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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.

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.

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.

“O dread and cruel deep, reveal
The secret which thy waves conceal,
And, ye wild sea-birds, hither wheel

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

Or dying wail !
Come, with your dreaviest 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 !"

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 ;

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 ;

I hear her in the tunefu' birds,

I hear her charm the air ; There's not a bonnie flower that springs

By fountain, shaw, or green, There's not a bonnie bird that sings,

But minds me of my Jean.

ROBERT BURNS.

LOVE'S MEMORY.

FROM “ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL."

I am 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 plaguer
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 woodlark at his partner's side

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

But Leonard tarries long !

0, SAW YE BONNIE LESLEY !

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 Lesley,

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 weel,

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

Twa bairns, and but ae heart!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

'T was then we sat on ae laigh bink,

To leir ilk ither lear; And 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.

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,

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

As ye hae been to me?
O, 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!

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 ?

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL

My head rins round and round about,

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

0' 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 !

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0, mind ye, luve, how aft we left

The deavin' dinsome 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 ;

THERE lived a singer in France of old

By the tideless, dolorous, midland sea.
In a land of sand and ruin and gold

There shone one woman, and none but she.
And finding life for her love's sake fail,
Being fain to see her, he bade set sail,
Touched land, and saw her as life grew cold,

And praised God, seeing; and so died he.
Died, praising God for his gift and grace :

For she bowed down to him weeping, and said, “Live”; and her tears were shed on his face

Or ever the life in his face was shed. The sharp tears fell through her hair, and stung Once, and her close lips touched him and clung Once, and grew one with his lips for a space ;

And so drew back, and the man was dead.

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 cheek
Like dow-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 !

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.

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