layeth
Its fairy gem beside the giant tree;
Listen the dim brook pining while it playeth :
And think of me!

Watch when the sky is silver pale at even,
And the wind grieveth in the lonely tree;

Go out beneath the solitary heaven :
And think of me!

And when the moon riseth as she were dreaming,
And treadeth with white feet the lulled sea,
Go, silent as a star beneath her beaming,
And think of me!

SHERWOOD FOREST.

The trees in Sherwood Forest are old and good, The grass beneath them now is dimly green : Are they deserted all ? Is no young mien,

With loose-slung bugle, met within the wood?

No arrow found, foil'd of its antler'd food,

Stuck in the oak's rude side? Is there nought seen
To mark the revelries which there have been,
In the sweet days of merry Robin Hood?
Go there, with summer and with evening, go
In the soft shadows, like some wandering man!
And thou shalt far amid the forest know
The archer men in green, with belt and bow,
Feasting on pheasant, river-fowl and swan,
With Robin at their head, and Marian.

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

1796-1849.

SONG.

She 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.

WHITHER?

Whither is gone the wisdom and the power
That ancient sages scatter'd with the notes
Of thought-suggesting lyres? The music floats
In the void air; even at this breathing hour,
In every cell and every blooming bower

The sweetness of old lays is hovering still :
But the strong soul, the self-sustaining will,
The rugged root that bare the winsome flower,
Is weak and wither'd. Were we like the Fays
That sweetly nestle in the fox-glove bells,
Or lurk and murmur in the rose-lipp'd shells
Which Neptune to the earth for quit-rent pays,
Then might our pretty modern Philomels
Sustain our spirits with their roundelays.

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

1798-1835.

JEANIE MORRISON.

I've wander'd East, I've wander'd West,
Through mony a weary way,

But never, never can forget

The luve of 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 thoughts o' bygane years
Still fling their shadows o'er my path,
And blind my een wi' tears:
They blind my een wi' salt salt tears,
And sair and sick I pine,

As memory idly summons up

The blithe blinks o' langsyne.

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel;

'Twas then we twa did part:

Sweet time! sad time! twa bairns at scule,
Twa bairns and but ae heart.

'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,

To leir ilk ither lear;

And tones and looks and smiles were shed, Remember'd evermair.

I wonder, Jeanie! aften yet,

When sitting on that bink,

Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof,
What our wee heads could think :
When baith bent down o'er 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,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame,
Whene'er the scule-weans laughin' said
We cleek'd thegither hame?

And mind ye o' the Saturdays

(The scule then skailt at noon) When we ran aff 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 thoughts rush back
O scule-time and o' thee:

O mornin' life! O mornin' luve!
O lightsome days and lang,
When hinnied hopes around our hearts
Like simmer blossoms sprang!

O mind ye, Luve! how aft we left
The deavin' dinsome toun,
To wander by the green burnside,
And hear its waters croon ?

The simmer leaves hung o'er our heads,
The flowers burst round our feet,

And in the gloamin' o' the wood
The throssil whusslit sweet.

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,
For hours thegither sat,

In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat.

Ay! ay! dear Jeanie Morrison !
Tears trickled down your cheek,
Like dewbeads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak.

That was a time, a blessed time,

When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gush'd all feelings forth, Unsyllabled, unsung.

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison !

Gin I hae been to thee

As closely twined wi' earliest thoughts
As ye hae been to me.
O tell me gin their music fills

Thine ear as it does mine!

O say gin e'er your heart grows grit
Wi' dreamings o' lang syne!

I've wander'd East, I've wander'd West, I've borne a weary lot:

But in my wanderings, far or near,

Ye never were forgot.

The fount that first burst frae this heart

Still travels on its way,

And channels deeper, as it rins,

The luve o' life's young day.