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But, with her heart, if not her ear,

LOVE'S MEMORY. The old loved voice she seemed to hear :

FROM "ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. ACT I. SC. 1. “I wait to meet thee: be of cheer, For all is well !”

I am undone : there is no living, none,
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

If Bertram be away.

It were all one,
That I should love a bright particular star,

And think to wed it, he is so above me :
TO LUCASTA.

In his bright radiance and collateral light

Must I be comforted, not in his sphere. IF to be absent were to be

The ambition in my love thus plagues itself : Away from thee;

The hind that would be mated by the lion Or that, when I am gone,

Must die for love. "T was pretty, though a plague, You or I were alone ;

To see him every hour ; to sit and draw Then, my Lucasta, might I crave

His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls, Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave. In our heart's table, - heart too capable

Of every line and trick of his sweet favor :
But I'll not sigh one blast or gale
To swell my sail,

But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy

Must sanctify his relics. Or pay a tear to 'suage

The foaming blue-god's rage ; For, whether he will let me pass Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.

O, SAW YE BONNIE LESLEY ! Though seas and lands be 'twixt us both,

O, saw ye bonnie Lesley
Our faith and troth,

As she gaed o'er the border ?
Like separated souls,

She's gane, like Alexander, All time and space controls :

To spread her conquests farther. Above the highest sphere we meet,

To see her is to love her, Unseen, unknown ; and greet ils angels greet.

And love but her forever ;
So, then, we do anticipate

For nature made her what she is,
Our after-fate,

And ne'er made sic anither!
And are alive i' th' skies,

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, If thus our lips and eyes

Thy subjects we, before thee; Can speak like spirits unconfined

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, In heaven, — their earthly bodies left behind.

The hearts o' men adore thee.

SHAKESPEARE.

COLONEL RICHARD LOVELACE.

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I used to wauk in the morning

Wi' the loud sang o' the lark,
And the whistling o' the ploughman lads,

As they gaed to their wark ;
I used to wear the bit young lambs

Frae the tod and the roaring stream ;
But the warld is changed, and a' thing now

To me seems like a dream.

How shall I watch for thec, when fears grow

stronger, As night grows dark and darker on the hill ! How shall I weep, when I can watch no longer !

Ah ! art thou absent, art thou absent still ?

Yet I shall grieve not, though the eye that seeth

me

Gazeth through tears that make its splendor

dull;

For oh! I sometimes fear when thou art with me,

My cup of happiness is all too full.

There are busy crowds around me,

On ilka lang dull street ;
Yet, though sac mony surround me,

I ken na ane I meet :
And I think o' kind kent faces,

And o' blithe an' cheery days,
When I wandered out wi' our ain folk,

Out owre the simmer braes.

Haste, haste thee home unto thy mountain dwell

ing,
Haste, as a bird unto its peaceful nest !
Haste, as a skiff, through tempests wide and

swelling,
Flies to its haven of securest rest !

ANONYMOUS.

Waes me, for my heart is breaking !

I think o' my brither sma', And on my sister greeting,

When I cam frae haine awa.
And O, how my mither sobbit,

As she shook me by the hand,
When I left the door o' our auld house,

To come to this stranger land.

ABSENCE.

What shall I do with all the days and hours

That must be counted ere I see thy face? How shall I charm the interval that lowers

Between this time and that sweet time of grace ?

There's nae hame like our ain hame

0, I wush that I were there ! There's nae hame like our ain hame

To be met wi' onywhere ; And 0 that I were back again,

To our farm and fields sae green ; And heard the tongues o' my ain folk,

And were what I hae been !

Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,

Weary with longing ? — shall I flee away Into past days, and with some fond pretence

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! Shall I, these mists of memory locked within,

Leave and forget life's purposes sublime ?

DAVID MACBETH MOIR.

O, how or by what means may I contrive THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. To bring the hour that brings thee back more

near ? Linger not long. Home is not home without How may I teach my drooping hope to live thee :

Until that blessed time, and thou art here? Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn. 0, let its memory, like a chain about thee, I'll tell thee ; for thy sake I will lay hold Gently compel and hasten thy return !

Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee,

In worthy deeds, each moment that is told Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy

While thou, beloved one ! art far from me. staying, Bethink thee, can the mirth of thy friends, For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try though dear,

All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains ; Compensate for the grief thy long delaying For thy dear sake I will walk patiently Costs the fond heart that sighs to have thee Through these long hours, nor call their min. here?

utes pains. Linger not long. How shall I watch thy coming, I will this dreary blank of absence make

As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell; A noble task-time; and will therein strive When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming, To follow excellence, and to o'ertake

Aud silence hangs on all things like a spell ! More good than I have won since yet I live.

So inay 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.

Then I'll sit down and cry,

And live aneath the tree,
And when a leaf fa's i' my lap,

I'll ca't a word frae thee.

FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.

DAY, IN MELTING PURPLE DYING.

Day, in melting purple dying :
Blossoms, all around me sighing;
Fragrance, from the lilies straying;
Zephyr, with my ringlets playing ;

Ye but waken my distress ;
I am sick of loneliness!

I'll hie me to the bower

That thou wi' roses tied,
And where wi' mony a blushing bud

I strove myself to hide.
I'll doat on ilka spot

Where I ha'e been wi' thee;
And ca’ to mind some kindly word
By ilka burn and tree.

SUSANNA BLAMIRE.

Thou, to whom I love to hearken,

A PASTORAL.
Come, ere night around me darken ;
Though thy softness but deceive me,

My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent, Say thou 'rt true, and I'll believe thee;

When Phæbe went with me wherever I went; Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent,

Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my Let me think it innocent !

breast :

Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest ! Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure ; But now she is gone, and has left me behind, All I ask is friendship’s pleasure ;

What a marvellous change on a sudden I find ! Let the shining ore lie darkling,

When things were as fine as could possibly be, Bring no gem in lustre sparkling ;

I thought 't was the Spring ; but alas ! it was Gifts and gold are naught to me,

she. I would only look on thee !

With such a companion to tend a few sheep, Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling, To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep ; Ecstasy but in revealing;

I was so good-humored, so cheerful and gay, Paint to thee the deep sensation,

My heart was as light as a feather all day ; Rapture in participation ;

But now I so cross and so peevish am grown, Yet but torture, if comprest

So strangely uneasy, as never was known. • In a lone, unfriended breast.

My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drowned, Absent still ! Ah ! come and bless me!

And my heart - I am sure it weighs more than

a pound. Let these eyes again caress thee. Once in caution, I could fly thee;

The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, Now, I nothing could deny thee.

And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among; In a look if death there be,

Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phæbe was there, Come, and I will gaze on thee !

'T was pleasure to look at, 't was music to hear : MARIA GOWEN BROOKS (Maria del Occidente). But now she is absent, I walk by its side,

And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide ;

Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain ? WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE?

Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me What ails this heart o' mine?

complain. What ails this watery e'e ? What gars me a' turn pale as death

My lambkins around me would oftentimes When I take leave o' thee ?

play, When thou art far awa',

And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they ;
Thou ’lt dearer grow to me ;

How pleasant their sporting, how happy their

time, But change o' place and change o' folk May gar thy fancy jee.

When Spring, Love, and Beauty were all in

their prime; When I gae out at e'en,

But now, in their frolics when by me they pass, Or walk at morning air,

I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass ; Ilk rustling bush will seem to say

Be still, then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad, I used to meet thee there :

To see you so merry while I am so sad.

green!

My dog I was ever well pleased to see

Will no 'pitying power, that hears me com. Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me; plain, And Phæbe was pleased too, and to my dog said, Or cure my disquiet or soften my pain ? "L'ome hither, poor fellow ;” and patted his To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion rehead.

move ; But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look But what swain is so silly to live without love! Cry “Sirrah !" and give him a blow with my No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return, crook :

For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn. And I 'll give him another; for why should not Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair ; Tray

Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe 's away?

fair.

JOHN BYROM. When walking with Phæbe, what sights have

I seen,
How fair was the flower, how fresh was the

THE SAILOR'S WIFE.*
What a lovely appearance the trees and the

And are ye sure the news is true ? shade,

And are ye sure he's weel?

Is this a time to think o' wark?
The cornfields and hedges and everything made !
But now she has left me, though all are still

Ye jades, lay by your wheel ;
there,

Is this the time to spin a thread,

When Colin 's at the door ? They none of them now so delightful appear : 'T was naught but the magic, I find, of her eyes,

Reach down my cloak, I 'll to the quay, Made so many beautiful prospects arise.

And see him come ashore.

For there's nac luck about the house, Sweet music went with us both all the wood

There's nae luck at a'; through,

There's little pleasure in the house
The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too ;

When our gudeman 's awa'.
Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat,
And chirp! went the grasshopper under our And gie to me my bigonet,
feet.

My bishop's-satin' gown ;
But now she is absent, though still they sing on, For I maun tell the baillie's wife
The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone :

That Colin 's in the town.
Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
Gave everything else its agreeable sound.

My stockin's pearly blue ;

It 's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue ?

For he's baith leal and true.
And where is the violet's beautiful blue ?
Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile ?

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
That meadow, those daisies, why do they not

Put on the muckle pot ; smile?

Gie little Kate her button gown, Ah! rivals, I see what it was that you drest,

And Jock his Sunday coat; And made yourselves fine for a place in her

And mak their shoon as black as slaes, breast ?

Their hose as white as snaw ; You put on your colors to pleasure her eye,

It's a' to please my ain gudeman, To be plucked by her hand, on her bosom to die.

For he's been long awa'. How slowly Time creeps till my Phoebe re

There's twa fat hens upo' the coop turn,

Been fed this month and mair ; While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I

Mak haste and thraw their necks about, burn! Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread,

That Colin weel may fare ; I could breathe on his wings, and 't would melt

And spread the table neat and clean, down the lead.

Gar ilka thing look braw, Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear,

For wha can tell how Colin fared

When he was far awa'? And rest so much longer for 't when she is here. Ah, Colin ! old Time is full of delay, Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst Mariner's Wife is now given. . by common consent,' says Surah

• Bartlett, in his familiar Quotations, las the following : " Th. say.

Tytler, to Jean Adam, 1710-1765.“

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