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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 hear him speak ?
In troth I'm like to greet !
I hae nae mair to crave :
I'm blest aboon the lave :
And will I hear him speak ?
In troth I 'm like to greet.
There's nae luck at a';
WILLIAM JAMES MICKLE.
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.
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,
Was discord to her ear.
Nor could the bright green world around
A joy to her impart,
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
Swallows will fit round the desolate ruin,
som ; The waste of my life has a rose-root within it, And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can
Figure that moves like a song through the even ;
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.
l'ome to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow,
Eloisa to Abelard.
THE UNWELCOME LOVER.
I dote on his very absence.
Merchant of Venice, Ad i. Sc.2. Conceal, disdain, - do all things but forget.
PRESENCE IN ABSENCE.
Though I must go, endure not yet
Like gold to airy thinness beat.
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.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
d Valediction forbidding Mourning. Dk. ; DONNE
DISAPPOINTMENT AND ESTRANGEMENT.
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.
THE BANKS O'DOON.
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears
in his e'e, Said, “Jennie, for their sakes, will you marry
My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie back;
Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
And I sae weary, fu' o'care?
That wantons through the flowering thorn ;
Departed — never to return.
That sings beside thy mate;
And wistna o' my fate.
To see the rose and woodbine twine ;
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.
O sair, sair did we greet, and mickle did we say :
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.
FROM "MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM," ACT I. SC. 1.
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
Away thy breath!
For aught that ever I could read,
BYRON'S LATEST VERSES.
(Missolonghi, January 23, 1824. On this day I completed my
It was the autumn of the year ;
'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!
My 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 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
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;
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.
Your life's proud aim, your art's high trutlı,
I knew, I knew it could not last, "T was bright, 't was heavenly, but 't is past ! (), 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 ine well,
And love me, it was sure to die !
Of all I ever dreamt or knew,
O misery! must I lose that too ?”
FROM "TWELFTIL NIGHT," ACT I. SC. 4
I used to dream in all these years
ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN (Florence Percy).
VIOLA. Ay, but I know,
may owe :
DUKE. And what's her history?
LINDA TO HAFED.
FROM "THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.'
DOROTHY IN THE GARRET.
“How sweetly," said the trembling maid,
Were wafted off to seas unknown,
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
In the low-raftered 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.