I dare not think upon thy vow,

And all it promised me, Mary.
No ford regret must Norman know;
When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe,
His heart must be like bended bow,
His foot like arrow free, Mary.

A time will come with feeling fraught!
For, if I fall in battle fought,
Thy hapless lover's dying thought

Shall be a thought on thee, Mary.
And if returned from conquered foes,
How blithely will the evening close,
How sweet the linnet sing repose,
To my young bride and me, Mary!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

TO LUCASTA,

ON GOING TO THE Wars.

TELL me not, sweet, I am unkinde,
That from the nunnerie

Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde,
To warre and armes I flee.

True, a new mistresse now I chase, -
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith imbrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such

As you, too, should adore;

I could not love thee, deare, so much, Loved I not honor more.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

BLACK-EYED SUSAN.

ALL in the Downs the fleet was moored,
The streamers waving in the wind,
When black eyed Susan came aboard;

"O, where shall I my true-love find? Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true If my sweet William sails among the crew."

William, who high upon the yard

Rocked with the billow to and fro, Soon as her well-known voice he heard

He sighed, and cast his eyes below: The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, And quick as lightning on the deck he stands.

So the sweet lark, high poised in air,

Shuts close his pinions to his breast If chance his mate's shrill call he hear, And drops at once into her nest :The noblest captain in the British fleet Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet.

"O Susan, Susan, lovely dear,

My vows shall ever true remain ; Let me kiss off that falling tear; We only part to meet again.

Change as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee.

"Believe not what the landmen say

Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind: They'll tell thee sailors, when away,

In every port a mistress find:

Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, For Thou art present wheresoe'er I go.

But give the cock a blow
Who did begin our woe!"
ANONYMOUS (Chinese). Translation
of WILLIAM R. ALGER.

THE PARTING OF ROMEO AND JULIET.

JULIET. Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:

It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree :
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

ROMEO. It was the lark, the herald of the

morn,

No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east: Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.

I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
JULIET. Yon light is not daylight, I know
it, I:

It is some meteor, that the sun exhales,
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua :
Therefore stay yet, -thou need'st not be gone.
ROMEO. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to
death;

I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I'll say, yon gray is not the morning's eye,
"Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow;
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads :
I have more care to stay than will to go ;-
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.
How is 't, my soul? let's talk, it is not day.
JULIET. It is, it is, hie hence, be gone, away!
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords, and unpleasing sharps.
Some say, the lark makes sweet division;
This doth not so, for she divideth us :

Some say, the lark and loathéd toad change

CHORUS.

Weep no more, my lady; O, weep no more to-day!

We'll sing one song for my old Kentucky home,

For our old Kentucky home far away.

They hunt no more for the possum and the coon,
On the meadow, the hill, and the shore;
They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon,
On the bench by the old cabin door;
The day goes by, like a shadow o'er the heart,
With sorrow where all was delight;
The time has come, when the darkeys have to part,
Then, my old Kentucky home, good night!
Weep no more, my lady, &c.

The head must bow, and the back will have to bend,
Wherever the darkey may go;

A few more days, and the troubles all will end,
In the field where the sugar-cane grow;
A few more days to tote the weary load,
No matter it will never be light;

A few more days till we totter on the road,
Then, my old Kentucky home, good night!
Weep no more, my lady, &c.

ANONYMOUS.

FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER.

FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer
For other's weal availed on high,
Mine will not all be lost in air,

But waft thy name beyond the sky.
'T were vain to speak, to weep, to sigh:
Oh more than tears of blood can tell,
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye,
Are in that word-Farewell! - Farewell!

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry :
But in my breast and in my brain
Awake the pangs that pass not by,
The thought that ne'er shall sleep again.
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain,
Though grief and passion there rebel :
I only know we loved in vain -

I only feel-Farewell! - Farewell!

BYRON.

FARE THEE WELL! AND IF FOREVER.

FARE thee well! and if forever,
Still forever, fare thee well;
Even though unforgiving, never

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again :

Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show !
Then thou wouldst at last discover
"T was not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee,
Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,

Founded on another's woe :

Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?
Yet, O yet, thyself deceive not:

Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away;

Still thine own its life retaineth,

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;
And the undying thought which paineth
Is that we no more may meet.
These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow
Wake us from a widowed bed.

And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!"
Though his care she must forego?

When her little hands shall press thee,

When her lip to thine is pressed, Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Think of him thy love had blessed! Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou nevermore mayst see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
Wither, yet with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee, by thee forsaken,
Even my soul forsakes me now;
But 't is done; all words are idle,
Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will.