And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherished long!
She wept with pity and delight,
She blushed with love, and virgin shame;
And like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.
Her bosom heaved-she stepped aside,
As conscious of my look she stept-
Then suddenly, with timorous eye,
She fled to me and wept.
She half enclosed me with her arms,
She pressed me with a meek embrace;
And bending back her head, looked up,
And gazed upon my face.
'Twas partly love, and partly fear,
And partly 'twas a bashful art,
That I might rather feel, than see,
The swelling of her heart.
I calmed her fears, and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride;
And so I won my Genevieve,
My bright and beauteous bride.
CCLXXVIII. MARY TIGHE, 1773–1810.
When, vexed by cares and harass'd by distress,
The storms of fortune chill thy soul with dread,
Let love, consoling love, still sweetly bless,
And his assuasive balm benignly shed;
His downy plumage, o'er thy pillow spread,
Shall lull thy weeping sorrows to repose;
To love the tender heart hath ever fled,
As on its mother's breast the infant throws
Its sobbing face, and there in sleep forgets its woes.
Oh fondly cherish then the lovely plant,
Which lenient heaven hath given thy pains to ease;
Its lustre shall thy summer hours enchant,
And load with fragrance every prosperous breeze;
And when rude winter shall thy roses seize,
When nought through all thy bowers but thorns remain,
This still with undeciduous charms shall please,
Screen from the blast and shelter from the rain,
And still with verdure cheer the desolated plain.
The tears capricious beauty loves to shed,
The pouting lip, the sullen silent tongue,
May wake the impassioned lover's tender dread,
And touch the spring that clasps his soul so strong.
But ah, beware! the gentle power too long
Will not endure the frown of angry strife;
He shuns contention, and the gloomy throng
Who blast the joys of calm domestic life,
And flies when discord shakes her brand with quarrels
CCLXXIX. JAMES HOGG, 1772—1835.
1. MARY GRAY.
Some say that my Mary Gray is dead,
And that I in this world shall see her never;
Some say she is laid on her cold death bed,
The prey of the grave and of death for ever!
Ah, they know little of my dear maid,
Or kindness of her spirit's Giver;
For every night she is by my side,—
By the morning bower or the moonlit river.
My Mary was bonny when she was here,
When flesh and blood was her mortal dwelling:
Her smile was sweet, and her mind was clear,
And her form all virgin forms excelling.
But, oh, if they saw my Mary now,
With her looks of pathos and of feeling,
They would see a cherub's radiant brow,
To ravish'd mortal eyes unveiling.
The rose is the fairest of earthly flowers,
It is all of beauty and of sweetness,—
So my dear maid in the heavenly bowers,
Excels in beauty and in meekness!
She has kissed my cheek, she has kaim'd my hair,
And made a breast of heaven my pillow;
And promised her God to take me there
Before the leaf falls from the willow!
Farewell! ye homes of living men-
I have no relish for your pleasures;
In the human face I naething ken
That with my spirit's yearning measures.
I long for onward bliss to be,
A day of joy-a brighter morrow; And from this bondage to be free,
Farewell this world of sin and sorrow!
2. THE SKYLARK.
Bird of the wilderness,
Blythesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place-
Oh to abide in the desert with thee!
Wild is thy lay, and loud,
Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where on thy dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
O'er fell and fountain sheen,
O'er moor and mountain green,
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,
Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub, soar singing away!
Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place,
Oh to abide in the desert with thee!
CCLXXX. M. G. LEWIS, 1773—1818.
Why, fair maid, in every feature
Are such signs of fear express'd?
Can a wandering, wretched creature
With such terror fill thy breast?
Do my phrensied looks alarm thee?
Trust me, sweet, thy fears are vain :
Not for kingdoms would I harm thee;
Shun not then poor Crazy Jane.
Dost thou weep to see my anguish ?
Mark me, and avoid my woe;
When men flatter, sigh, and languish,
Think them false; I found them so :
For I loved; Oh! so sincerely
None could ever love again;
But the youth I loved so dearly,
Stole the wits of Crazy Jane.
Fondly my young heart received him,
Which was doom'd to love but one;
He sigh'd, he vow'd, and I believed him ;
He was false, and I undone.
From that hour has Reason never
Held her empire o'er my brain;
Henry fled with him for ever
Fled the wits of Crazy Jane.
Now forlorn and broken-hearted,
And with phrensied thoughts beset,
On that spot where last we parted,
On that spot where first we met,
Still I sing my love-lorn ditty.
Still I slowly pace the plain;
While each passer-by, in pity,
Cries," God help thee, Crazy Jane!"
CCLXXXI. ROB. TANNAHILL, 1774-1810.
THE FLOWER OF DUMBLANE.
The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond, And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene,
While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin',
To muse on sweet Jessie the flower o' Dumblane.
How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom,
And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green;
Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,
Is lovely young Jessie the flower o' Dumblane.
She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonny;
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain:
And far be the villain, divested of feeling,
Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flower o' Dum-
Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the evening;
Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen;
Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,
Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane
How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie!
The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain;
I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie,
Till charmed wi'sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.
Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur,
Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain,
And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour,
If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.
CCLXXXII. ROBERT SOUTHEY, 1774—1843. 1. THE MYSTIC GLADE.
Yea, all around was hallowed! Danger, fear,
Nor thought of evil ever entered here.
A charm was on the leopard when he came
Within the circle of that mystic glade;
Submiss he crouch'd before the heavenly maid,
And offered to her touch his speckled side;
Or with arch'd back erect, and bending head,
And eyes half closed for pleasure, would he stand,
Courting the pressure of her gentle hand.
Trampling his path through wood and brake,
And canes which crackling fall before his way,
And tassal grass, whose silvery feathers play
O'ertopping the young trees,
On comes the elephant, to slake
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