The hunger of my soul were stilled, for Death hath told

you more

Than the melancholy world doth know; things deeper than all lore

You could teach me, Barbara.

In vain, in vain, in vain,

You will never come again.

There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of

rain;

The gloaming closes slowly round, loud winds are in the

tree,

Round selfish shores for ever moans the hurt and wounded

sea,

There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with death and thee, Barbara.

ALEXANDER SMITH.

XXV

BERTRAM AND HELENA

I AM undone there is no living, none,
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 :
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:
The hind, that would be mated with the lion,
Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, though a plague,
To see him every hour; to sit and draw

His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,

In our heart's table; heart, too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favour :
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his relics.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

XXVI

TOO LATE

EACH on his own strict line we move,
And some find death ere they find love;
So far apart their lives are thrown

From the twin soul which halves their own.

And sometimes, by still harder fate,

The lovers meet, but meet too late.

-Thy heart is mine!-True, true! ah, true!

-Then, love, thy hand!-Ah no! adieu!

MATTHEW Arnold.

XXVII

HIGHLAND MARY

YE banks and braes and streams around

The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie !

There simmer first unfaulds her robes,
And there they langest tarry;
For there I took the last farewell

O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasp'd her to my bosom !
The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me, as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And pledging aft to meet again
We tore oursels asunder;

But oh! 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,
I aft hae kissed sae fondly!

And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust,
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!

But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.

ROBERT BUrns.

XXVIII

CLOISTERED LOVE

(ELOISA TO ABELARD)

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot:
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each prayer accepted, and each wish resign'd;
Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;
Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;
Desires compos'd, affections ever even;

Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heaven.
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
And whispering angels prompt her golden dreams.
For her the unfading rose of Eden blooms,
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes;
For her the spouse prepares the bridal ring;
For her, white virgins hymeneals sing;
To sounds of heavenly harps she dies away,
And melts in visions of eternal day.

Far other dreams my erring soul employ,
Far other raptures of unholy joy :
When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day,
Fancy restores what vengeance snatch'd away,
Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free,
All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee.
ALEXANDER POPE.

XXIX

TO MARY IN HEAVEN

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?

Seest 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!

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,

O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar

Twined amorous round the raptured scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed,
The birds sang love on every spray,
Till too, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaimed the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care!
Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.