THE GOLDEN RINGLET. HERE is a little golden tress Of soft unbraided hair, The all that's left of loveliness That once was thought so fair; No, indeed! for God above Is great to grant as mighty to make, I claim you still, for my own love's sake! Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet, Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few ; And yet, though time hath dimmed its sheen, Much is to learn and much to forget Though all beside hath fled, I hold it here, a link between Ere the time be come for taking you. A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling In his kingdom by the sea. The angels, not so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me. Yes! that was the reason (as all men know) In this kingdom by the sea, That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love And neither the angels in heaven above, For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side EDGAR ALLEN POE. FLORENCE VANE. I LOVED thee long and dearly, My life's bright dream and early I renew in my fond vision The ruin, lone and hoary, The ruin old, Where thou didst hark my story, At even told, That spot, the hues elysian I treasure in my vision, Thou wast lovelier than the roses Thy voice excelled the closes Thy heart was as a river Would I had loved thee never, But fairest, coldest wonder! Lieth the green sod under; And it boots not to remember To quicken love's pale ember, Florence Vane! The lilies of the valley By young graves weep, The daisies love to dally Where maidens sleep : May their bloom, in beauty vying, Never wane Where thine earthly part is lying, Florence Vane ! PHILIP P. COOKE. FAIR HELEN OF KIRKCONNELL. ["A lady of the name of Helen Irving or Bell (for this is disputed by the two clans), daughter of the Laird of Kirkconnell, in Dumfriesmen in the neighborhood. The name of the favored suitor was shire, and celebrated for her beauty, was beloved by two gentle Adam Fleming of Kirkpatrick; that of the other has escaped tradition, although it has been alleged that he was a Bell of Blacket House. The addresses of the latter were, however, favored by the friends of the lady, and the lovers were therefore obliged to meet in secret, and by night, in the churchyard of Kirkconnell, a romantic spot surrounded by the river Kirtle. During one of these private interviews, the jealous and despised lover suddenly appeared on the opposite bank of the stream, and leveled his carabine at the breast of his rival. Helen threw herself before her lover, received in her bosom the bullet, and died in his arms. A desperate and mortal combat ensued between Fleming and the murderer, in which the latter was cut to pieces. Other accounts say that Fleming pursued his enemy to Spain, and slew him in the streets of Madrid." SIR WALTER SCOTT.] I WISH I were where Helen lies: Night and day on me she cries; O that I were where Helen lies, On fair Kirkconnell lea! Curst be the heart that thought the thought, O, think na but my heart was sair, When my love dropt down and spake nae mair! I laid her down wi' meikle care, As I went down to the water-side, None but my foe to be my guide, None but my foe to be my guide, On fair Kirkconnell lea, YE banks and braes and streams around There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry; How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace And pledging aft to meet again, But, O, fell death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early! Now green 's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary! O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, ROBERT BURNS. HIGH-TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. THE old mayor climbed the belfry tower, Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! Ply all your changes, all your swells! Play uppe The Brides of Enderby!” Men say it was a "stolen tyde," The Lord that sent it, he knows all, But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall; And there was naught of strange, beside The flights of mews and peewits pied, By millions crouched on the old sea-wall. I sat and spun within the doore ; My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes: The level sun, like ruddy ore, Lay sinking in the barren skies; From the meads where melick groweth, "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow! Come uppe, Jetty! rise and follow; Come uppe, Whitefoot! come uppe, Lightfoot! Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, Where is thy place of blissful rest? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? ROBERT BURNS. O, SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM! O, SNATCHED away in beauty's bloom! And the wild eypress wave in tender gloom : Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, And feed deep thought with many a dream, Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead! Away! we know that tears are vain, [Composed by Burns, in September, 1789, on the anniversary of Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. the day on which he heard of the death of his early love, Mary Campbell.] THOU lingering star, with lessening ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace ; Ah! little thought we 't was our last! THE MAID'S LAMENT. LORD BYRON. I LOVED him not; and yet, now he is gone, I checked him while he spoke ; yet could he speak, For reasons not to love him once I sought, : To vex myself and him I now would give Who lately lived for me, and when he found He hid his face amid the shades of death! Who wasted his for me; but mine returns, |