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AMELIA B. WELBY.

THE GOLDEN RINGLET.

No, indeed ! for God above

Is great to grant as mighty to make,
HERE is a little golden tress

And creates the love to reward the love ;
Of soft unbraided hair,

I claim you still, for my own love's sake!
The all that's left of loveliness

Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet,
That once was thought so fair ;

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,

Ere the time be come for taking you.
I hold it here, a link between
My spirit and the dead.

But the time will come at last it will

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say, Yes ! from this shining ringlet still

In the lower earth, in the years long still,
A mournful memory springs,

That body and soul so pure and gay ?
That melts my heart, and sheds a thrill

Why your hair was amber I shall divine,
Through all its trembling strings.

And your mouth of your own geranium's red, --
I think of her, the loved, the wept,

And what you would do with me, in fine,
Upon whose forehead fair

In the new life come in the old one's stead.
For eighteen years, like sunshine, slept
This golden curl of hair.

I have lived, I shall say, so much since then,

Given up myself so many times,
O sunny tress! the joyous brow

Gained me the gains of various men,
Where thou didst lightly wave,

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes ;
With all thy sister-tresses now

Yet one thing - one in my soul's full scope,
Lies cold within the grave;

Either I missed or itself missed me, ,
That cheek is of its bloom bereft ;

And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope !
That eye no more is gay ;

What is the issue ? let us see !
Of all her beauties thou art left,
A solitary ray.

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ;

My heart seemed full as it could hold,
There was place and to spare for the frank young

smile,
EVELYN HOPE.

And the red young mouth, and the hair's young BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead !

gold.
Sit and watch by her side an hour.

So, hush ! I will give you this leaf to keep ;
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ;

See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand.
She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,

There, that is our secret! go to sleep;
Beginning to die too, in the glass.

You will wake, and remember, and understand,
Little has yet been changed, I think ;
The shutters are shut, no light may pass
Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.

ANNABEL LEE.
Sixteen years old when she died !
Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name,

It was many and many a year ago,
It was not her time to love ; beside,

In a kingdom by the sea,
Her life had many a hope and aim,

That a maiden lived, whom you may know
Duties enough and little cares ;

By the name of Annabel Lee;
And now was quiet, now astir,

And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Till God's hand beckoned unawares,

Than to love, and be loved by me.
And the sweet white brow is all of her.

I was a child and she was a child,
Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope ?

In this kingdom by the sea ;
What! your soul was pure and true ;

But we loved with a love that was more than love,
The good stars met in your horoscope,

I and my Annabel Lee,
Made you of spirit, fire, and dew;

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
And just because I was thrice as old,

Coveted her and me.
And our paths in the world diverged so wide,
Each was naught to each, must I be told ? And this was the reason that long ago,

We were fellow-mortals, --- naught beside ? In this kingdom by the sea,

ROBERT BROWNING.

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EDGAR ALLEN POE.

For the moon never beams without bringing me

dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee,

FAIR HELEN OF KIRKCONNELL.
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

["A lady of the name of Helen Irving or Bell (for this is disputed And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side by the two clans), daughter of the Laird of Kirkconnell, in DumfriesOf my darling, my darling, my life, and my bride, men in the neighborhood. The name of the favored suitor was

Adam Fleming of Kirkpatrick; that of the other has escaped traIn her sepulcher there by the sea,

dition, although it has been alleged that he was a Bell of Blacket In her tomb by the sounding sea.

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 churcliyard 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 FLORENCE VANE.

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 coinbat ensued between Fleming and the murderer, in I LOVED thee long and dearly,

which the latter was cut to pieces. Other accounts say that FlemFlorence Vane;

ing pursued his enemy to Spain, and slew him in the streets of
Madrid." - SIR WALTER SCOTT.)

.]
My life's bright dream and early
Hath come again ;

I WISH I were where Helen lies :
I renew in my fond vision

Night and day on me she cries;
My heart's dear pain,

O that I were where Helen lies,
My hopes and thy derision,

On fair Kirkconnell lea !
Florence Vane !

Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
The ruin, lone and hoary,

And curst the hand that fired the shot,
The ruin old,

When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
Where thou didst hark my story,

And died to succor me !
At even told,
That spot, the hues elysian

0, think na but my heart was sair,
Of sky and plain,

When my love dropt down and spake nae mair!
I treasure in my vision,

I laid her down wi' meikle care,
Florence Vane.

On fair Kirkconnell lea.

Thou wast lovelier than the roses

In their prime;
Thy voice excelled the closes

Of sweetest rhyme ;

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,

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How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade

I clasped her to my bosom! The golden hours on angel wings

Fiew o'er me and my dearie ; For dear to me as light and life

Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace

Our parting was fu’ tender
And pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels asunder ;
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!

“ Cusha ! Cusha! Cusha !” calling,

For the dews will soone be falling ; Leave your meadow grasses mellow,

Mellow, mellow ! Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow! Come uppe, Whitefoot ! come uppe, Lightfoot! Quit the stalks of parsley hollow,

Hollow, hollow ! Come uppe, Jetty! rise and follow; From the clovers lift your head ! Come uppe, Whitefoot! come uppe, Lightfoot! Come uppe, Jetty! rise and follow, Jetty, to the milking-shed.'

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ROBERT BURNS.

But each will mourne his own (she sayth) Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,
And sweeter women ne'er drew breath

O’erhung with wild woods, thickening green ; Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.

The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,

Twined amorous round the raptured scene; I shall never hear her more

The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, By the reedy Lindis shore,

The birds sang love on every spray, “Cusha! Cusha ! Cusha !" calling,

Till soon, too soon, the glowing west Ere the early dews be falling;

Proclaimed the speed of winged day. I shall never hear her song, “ Cusha! Cusha !” all along,

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
Where the sunny Lindis floweth,

And fondly broods with miser care !
Goeth, floweth,

Time but the impression stronger makes,
From the meads where melick groweth,

As streams their channels deeper wear. Where the water, winding down,

My Mary! dear departed shade ! Onward floweth to the town.

Where is thy place of blissful rest ?

See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? I shall never see her more, ,

Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast? Where the reeds and rushes quiver,

Shiver, quiver,
Stand beside the sobbing river,
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling,

O, SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM !
To the sandy, lonesome shore ;
I shall never hear her calling,

0, SNATCHED away in beauty's bloom ! Leave your meadow grasses mellow,

On thee shall press no ponderous tomb !
Mellow, mellow !

But on thy turf shall roses rear
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow !

Their leaves, the earliest of the year,
Come uppe, Whitefoot ! come uppe, Lightfoot! And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom :
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,

And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Hollow, hollow !

Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
Come uppe, Lightfoot! rise and follow;

And feed deep thought with many a dream,
Lightfoot! Whitefoot !

And lingering pause and lightly tread;
From your clovers lift the head ;

Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead!
Come uppe, Jetty! follow, follow,
Jetty, to the milking-shed ! ”

Away! we know that tears are vain,
JEAN INGELOW.

That Death nor heeds nor hears distress :
Will this unteach us to complain?

Or make one mourner weep the less ?
TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

And thou, who tell'st me to forget,
[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,

THE MAID'S LAMENT.
Again thou usher'st in the day
My Mary from my soul was torn.

I LOVED him not; and yet, now he is gone,
O Mary! dear departed shade!

I feel I am alone. Where is thy place of blissful rest?

I checked him while he spoke ; yet could he speak, See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ?

Alas! I would not check.
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? For reasons not to love him once I sought,

And wearied all my thought
That sacred hour can I forget,

To vex myself and him : I now would give Can I forget the hallowed grove,

My love, could he but live Where by the winding Ayr we met

Who lately lived for me, and when he found To live one day of parting love ?

’T was vain, in holy ground Eternity will not efface

He hid his face amid the shades of death ! Those records dear of transports past;

I waste for him my breath Thy image at our last embrace ;

Who wasted his for me ; but mine returns, Ah ! little thought we 't was our last !

And this lone bosom burns

LORD BYRON.

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