F SONG. ALSE friend, wilt thou smile or weep Little cares for a smile or a tear What is this whispers low? There is a snake in thy smile, my dear, Sweet sleep, were death like to thee, Listen to the passing-bell! It says thou and I must part, With a light and a heavy heart. SHELLEY. THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL. TH [OLD BALLAD.] HERE lived a wife at Usher's Well, She had three stout and stalwart sons, They hadna been a week from her, When word cam' to the carline wife, They hadna been a week from her, "I wish the wind may never cease, Till my three sons come hame to me, It fell about the Martinmas, It neither grew in syke nor ditch, But at the gates o' Paradise That birk grew fair eneugh. "Blow up the fire, my maidens ! For a' my house shall feast this night, And she has made to them a bed, And she's ta'en her mantle round about, Up then crew the red, red cock, And up and crew the gray; The eldest to the youngest said "'Tis time we were away. "The cock doth craw, the day doth daw, "Lie still, lie still but a little wee while, Gin my mother should miss us when she wakes, "Our mother has nae mair but us; See where she leans asleep; She has happ'd it round our feet." O it's they have ta'en up their mother's mantle, “O lang may ye hing, my mother's mantle, 66 'Fare-ye-weel, my mother dear! And fare-ye-weel, the bonny lass, W THE KNIGHT'S TOMB. HERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? By the side of a spring on the breast of Helvellyn, The oak that in summer was sweet to hear And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year, And whistled and roar'd in the winter alone, Is gone, and the birch in its stead has grown. The Knight's bones are dust, And his good sword rust; His soul is with the saints, I trust. COLERIDGE. THE SHADOW OF NIGHT. H I. OW strange it is to wake And watch while others sleep, Till sight and hearing ache Unroused, lest it should mark II. How strange the distant bay The old and crumbling tower, III. If dreams or panic dread Kiss thou the pillow'd head And so each other keep IV. Albeit the love-sick brain From life's nocturnal swoon : Men melancholy mad, Beasts ravenous and sly, The robber and the murderer, Remorse, with lidless eye. V. The nightingale is gay, For she can vanquish night; Dreaming, she sings of day, Notes that make darkness bright: But when the refluent gloom Saddens the gaps of song, We charge on her the dolefulness, And call her crazed with wrong. VI. 'Tis well that men should lie All senseless, while the sun, Coursing the nether sky, Leaves half the world o'er-run With baleful shapes unseen; And foul it is when we By loud carousal desecrate |