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A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye ! Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be ; But she is in her grave, and 0,
The difference to me!
THE PRETTY GIRL OF LOCH DAN.
But, Mary, you have naught to fear,
Though smiled on by two stranger-men. Not for a crown would I alarm
Your virgin pride by word or sign, Nor need' a painful blush disarm
My friend of thoughts as pure as mine. Her simple heart could not but feel
The words we spoke were free from guile ; She stooped, she blushed, she fixed her wheel,
'T is all in vain, she can't but smile ! Just like sweet April's dawn appears
Her modest face, - I see it yet,
Methinks I never could forget
Fills all her downcast eyes with light;
The white teeth struggling into sight,
The rosy cheek that won't be still :-
Did smiles like this reward their skill ?
Though loudly beats the midnight rain, I'd take the mountain-side e'en now,
And walk to Luggelaw again !
The shades of eve had crossed the glen
That frowns o'er infant Avonmore, When, nigh Loch Dan, two weary men,
We stopped before a cottage door. “God save all here," my comrade cries,
And rattles on the raised latch-pin; “God save you kindly," quick replies
A clear sweet voice, and asks us in.
A rosy girl with soft black eyes :
Her blushing grace and pleased surprise.
For, all the way to Glenmalure, Her mother had that morning gone,
And left the house in charge with her. But neither household cares, nor yet
The shame that startled virgins feel,
Her wonted hospitable zeal.
Sweet milk that smacked of mountain thyme, Oat cake, and such a yellow roll
Of butter, – it gilds all my rhyme ! And, while we ate the grateful food
(With weary limbs on bench reclined), Considerate and discreet, she stood
Apart, and listened to the wind.
TO A HIGHLAND GIRL.
AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND.
Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
- a veil just half withdrawn,
Kind wishes both our souls engaged,
From breast to breast spontaneous ran The mutual thought, - we stood and pledged
THE MODEST ROSE ABOVE Loch Dan.
" The milk we drink is not more pure,
Sweet Mary, - bless those budding charms!— Than your own generous heart, I 'm sure,
Nor whiter than the breast it warms !"
She turned and gazed, unused to hear
Such language in that homely glen;
With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away ;
SWEET STREAM, THAT WINDS. Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade, Apt emblem of a virtuous maid, Silent and chaste she steals along, Far from the world's gay, busy throng; With gentle yet prevailing force, Intent upon her destined course ; Graceful and useful all she does, Blessing and blest where'er she goes ; Pure-bosomed as that watery glass, And Heaven reflected in her face.
For never saw I mien or face In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence. Here scattered like a random seed, Remote from men, thou dost not need The embarrassed look of shy distress, And maidenly shamefacedness : Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a mountaineer ; A face with gladness overspread, Soft smiles, by human kindness bred ; And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech, A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life! So have I, not unmoved in mind, Seen birds of tempest-loving kind, Thus beating up against the wind.
She stood breast high amid the corn, Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won. On her cheek an autumn flush Deeply ripened ; -- such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn. Round her eyes her tresses fell, Which were blackest none could tell ; But long lashes veiled a light That had else been all too bright.
What hand but would a garland cull
Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace
Behold, my lords, As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, Although the print be little, the whole matter I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came. And copy of the father : eye, nose, lip,
Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. The trick of his frown, his forehead ; nay, the valley,
BOYISH AMBITION. The pretty dimples of his chin, and cheek ; his smiles ;
But strive still to be a man before your mother.
COW PER The very mould and frame of hand, nail, finger.
Motto of No. III. Connoisseur. Winter's Tale, Act ii, Sc. 3.
Thou wilt scarce be a man before thy mother. O, 't is a parlous boy ;
Love's Cure, Act ii. Sc. 2. BEAUMONT and FLETCHER, Bold, quick, ingenious, forward, capable ; He is all the mother's from the top to toe.
SCHOOL-DAYS. Richard III., Act. iii. Sc. I.
The school-boy, with his satchel in his hand,
Whistling aloud to bear his courage up. EARLY DEATH. “Whom the gods love die young," was said of Besides, they always smell of bread and butter.
Manfred. yore. Don Juan, Cant. iv. Stan. 12.
You'd scarce expect one of my age Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade,
To speak in public on the stage ; Death came with friendly care ;
And if I chance to fall below The opening bud to Heaven conveyed,
Demosthenes or Cicero, Aud bade it blossom there.
Don't view me with a critic's eye, Epitaph on an Infant.
But pass my imperfections by.
Large streams from little fountains flow,
Lines written for a School Declamation.
Don Juan, Cant. ii.
S. T. COLERIDGE.
But, children, you should never let
Your angry passions rise ; Your little hands were never made
To tear each other's eyes. Song XVI.
Oh, Mirth and Innocence ! Oh, Milk and Water ! Ye happy inixtures of more happy days !
Manfred. Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes ;
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm ; Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, That, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening
prey. The Bard, II. 2. Yet, ah! why should they know their fate,
Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies?
Thought would destroy their paradise. No more ; · where ignorance is bliss,
"T is folly to be wise. Ona Distant Inspire of pilon Collare.
MILTON. One eare it heard, at the other out it went. Trotius and Crescide, Book iv.
CHAUCER. Children blessings seem, but torments are ; When young, our folly, and when old, our fear. Don Carlos.
OTWAY. I remember, I remember
How my childhood fleeted by, The mirth of its December,
And the warmth of its July. I Remember, I Remember.