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Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,
glass Untouch'd, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest, If from a golden perch of aspen spray (October's workmanship to rival May) The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest !
gone, the graceless girl!
But now 'tis turn'd to tears;
So near the brink I stand ;
And led me by the hand.
And call her on the hill;
And plover's answer shrill.
Than they have ever spread ;
That widen'd when she fled.
Full many a thankless child has been,
But never one like mine ;
Her drink was rosy wine.
But now she'll share the robin's food,
sup the common rill,
INCANTATION. (FROM THE TRAGEDY OF REMORSE.”] EAR, sweet spirit, hear the spell,
Lest a blacker charm compel !
Hark! the cadence dies away
On the quiet moonlight sea :
(FROM " ROKEBY."] WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, A weary
lot is thine; To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine.
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
A feather of the blue,
This morn is merry June, I trow;
The rose is budding fain ;-
Ere we two meet again.
Upon the river shore;
his bridle-reins a shake,
My love !
(FROM " A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM."]
And the wolf behowls the moon, Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,
All with weary task foredone. Now the wasted brands do glow;
And the scritch-owl, scritching loud, Puts the wretch that lies in woe
In remembrance of a shroud. Now it is the time of night That the
graves, all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his sprite,
In the church-way paths to glide.
By the triple Hecat's team,
Following darkness like a dream,
WHAT PLEASURE HAVE GREAT
[FROM BYRD's SONGS AND SONNETS OF SADNESS
HAT pleasure have great princes,
Completer to their choice,
In quiet life rejoice,
Their dealings plain and rightful
Are void of all deceit;
It is to kneel and wait
All day their work each tendeth,
At night they take their rest,
His ship into the east,—
Where gold and pearl are plenty,
For lawyers and their pleading,
They 'steem it not a straw;
Is of itself a law,
O happy who thus liveth,
Not caring much for gold;
To keep him from the cold ;
is he, and quiet.
FAIR HELEN OF KIRKCONNELL.
[OLD BALLAD.] [Adam Fleming, says tradition, loved Helen Irving,
or Bell, (for this surname is uncertain, as well as the date of the occurrence) daughter of the Laird of Kirkconnell, in Dumfriesshire. The lovers being together one day by the river Kirtle, a rival suitor suddenly appeared on the opposite bank and pointed his gun; Helen threw herself before her sweetheart, received the bullet, and died in his arms. Then Adam Fleming fought with his guilty rival and slew him.]
WISH I were where Helen lies !
Night and day on me she cries ;
On fair Kirkconnell lea!