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Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace
Our parting was fu' tender;
And pledging aft to meet again,
We tore ourselves asunder;
But O! 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.

When first I met Thee.

HEN first I met thee, warm and young,

WHEN

There shone such truth about thee,

And on thy lip such promise hung,
I did not dare to doubt thee.

I saw thee change, yet still relied,
Still clung with hope the fonder,
And thought, though false to all beside,
'From me thou could'st not wander.
But go, deceiver! go.

The heart, whose hopes could make it
Trust one so false, so low,

Deserves that thou shouldst break it.

When every tongue thy follies named,
I fled the unwelcome story;

WHEN FIRST I MET THEE.

Or found, in e'en the faults they blamed,
Some gleams of future glory.

I still was true, when nearer friends
Conspired to wrong, to slight thee;
The heart that now thy falsehood rends
Would then have bled to right thee.
go-

But go, deceiver !

Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken
From pleasure's dream, to know
The grief of hearts forsaken.

E'en now, though youth its bloom has shed,
No lights of age adorn thee:

The few, who loved thee once, have fled,
And they who flatter, scorn thee.

Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves,
No genial ties enwreath it;

The smiling there, like light on graves,
Has rank cold hearts beneath it.
Go-go-though worlds were thine,

I would not now surrender

One taintless tear of mine

For all thy guilty splendor!

And days may come, thou false one! yet,
When e'en those ties shall sever;
When thou wilt call, with vain regret,
On her thou'st lost forever;

On her who, in thy fortune's fall,

With smiles had still received thee,

And gladly died to prove thee all

Her fancy first believed thee.
Go-go-'tis vain to curse,

'Tis weakness to upbraid thee;

Hate cannot wish thee worse

Than guilt and shame have made thee.

161

THOMAS Moore.

The Specter Boat.

A BALLAD.

LIGHT rued false Ferdinand to leave a lovely maid forlorn,

Who broke her heart and died to hide her blushing

cheek from scorn.

One night he dreamt he wooed her in their wonted bower of

love,

Where the flowers sprang thick around them, and the birds sang sweet above.

But the scene was swiftly changed into a churchyard's dismal

view,

And her lips grew black beneath his kiss from love's delicious

hue,

What more he dreamt, he told to none; but, shuddering, pale, and dumb,

Looked out upon the waves like one that knew his hour was

come.

'T was now the dead watch of the night-the helm was lashed

a-lee,

And the ship rode where Mount Ætna lights the deep Levan

tine sea;

When beneath its glare a boat came, rowed by a woman in her shroud,

Who, with eyes that made our blood run cold, stood up and spoke aloud:

"Come, traitor, down, for whom my ghost still wanders unforgiven !

Come down, false Ferdinand, for whom I broke my peace with heaven!"

It was vain to hold the victim, for he plunged to meet her

call,

Like the bird that shrieks and flutters in the gazing serpent's

thrall.

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

163

You may guess the boldest mariner shrunk daunted from the

sight,

For the Specter and her winding-sheet shone blue with hideous light;

Like a fiery wheel the boat spun with the waving of her hand, And round they went, and down they went, as the cock crew from the land.

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Make no deep scrutiny

Into her mutiny,

Rash and undutiful;

Past all dishonor,

Death has left on her

Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers

One of Eve's family

Wipe those poor lips of hers,

Oozing so clammily.

Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb-
Her fair auburn tresses-
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?

Who was her father?

Who was her mother?

Had she a sister?

Had she a brother?

Or was there a dearer one

Still, and a nearer one

Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity

Of Christian charity
Under the sun!

O! it was pitiful!

Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.

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