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Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,

His breath like caller air ; His very foot has music in 't

As he comes up the stair,
And will I see his face again ?

And will I hear him speak ?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,

In troth I'm like to greet !
If Colin's weel, and weel content,

I hae nae mair to crave :
And gin I live to keep him sae

I'm blest aboon the lave :
And will I see his face again ?

And will I hear him speak ?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,

In troth I 'm like to greet.
For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck at a';
There's little pleasure in the honse
When our gudeman 's awa'.

WILLIAM JAMES MICKLE.

ABSENCE.

Whes I think on the happy days

I spent wi' you, my dearie ; And now what lands between us lie,

How can I be but eerie !

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours,

As ye were wae and weary! It was na sae ye glinted by When I was wi' my dearie.

ANONYMOUS.

ON A PICTURE. When summer o'er her native hills

A veil of beauty spread, She sat and watched her gentle flocks

And twined her flaxen thread.

The mountain daisies kissed her feet;

The moss sprung greenest there ; The breath of summer fanned her cheek

And tossed her wavy hair.

The heather and the yellow gorse

Bloomed over hill and wold, And clothed them in a royal robe

Of purple and of gold. There rose the skylark's gushing song,

There hummed the laboring bee; And merrily the mountain stream

Ran singing to the sea.

But while she missed from those sweet sounds

The voice she sighed to hear,
The song of bee and bird and stream

Was discord to her ear.

Nor could the bright green world around

A joy to her impart,
For still she missed the eyes that made
The summer of her heart.

ANNE C. LYNCH (MRS. BOTTAJ

COME TO ME, DEAREST. COME to me, dearest, I'm lonely without thee, Daytime and night-time, I'm thinking about

thee; Night-time and daytime, in dreams I behold

thee;
Unwelcome the waking which ceases to fold thee.
Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten,
Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten;
Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly,
Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy.

Swallows will fit round the desolate ruin,
Telling of spring and its joyous renewing ;
And thoughts of thy love, and its manifold treas-

ure,
Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure.
O Spring of my spirit, 0 May of my bosom,
Shine out on my soul, till it bourgeon and blos-

som ; The waste of my life has a rose-root within it, And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can

win it.

Figure that moves like a song through the even ;
Features lit up by a reflex of heaven ;
Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother,
Where shadow and sunshine are chasing each

other; Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and simple, Planting in each rosy cheek a sweet dimple ; 0, thanks to the Saviour, that even thy seeming Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming.

You have been glad when you knew I was glad

dened ; Dear, are you sad now to hear I am saddened ? Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time,

love, As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme,

love : I cannot weep but your tears will be flowing, You cannot smile but my cheek will be glowing; I would not die without you at my side, love, You will not linger when I shall have died, love.

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l'ome to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow,
Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow ;
Strong, swift, and fond as the words which I

speak, love,
With a song on your lip and a smile on your

cheek, love.
Come, for my heart in your absence is weary,
Haste, for my spirit is sickened and dreary,
Come to the arms which alone should caress thes,
Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee!

JOSEPH BRENNAN.

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FRAGMENTS.

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SHAKESPEARE

Eloisa to Abelard.

POPE.

M. DRAYTON,

THE UNWELCOME LOVER.
Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state,
How often must it love, how often hate.

I dote on his very absence.
How often hope, despair, resent, regret,

Merchant of Venice, Ad i. Sc.2. Conceal, disdain, - do all things but forget.

PRESENCE IN ABSENCE.
Though absent, present in desires they be ; Our two souls, therefore, which are one,
Our souls much further than our eyes can see.

Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,

Like gold to airy thinness beat.
When, musing on companions gone,

If they be two, they are two so We donbly feel ourselves alone.

As stiff twin compasses are two; Alarmion, Cani. ii. Introd,

Thy soul, the fixt foot, makes no show To live with them is far less sweet

To move, but doth if the other do. Than to remember thee!

And though it in the centre sit,

Yet when the other far doth roam, I saw thy' form.

It leans and hearkens after it,

And grows erect, as that comes home.
HOPE DEFERRED.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Long did his wife, Like the other foot, obliquely run.
Suckling her babe, her only one, look out Thy firmuess makes my circle jr.st,
The way he went at parting, – but he came not ! And makes me end where I begun.
Italy.

d Valediction forbidding Mourning. Dk. ; DONNE

SCOTT.

MOORE.

ROGERS.

DISAPPOINTMENT AND ESTRANGEMENT.

SONNET.

Young Jamie lo’ed me weel, and sought me for

his bride ; With how sad steps, 0 Moon ! thon climb'st the

But saving a crown, he had naething else beside. skies,

To make the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to How silently, and with how wan a face !

sea ; What may it be, that even in heavenly place

And the crown and the pound, they were baithi That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries?

for me! Sure, if that long with love acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case ;

He hadna been awa' a week but only twa, I read it iu thy looks, thy languished grace

When my mither she fell sick, and the cow was To me that feel the like thy state descries.

stown awa ; Then, even of fellowship, O Moou, tell me,

My father brak his arm — my Jamie at the sea – Is constant love deemed there but want of wit ?

And Auld Robin Gray came a-courting me. Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess ? My father couldna work, — my mither couldna

spin ; Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

win;

THE BANKS O'DOON.

Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears

in his e'e, Said, “Jennie, for their sakes, will you marry

me?"

My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie back;
But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack;
His ship it was a wrack! Why didna Jennie dee?
And wherefore was I spared to cry, Wae is me!

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,

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.
Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird,

That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,

And wistna o' my fate.
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'l a rose,

Fu'sweet upon its thorny tree ; And my fause luver stole my rose,

But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

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ROBERT BURNS.

O sair, sair did we greet, and mickle did we say :
Ae kiss we took nae mair – 1 bad him gang

away.
I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee,
And why do 1 live to say, Wae is me!

AULD ROBIN GRAY.

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye a' 1 gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin ; at hame,

I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin. When a' the weary world to sleep are gane, But I will do my best a gude wife aye to be, The waes o' my heart fa’ in showers frae my e'e, For Auld Robin Gray, he is kind to me. Whilo my gudeman lies sound by me.

LADY ANNE BARNARD

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.

Tread those reviving passions down,

Unworthy manhood ! unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown

Of beauty be.

If thou regrett'st thy youth, — why live ?

The land of honorable death
Is here : -- up to the field, and give

Away thy breath!

FROM " MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM," ACT I. SC. 1. For aught that ever I could read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth : But, either it was different in blood, Or else misgraffèd in respect of years ; Or else it stood upon the choice of friends ; Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it, Making it momentary as a sound, Swift as a shadow, short as any dream ; Brief as the lightning in the collied night, That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, And ere a man hath power to say, - Behold! The jaws of darkness do devour it up: So quick bright things come to confusion.

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SHAKESPEARE.

BYRON'S LATEST VERSES.

(Missolonghi, January 23, 1824. On this day I completed my

thirty-sixth year

It was the autumn of the year ;
The strawberry-leaves were red and sear;
October's airs were fresh and chill,
When, pausing on the windy hill,
The hill that overlooks the sea,
You talked confidingly to me, –
Me whom your keen, artistic sight
Has not yet learned to read aright,
Since I have veiled my heart from you,
And loved you better than you knew.

"T is time this heart should be unmoved,

Since others it has ceased to move : Yet, though I cannot be beloved,

Still let me love!

Vy days are in the yellow leaf,

The flowers and fruits of love are gone : The worm, the canker, and the grief,

Are mine alone.

The fire that in my bosom preys

Is like to some volcanic isle ; No torch is kindled at its blaze,

A funeral pile.

You told me of your toilsome past;
The tardy honors won at last,
The trials borne, the conquests gained,
The longed-for boon of Fame attained ;
I knew that every victory
But lifted you away from me,
That every step of high emprise
But left me lowlier in your eyes ;
I watched the distance as it grew,
And loved you better than you knew.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,

The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share,

But wear the chain.

But 't is not thus, --- and 't is not here,

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now Where glory decks the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

You did not see the bitter trace
Of anguish sweep across my face ;
You did not hear my proud heart beat,
Heavy and slow, beneath your feet;
You thought of triumphs still unwon,
Of glorious deeds as yet undone ;
And I, the while you talked to me,
I watched the gulls float lonesomely,
Till lost amid the hungry blue,
And loved you better than you knew.

The sword, the banner, and the field,

Glory and Greece about us see ; The Spartan borne upon his shield

Was not more free.

Awake! - not Greece, - she is awake!

Awake my spirit! think through whom Thy life-blood tastes its parent lake,

And then strike home!

You walk the sunny side of fate;
The wise world smiles, and calls you great ;
The golden fruitage of success
Drops at your feet in plenteousness ;
And you have blessings manifold :-
Renown and power and friends and gold, -

They build a wall between us twain, Which may not be thrown down again, Alas! for I, the long years through, Have loved you better than you knew.

I knew, I knew it could not last, "T was bright, 't was heavenly, but 't is past ! O, ever thus, from childhood's hour,

I've seen my fondest hopes decay ; I never loved a tree or flower

But 't was the first to fade away. I never nursed a dear gazelle,

To glad me with its soft black eye, But when it came to know me well,

And love me, it was sure to die !
Now, too, the joy most like divine

Of all I ever dreamt or knew,
To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine,

O misery! must I lose that too ?”

THOMAS MOORE.

Your life's proud aim, your art's high truth,
Have kept the promise of your youth ;
And while you won the crown,

which now
Breaks into bloom upon your brow,
My soul cried strongly out to you
Across the ocean's yearning blue,
While, unremembered and afar,
I watchel you, as I watch a star
Through darkness struggling into view,
And loved you better than you knew.
I used to dream in all these years
of patient faith and silent tears,
That Love's strong hand would put aside
The barriers of place and pride,
Would reach the pathless darkness through,
And draw me softly up to you ;
But that is past. If you should stray
Beside my grave, some future day,
Perehance the violets o'er my dust
Will half betray their buried trust,
And say, their blue eyes full of dew,
“She loved you better than you knew."

ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN (Florence Perov).

UNREQUITED LOVE.

FROM "TWELFTIL NIGHT," ACT I. SC. 4.

VIOLA. Ay, but I know,
DUKE. What dost thou know?
Viola. Too well what love women to men

may owe:
In faith, they are as true of heart as we.
My father had a daughter loved a man,
As it might be, perhaps, were 1 a woman,
I should your lorılship.

DUKE. And what's her history?
Viola. A blank, my lord. She never told

her love,
But let concealment, like a worn i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek; she pined in thought;
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like Patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed ?
We men may say more, swear more: but, indeed,
Our shows are more than will ; for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.

LINDA TO HAFED.

FROM "THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.'

SHAKESPEARE,

“ How sweetly," said the trembling maid,
Of her own gentle voice afraid,
So long had they in silence stood,
Looking upon that moonlight food,
How sweetly does the moonbeam smile
To-night upon yon leafy isle !
Oft in my fancy's wanderings,
I've wished that little isle had wings,
And we, within its fairy bowers,

Were wafted off to seas unknown,
Where not a pulse should beat but ours,

And we might live, love, die alone! Far from the cruel and the cold,

Where the bright eyes of angels only
Should come around us, to behold

A paradise so pure and lonely !
Would this be world enough for thee?".
Playful she turned, that he might see

The passing smile her cheek put on ;
But when she marked how mournfully

His eyes met hers, that smile was gone ; And, bursting into heartfelt tears, “Yes, yes,” she cried, “my hourly fears, My dreams, have boded all too right, forever part

to-night!

DOROTHY IN THE GARRET. In the low-rastered garret, stooping

Carefully over the creaking boards, Old Maid Dorothy goes a-groping

Among its dusty and cobwebbed hoards ; Seeking some bundle of patches, hid

Far under the eaves, or bunch of sage, Or satchel hung on its nail, amid

The heirlooms of a bygone age. There is the ancient family chest,

There the ancestral cards and hatchel ; Dorothy, sighing, sinks down to rest,

Forgetful of patches, sage, and satchel. Ghosts of faces peer from the gloom

Of the chimney, where, with swifts and reel, And the long-disused, dismantled loom,

Stands the old-fashioned spinning-wheel.

We part

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