Hush! my heedless feet from under,
Slip the crumbling banks for ever :
Like echoes to a distant thunder,

They plunge into the gentle river.
The river-swans have heard my tread,
And startle from their reedy bed.
O beauteous birds! methinks ye measure
Your movements to some heavenly tune!
O beauteous birds! 'tis such a pleasure
To see you move beneath the moon,
I would it were your true delight
To sleep by day and wake by night.

I know the place where Lewti lies,
When silent night has closed her eyes;
It is a breezy jasmine-bower,
The nightingale sings o'er her head :
Voice of the night, had I the power

That leafy labyrinth to thread,

And creep, like thee, with soundless tread,
I then might view her bosom white

Heaving lovely to my sight,

As these two swans together heave
On the gently-swelling wave.

Oh! that she saw me in a dream,

And dreamt that I had died for care!

All pale and wasted I would seem,

Yet fair withal, as spirits are!
I'd die indeed, if I might see
Her bosom heave, and heave for me!
Soothe, gentle image! soothe my mind!

To-morrow Lewti may be kind.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERidge.

XLII

THE GAY GOSS HAWK

"O WALY, waly, my gay goss hawk, Gin your feathering be sheen!" "And waly, waly, my master dear, Gin ye look pale and lean.

"O have ye tint, at tournament,
Your sword, or yet your spear?
Or mourn ye for the Southern lass,
Whom ye may not win near?”

"I have not tint, at tournament,
My sword nor yet my spear;
But sair I mourn for my true love,
Wi' mony a bitter tear.

"But weel's me on ye, my gay goss hawk,
Ye can baith speak and flee;
Ye sall carry a letter to my love,
Bring an answer back to me."

"But how sall I your true love find,
Or how suld I her know?

I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake,
An eye that ne'er her saw."

"O weel sall ye my true love ken,
Sae sune as ye her see;

For of a' the flowers of fair England,
The fairest flower is she.

"The red that's on my true love's cheek,
Is like blood-drops on the snaw ;

The white that is on her breast bare,
Like the down o' the white sea-maw.

"And even at my love's bour door
There grows a flowering birk;
And ye maun sit and sing thereon
As she gangs to the kirk.

“And four-and-twenty fair ladyes
Will to the mass repair;
But weel may ye my ladye ken,
The fairest ladye there."

Lord William has written a love-letter,
Put it under his pinion gray;

And he is awa' to Southern land,

As fast as wings can gae.

And even at that ladye's bour

There grew a flowering birk; And he sat down and sung thereon As she gaed to the kirk.

And weel he kent that ladye fair

Amang her maidens free ;

For the flower, that springs in May morning,

Was not sae sweet as she.

He lighted at the ladye's yate,

And sat him on a pin ;

And sang fu' sweet the notes o' love,

Till a' was cosh1 within.

1 Cosh-quiet.

And first he sang a low, low note,
And syne he sang a clear ;

And aye the o'erword o' the sang

Was-"Your love can no win here."

"Feast on, feast on, my maidens a’,
The wine flows you amang,
While I gang to my shot-window,
And hear yon bonny bird's sang.

66

Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird,
The sang ye sung yestreen;
For weel I ken, by your sweet singing,
Ye are frae my true love sen."

O first he sang a merry song,
And syne he sang a grave;

And syne he peck'd his feathers gray,
To her the letter gave.

"Have there a letter from Lord William ; He says he's sent ye three.

He canna wait your love langer,
But for your sake he'll dee."

"Gae bid him bake his bridal bread, And brew his bridal ale;

And I shall meet him at Mary's Kirk, Lang, lang ere it be stale."

The ladye's gane to her chamber,

And a moanfu' woman was she;

As gin she had ta'en a sudden brash,1
And were about to dee.

1 Brash-sickness.

F

"A boon, a boon, my father deir,
A boon I beg of thee!"
"Ask not that paughty Scottish lord,
For him you ne'er shall see.

"But, for your honest asking else,
Weel granted it shall be."
"Then, gin I die in Southern land,
In Scotland gar bury me.

"And the first kirk that ye come to,
Ye's gar the mass be sung;
And the next kirk that ye come to,
Ye's gar the bells be rung.

"And when ye come to St. Mary's Kirk,
Ye's tarry there till night."
And so her father pledged his word,
And so his promise plight.

She has ta'en her to her bigly bour
As fast as she could fare;

And she has drank a sleepy draught,
That she had mixed wi' care.

And pale, pale grew her rosy cheek,
That was sae bright of blee,
And she seemed to be as surely dead
As any one could be.

Then spak' her cruel step-minnie,
"Tak' ye the burning lead,
And drap a drap on her bosome,
To try if she be dead."