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There was racing and chasing on Cannobie lea; But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye ere heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
WHEN THE WORLD IS BURNING.
(STANZAS FOR MUSIC.)
HEN the world is burning,
Fired within, yet turning
Till earth fall, fire-swathed;
Gentle flames will glide,
Calm his dreams will bide.
Where the dance is sweeping,
Shall the soft lights start;
O'er the lights shall dart;
When, far down some glade,
MAY AND DEATH.
WISH that when you died last May,
Charles, there had died along with you Three parts of Spring's delightful things ;
Aye, and for me, the fourth part too.
A foolish thought, and worse, perhaps !
There must be many a pair of friends Who, arm in arm, deserve the warm
Moon's birth, and the long evening-ends.
So, for their sake, prove May still May !
Let their new time, like mine of old, Do all it did for me; I bid
Sweet sights and sounds throng manifold.
Only, one little sight, one plant
Woods have in May, that starts up green Except a streak, which, so to speak
Is Spring's blood, spilt its leaves between,
That, they might spare: a certain wood
Might lose the plant; their loss were small : And I,—whene'er the plant is there Its drop comes from my heart, that's all.
ROBERT BROWNING. LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR.
ARISE from dreams of thee,
When the winds are breathing low,
The wandering airs they faint
And the champak odours pine
As I must die on thine,
O lift me from the grass !
Let thy love in kisses rain
O press it to thine own again, Where it will break at last.
THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR.
TULL knee-deep lies the winter snow,
And the winter winds are wearily sighing: Toll
the church-bell sad and slow,
Old year, you must not die;
He lieth still: he doth not move:
He will not see the dawn of day.
Old year, you must not go ;
shall not go.
He froth'd his bumpers to the brim;
A jollier year we shall not see.
Old year, you shall not die ;
you, I've half a mind to die with you,
if you must die.
He was full of joke and jest,
But all his merry quips are o'er,
Every one for his own.
How hard he breathes ! over the snow
I heard just now the crowing cock.
His face is growing sharp and thin.
eyes: tie up his chin : Step from the corpse, and let him in That standeth there alone,
And waiteth at the door.