FROM LOVE'S MEMORY. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL." I AM undone there is no living, none, SHAKESPEARE. THE SUN UPON THE LAKE IS LOW. THE sun upon the lake is low, The wild birds hush their song, The hills have evening's deepest glow, Yet Leonard tarries long. Now all whom varied toil and care From home and love divide, In the calm sunset may repair Each to the loved one's side. The noble dame on turret high, The flash of armor bright. The village maid, with hand on brow For Colin's darkening plaid. Now to their mates the wild swans row, By day they swam apart, And to the thicket wanders slow The hind beside the hart. The woodlark at his partner's side All meet whom day and care divide, But Leonard tarries long! SIR WALTER SCOTT. O, SAW YE BONNIE LESLEY? O, SAW ye bonnie Lesley As she gaed o'er the border? She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther. To see her is to love her, And love but her forever; For nature made her what she is, And ne'er made sic anither! Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects we, before thee; Thou art divine, fair Lesley, The hearts o' men adore thee. The deil he could na scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee; He'd look into thy bonnie face, And say 'I canna wrang thee !' The Powers aboon will tent thee; Misfortune sha' na steer thee; Thou 'rt like themselves sae lovely That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie ! That we may brag we hae a lass There's nane again sae bonnie. ROBERT BURNS JEANIE MORRISON. I've wandered east, I've wandered west, Through mony a weary way; But never, never can forget The luve o' life's young day! O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows ower my path, And blind my een wi' tears: They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, "T was then we twa did part; Sweet time sad time! twa bairns at scule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart! "T was then we sat on ae laigh bink, To leir ilk ither lear; And tones and looks and smiles were shed, Remembered evermair. I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but O, mind ye how we hung our heads, My head rins round and round about, When hinnied hopes around our hearts O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, The throssil whusslit in the wood, The burn sang to the trees, And on the knowe abune the burn In the silentness o' joy, till baith Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trickled doun your cheek When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled-unsung! I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts O, tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine! O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit I've wandered east, I've wandered west. But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sindered young Did I but ken your heart still dreamed THERE lived a singer in France of old There shone one woman, and none but she. Died, praising God for his gift and grace: For she bowed down to him weeping, and said, "Live"; and her tears were shed on his face Or ever the life in his face was shed. The sharp tears fell through her hair, and stung Once, and her close lips touched him and clung Once, and grew one with his lips for a space; And so drew back, and the man was dead. O brother, the gods were good to you. Sleep, and be glad while the world endures. Be well content as the years wear through; Give thanks for life, and the loves and lures; Give thanks for life, O brother, and death, For the sweet last sound of her feet, her breath, For gifts she gave you, gracious and few, Tears and kisses, that lady of yours. DAY, IN MELTING PURPLE DYING DAY, in melting purple dying; Blossoms, all around me sighing; Fragrance, from the lilies straying; Zephyr, with my ringlets playing; Ye but waken my distress; I am sick of loneliness! Thou, to whom I love to hearken, Let me think it innocent ! Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure ; Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling, Yet but torture, if comprest Absent still! Ah! come and bless me ! In a look if death there be, MARIA BROOKS BY THE ALMA RIVER. Ask no more, child. Never heed Come, we'll lay us down, my child; Poor the bed is, Sleeps upon the open sward, Willie, Willie, go to sleep; Faster, and send news of joy; By the Alma River." DINAH MARIA MULOCK. THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. LINGER not long. Home is not home without thee: Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy staying, Bethink thee, can the mirth of thy friends, though dear, Compensate for the grief thy long delaying Costs the fond heart that sighs to have thee here? Linger not long. How shall I watch thy coming, As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell; When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming, And silence hangs on all things like a spell! WHAT shall I do with all the days and hours Of casting from me God's great gift of time? Shall I, these mists of memory locked within, Leave and forget life's purposes sublime? O, how or by what means may I contrive To bring the hour that brings thee back more near? How may I teach my drooping hope to live Until that blessed time, and thou art here? I will this dreary blank of absence make More good than I have won since yet I live. So may this doomed time build up in me A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine; So may my love and longing hallowed be, And thy dear thought an influence divine. FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE DISAPPOINTMENT AND ESTRANGEMENT. THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. FROM MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM." FOR aught that ever I could read, The course of true love never did run smooth: Behold! SHAKESPEARE. THE BANKS O' DOON. YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, And I sae weary, fu' o' care? Thou 'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, 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'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree; And my fause luver stole my rose, But ah he left the thorn wi' me. ROBERT BURNS. AULD ROBIN GRAY. WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; hame, And a' the warld to sleep are gane; The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee, When my gudeman lies sound by me. I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin; LADY ANNE BARNARD. |