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But, with her heart, if not her ear,
The old loved voice she seemed to hear :
“I wait to meet thee : be of cheer
For all is well !"

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

TO LUCASTA.

IF to be absent were to be

Away from thee;
Or that, when I am gone,

You or I were alone ;
Then, my Lucasta, might I crave
Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave.
But I'll not sigh one blast or gale

To swell my sail,
Or pay a tear to 'suage

The foaming blue-god's rage ;
For, whether he will let me pass
Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.
Though seas and lands be 'twixt us both,

Our faith and troth,
Like separated souls,

All time and space controls :
Above the highest sphere we meet,
Unseen, unknown ; and greet as angels greet.
So, then, we do anticipate

Our after-fate,
And are alive i'th' skies,

If thus our lips and eyes
Can speak like spirits unconfined
In heaven, their earthly bodies left behind.

COLONEL RICHARD LOVELACE

OF

A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN

BLAW.

OF a' the airts the wind can blaw,

I dearly like the west;
For there the bonnie lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best.
There wild woods grow, and rivers row,

And monie a hill's between ;
Bat day and night my fancy's flight

Is ever wi' my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flowers,

I see her sweet and fair ;

ABSENCE.

TO HER ABSENT SAILOR.

FROM

«• THE TENT ON THE BEACH."

Her window opens to the bay,
On glistening light or misty gray,
And there at dawn and set of day

In prayer she kneels :
“Dear Lord !” she saith, “to many a home
From wind and wave the wanderers come;
I only see the tossing foam

Of stranger keels.

“Blown out and in by summer gales,
The stately ships, with crowded sails,
And sailors leaning o'er their rails,

Before me glide;
They come, they go, but nevermore,
Spice-laden from the Indian shore,
I see his swift-winged Isidore

The waves divide.

"O thou ! with whom the night is day
And one the near and far away,
Look out on yon gray waste, and say

Where lingers he.
Alive, perchance, on some lone beach
Or thirsty isle beyond the reach
Of man, he hears the mocking speech

Of wind and sea.
"O) dread and cruel deep, reveal
The secret which thy

waves conceal, And, ye wild sea

a-birds, hither wheel
And tell your tale.
Let winds that tossed his raven hair
A message from my lost one bear,
Some thought of ine, a last fond prayer

Or dying wail !
"Come, with your drcariest truth shut out
The fears that haunt me round about ;
O God! I cannot bear this doubt

That stifles breath.
The worst is better than the dread ;
Give me but leave to mourn my dead
Asleep in trust and hope, instead

Of life in death !”

It might have been the evening breeze
That whispered in the garden trees,
It might have been the sound of seas

That rose and fell;

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FROM “ALL 'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL." I an undone : there is no living, none, If Bertram be away. It were all one, That I should love a bright particular star, And think to wed it, he is so above me : In his bright radiance and collateral light Must I be comforted, not in his sphere. The ambition in my love thus plagues itself : The hind that would be mated by the lion Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, though a plague, To see him ev'ry hour; to sit and draw His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls, In our heart's table, - heart too capable Of every line and trick of his sweet favor : But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy Must sanctify his relics.

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,

Who waits her gallant knight,
Looks to the western beam to spy

The flash of armor bright.
The village maid, with hand on brow

The level ray to shade,
Upon the footpath watches now

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 woollark at his partner's side

Twitters his closing song,
All meet whom day and care divide,

But Leonard tarries long !

O, SAW YE BONNIE LESLEY 1

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 sley

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!
The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en

May weel be black gin Yule ;
But blacker fa' awaits the heart

Where first fond luve grows cule.

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.

'T was then we luvit ilk ither veci,

'T was then we tua did part : Sweet time --- sad time ! twa bairns at scule,

Twa bairns, and but ae heart!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,

Gin I hae been to thee . As closely twined wi' earliest thochts

As ye hae been to me?
0, tell me gin their music fills

Thine ear as it does mine!
O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit

Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?
I've wandered east, I've wandered west.

I've borne a weary lot ;
But in my wanderings, far or near,

Ye never were forgot.
The fount that first burst frae this heart

Still travels on its way ;
And channels deeper, as it rins,

The luve o' life's young day.
O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Since we were sindered young
I've never seen your face nor heard

The music o' your tongue ;
But I could hug all wretchedness.

And happy could I die,
Did I but ken your heart still dreamed

O' bygone days and me!

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL

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'T was then we sat on ae laigh bink,

To leir ilk ither lear; Ånd 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,

What our wee heads could think.
When baith bent doun ower ae braid page,

Wi' ae buik on our knee,
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but

My lesson was in thee.

0, mind ye how we hung our heads,

How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin', said

We cleeked thegither hame ? And mind ye o' the Saturdays,

(The scule then skail't at noon,) When we ran off to speel the braes, —

The broomy braes o' June ?

My head rins round and round about, –

My heart flows like a sea,
As ane by and the thochts rush back

O' scule-time, and o' thee.
O mornin' life ! O mornin' luve !

O lichtsome days and lang,
When hinnied hopes around our hearts

Like simmer blossoms sprang ! 0, mind ye, luve, how aft we left

The deavin' dinson w toun,
To wander by the green burnside,

And hear its waters croon ?
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,

The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wood

The throssil whusslit sweet ;

The throssil whusslit in the wood,

The burn sang to the trees,
And we, with nature's heart in tune,

Concerted harmonies ;
And on the knowe abune the burn

For hours thegither sat
In the silentness o’joy, till baith

Wi' very gladness grat.
Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Tears trickled doun

your
Like dw-beads on a rose, yet nane

Had ony power to speak !
That was a time, a

blessed time,
When hearts were fresh and young,
When freely gushed all feelings forth,

Unsyllabled unsung!

cheek

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;
Zephvr, with my ringlets playing ;

Ye but waken my distress;
I am sick of loneliness!

Thou, to whom I love to hearken,
Come, ere night around me darken;
Though thy softness but deceive me,
Say thou 'rt true, and I'll believe thee;

Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent,
Let me think it innocent !

Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure ;
All I ask is friendship's pleasure;
Let the shining ore lie darkling,
Bring no gem in lustre sparkling;

Gifts and gold are naught to me,

I would only look on thee!
Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling,
Ecstasy, but in revealing ;
Paint to thee the deep sensation,
Rapture in participation;

Yet but torture, if comprest
In a lone, unfriended breast.

Absent still! Ah! come and bless me!
Let these eyes again caress thee.
Once in cantion, I could fly thee;
Now, I nothing could deny thee.

In a look if death there be,
Come, and I will gaze on thee!

MARIA BROOKS

BY THE ALMA RIVER.

Willie, fold your little hands;

Let it drop, — that “soldier" toy ; Look where father's picture stands,

Father, that here kissed his boy
Not a month since, — father kind,
Who this night may (never mind
Mother's sob, my Willie dear)
Cry out loud that He may hear
Who is God of battles, cry,
“God keep father safe this day

By the Alma River !”

Ask no more, child. Never heed

Either Russ, or Frank, or Turk; Right of nations, trampled creed,

Chance-poised victory's bloody work ; Any flag i' the wind may roll On thy heights, Sevastopol !

Rest, and be glad of the gods ; but I,

How shall I praise them, or how take rest ?
There is not room under all the sky

For me that know not of worst or best,
Dream or desire of the days before,
Sweet things or bitterness, any more.
Love will not come to me now though I die,

As love came close to you, breast to breast.

I shall never be friends again with roses ;
I shall loathe sweet tunes, where a note grown

strong
Relents and recoils, and climbs and closes,

As a wave of the sea turned back by song. There are sounds where the soul's delight takes fire, Face to face with its own desire ; A delight that rebels, a desire that reposes ;

I shall hate sweet music my whole life long.

The pulse of war and passion of wonder,
The heavens that murmur, the sounds that

shine, 'The stars that sing and the loves that thunder,

The music burning at heart like wine,
An armed archangel whose hands raise up
All senses mixed in the spirit's cup,
Till flesh and spirit are molten in sunder,

These things are over, and no more mine.

These were a part of the playing I heard

Once, ere my love and my heart were at strife ; Love that sings and hath wings as a bird,

Balm of the wound and heft of the knife.
Fairer than earth is the sea, and sleep
Than overwatching of eyes that weep,
Now time has done with his one sweet word,

The wine and leaven of lovely life.

I shall go my ways, tread out my measure,

Fill the days of my daily breath
With fugitive things not good to treasure,

Do as the world doth, say as it saith ;
But if we had loved each other — O) sweet,
Had you felt, lying under the palms of your feet,
The heart of my heart, beating harder with pleasure

To feel you tread it to dust and death

Ah, had I not taken my life up and given

All that life gives and the years let go, The wine and money, the balm and leaven, The dreams reared high and the hopes brought

low, Come life, come death, not a word be said ; Should I lose you living, and vex you dead ? I shall never tell you on earth ; and in heaven,

If I cry to you then, will you hear or know?

ALGERNON OHARLES SWINBU'RNE.

Where he stands

me

How shall I watch for thee, when fears grow Willie, all to you and me

stronger, Is that spot, whate'er it be, no other word

As night grows dark and darker on the hill ! Stands — God sure the child's prayers heard – How shall I weep, when I can watch no longer ! Near the Alma River.

Ah ! art thou absent, art thou absent still? Willie, listen to the bells

Yet I should grieve not, though the eye that seeth Ringing in the town to-day; That's for victory. No knell swells

ANONYMOUS.

Gazeth through tears that makeits splendor dull; For the many swept away,

For oh! I sometimes fear when thou art with me, Hundreds, thousands. Let us weep,

My cup of happiness is all too full. We, who need not, -just to keep

Haste, haste thee home to thy mountain dwelling, Reason clear in thought and brain

Haste, as a bird unto its peaceful nest !
Till the morning comes again ;
Till the third dread morning tell

Haste, as a skiff, through tempests wide and

swelling, Who they were that fought and fell

Flies to its haven of securest rest !
By the Alma River.
Come, - we'll lay us down, my child ;

Poor the bed is, - poor and hard ;
But thy father, far exiled,

ABSENCE. Sleeps upon the open sward,

What shall I do with all the days and hours Dreaming of us two at home;

That must be counted ere I see thy face? Or, beneath the starry dome,

How shall I charm the interval that lowers Digs out trenches in the dark,

Between this time and that sweet time of grace? Where he buries – Willie, mark ! Where he buries those who died

Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,
Fighting — fighting at his side —

Weary with longing ? Shall I flee away
By the Alma River.

Into past days, and with some fond pretence Willie, Willie, go to sleep ;

Cheat myself to forget the present day? God will help us, O my boy !

Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin He will make the dull hours creep

Of casting from me God's great gift of time ? Faster, and send news of joy ;

Shall I, these mists of memory locked within, When I need not shrink to meet

Leave and forget life's purposes sublime ? Those great placards in the street, That for weeks will ghastly stare

O, how or by what means may I contrive chill, say that prayer

To bring the hour that brings thee back more - a different one,

near ? Say, “0 God! Thy will be done

How may I teach my drooping hope to live By the Alma River."

Until that blessed time, and thou art here? I'll tell thee ; for thy sake I will lay hold

Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee,

In worthy deeds, each moment that is told HER HUSBAND.

While thou, beloved one! art far from me. LINGER not long. Home is not home without thee: For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try

Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn. 0, let its memory, like a chain about thee,

All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains; Gently compel and hasten thy return !

For thy dear sake I will walk patiently Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy

Through these long hours, nor call their min

utes pains. staying, Bethink thee, can the mirth of thy friends,

I will this dreary blank of absence make

A noble task-time ; and will therein strive To follow excellence, and to o'ertake

More good than I have won since yet I live.

In some eyes Once again,

3

DINAH MARIA MULOCK.

THE WIFE TO

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, So A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine ;
When the wild hee hath ceased her busy humming,

As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell; So may my love and longing hallowed be,
And silence hangs on all things like a spell i

And thy dear thought an influence divine.

FRANCES ANNS KEMBLE

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