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TRANSIENT BEAUTY.

And I turned and looked : she was sitting there,

In a dim box over the stage ; and drest In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair,

And that jasmine in her breast !

THE GIAOUR.

I was here, and she was there ;

And the glittering horse-shoe curved between:From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair

And her sumptuous scornful mien,

To my early love with her eyes downcast,

And over her primrose face the shade, (In short, from the future back to the past,)

There was but a step to be made.

To my early love from my future bride

One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, I traversed the passage ; and down at her side

I was sitting, a moment more.

As, rising on its purple wing, The insect-queen of Eastern spring, O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer, Invites the young pursuer near, And leads him on from flower to flower, A weary chase and wasted hour, Then leaves him, as it soars on high, With panting heart and tearful eye ; So Beauty lures the full-grown child, With hue as bright, and wind as wild ; A chase of idle hopes and fears, Begun in folly, closed in tears. If won, to equal ills betrayed, Woe waits the insect and the maid : A life of pain, the loss of peace, From infant's play and inan's caprice ; The lovely toy, so fiercely sought, Hath lost its charm by being caught ; For every touch that wooed its stay Hath brushed its brightest hues away, Till, charm and hue and beauty gone, 'T is left to fly or fall alone. With wounded wing or bleeding breast, Ah! where shall either victim rest? Can this with faded pinion soar From rose to tulip as before ? Or Beauty, blighted in an hour, Find joy within her broken bower ? No; gayer insects fluttering by Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die, And lovelier things have mercy shown To every failing but their own, And every woc a tear can claim, Except an erring sister's shame.

My thinking of her, or the music's strain,

Or something which never will be exprest, Had brought her back from the grave again,

With the jasmine in her breast.

She is not dead, and she is not wed !

But she loves me now, and she loved me then ! And the very first word that her sweet lips said,

My heart grew youthful again.

The marchioness there, of Carabas,

She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still; And but for her .... well, we 'll let that pass;

She may marry whomever she will.

BYRON.

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WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY. I loved thee once, I'll love no more,

Thine be the grief as is the blame; Thou art not what thou wast before, What reason I should be the same ?

He that can love unloved again,

Hath better store of love than brain : God send me love my debts to pay,

While unthrifts fool their love away. Nothing could have my love o'erthrown,

If thou hadst still continued mine ; Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own, I might perchance have yet been thine.

But thou thy freedom did recall,

That if thou might elsewhere inthrall ; And then how could I but disdain A captive's captive to remain ?

If only the dead could find out when

To come back and be forgiven.

But 0 the smell of that jasmine flower !

And O that music! and ( the way
That voice rang out from the donjon tower,
Non li scordar di me,
Non ti scordar di me!

ROBERT BULWER LYTTON.

E

When new desires had conquered thee,

And changed the object of thy will,
It had been lethargy in me,
Not constancy, to love thee still.

Yea, it had been a sin to go

And prostitute affection so, Since we are taught no prayers to say

To such as must to others pray. Yet do thou glory in thy choice,

Thy choice of his good fortune boast ; I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice, To see him gain what I have lost ;

The height of my disdain shall be,

To laugh at him, to blush for thee; To love thee still, but go no more A begging to a beggar's door.

Where, through groves deep and high

Sounds the far billow,
Where early violets die
Under the willow.

Eleu loro
Soft shall be his pillow.
There, through the summer day

Cool streams are laving:
There, while the tempests sway,

Scarce are boughs waving; There thy rest shalt thou take,

Parted forever,
Never again to wake
Never, O never !

Eleu loro
Never, 0 never !
Where shall the traitor rest,

He, the deceiver,
Who could win maiden's breast,

Ruin, and leave her ?
In the lost battle,

Borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle
With groans of the dying ;

Eleu loro
There shall he be lying.

SIR ROBERT AYTON.

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.

'T is believed that this harp which I wake now

for thee Was a siren of old who sung under the sea ; And who often at eve through the bright billow

roved To meet on the green shorea youth whom she loved.

But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weer, And in tears all the night her gold ringlets to

steer, Till Heaven looked with pity on true love so warm, And changed to this soft harp the sea-maiden's

form !

Her wing shall the eagle flap

O'er the false-hearted ;
His warm blood the wolf shall lap

Ere life be parted :
Shame and dishonor sit

By his grave ever ; Blessing shall hallow it Never, O never !

Eleu loro Never, O never !

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Still her bosom rose fair-still her cheek smiled

the same While her sea-beauties gracefully curled round

the frame; And her hair, shedding tear-drops from all its

bright rings, Fell over her white arm, to make the gold strings !

THE MOTHER'S LAST SONG.

Hence it came that this soft harp so long hath

been known To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone ; Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay To be love when I'm near thee and grief when away!

THOMAS MOORE (“Irish Melodies ").

SLEEP!— The ghostly winds are blowing !
No moon abroad, no star is glowing ;
The river is deep, and the tide is flowing
To the land where you and I are going !

We are going afar,

Beyond moon or star, To the land where the sinless angels are ! I lost my heart to your heartless sire ('T was melted away by his looks of fire), Forgot my God, and my father's ire, All for the sake of a man's desire ;

But now we 'll go

Where the waters flow, And make us a bed where none shall know.

WHERE SHALL THE LOVER REST?

WHERE shall the lover rest

Whom the fates sever
From his true maiden's breast

Parted forever?

LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT.

A SCOTTISH SONG.

The world is cruel, the world is untrue;
Our foes are many, our friends are few;
No work, no bread, however we sue !
What is there left for me to do,

But fly, — fly

From the cruel sky, And hide in the deepest deeps, — and die ?

BARRY CORNWALL,

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe ;
If thou 'st be silent, I 'se be glad,
Thy maining maks my heart ful sad.
Balow, my boy, thy mither's joy!
Thy father breides me great annoy.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.

is new ;

WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY.

O, WALY, waly up the bank,

And waly, waly down the brae,
And waly, waly yon burn side,

Where I and my love wont to gae.
I leaned my back unto an aik,

I thought it was a trusty tree;
But first it bowed, and syne it brak

Sae my true love did lightly me!
0, waly, waly, but love be bonny,

A little time while
But when 't is auld it waxeth cauld,

And fades away like the morning dew.
O, wherefore should I busk my head ?

Or wherefore should I kame my hair ?
Por my true love has me forsook,

And says he 'll never love me mair.
Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed ;

The sheets shall ne'er be fyled by me;
Saint Anton's well shall be my drink,

Since my true love has forsaken me.
Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,

And shake the green leaves off the tree ? O gentle death, when wilt thou come ?

For of my life I'm weary. 'T is not the frost that freezes fell,

Nor blawing snaw's inclemency; 'T is not sic cauld that makes me cry,

But my love's heart grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgow town,

We were a comely sight to see ;
My love was clad in the black velvet,

And I my sell in cramasie.
But had I wist, before I kissed,

That love had been sae ill to win,
I'd locked my heart in a case of gold,

And pinned it with a silver pin. 0, 0, if my young babe were born,

And set upon the nurse's knee, And I my sell were dead and gane,

And the green grass growin' over me !

When he began to court my luve,
And with his sugred words to muve,
His faynings fals, and flattering cheire,
To me that time did not appeire :
But now I see, most cruell hee,
Cares neither for my babe nor mee.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile, And when thou wakest sweitly smile : But smile not, as thy father did, To cozen maids ; nay, God forbid ! But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire, Thy fatheris hart and face to beire.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !

It grieves me sair to sce thee weipe. I cannae chuse, but ever will Be luving to thy father stil: Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde, My luve with him maun stil abyde : In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae, Mine hart can neir depart him frae.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !

It grieves me sair to see thee wcipe. But doe not, doe not, prettie mine, To faynings fals thine hart incline; Be loyal to thy luver trew, And nevir change hir for a new; If gude or faire, of hir have care, For women's banning's wonderous sair.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !

It grieves me sair to see thee wcipe.
Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane,
Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine ;
My babe and I'll together live,
He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve;
My babe and I right saft will ly,
And quite forget man's cruelty.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thee wcipe.

Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth That ever kist a woman's mouth !

ANONYMOUS,

I wish all maids be warned by mee,
Nevir to trust man's curtesy ;
For if we doe but chance to bow,
They 'll use us than they care not how.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.

0, dinna mind my words, Willie,

I downa seek to blame ;
But 0, it's hard to live, Willie,

And dree a warld's shame!
Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek,

And hailin' ower your chin : Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,

For sorrow, and for sin ?

ANONYMOUS.

MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE.

I'm weary o' this warld, Willie,

And sick wi' a' I see,
I canna live as I ha'e lived,

Or be as I should be.
But fauld unto your heart, Willie,

The heart that still is thine,
And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek

Ye said was red langsyne.

My heid is like to rend, Willie,

My heart is like to break; I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie, I'm dyin' for your

sake! 0, lay your cheek to mine, Willie,

Your hand on my briest-bane, O, say ye'll think on me, Willie,

When I am deid and gane ! It's vain to comfort me, Willie,

Sair grief maun ha'e its will ; But let me rest upon your briest

To sab and greet my fill. Let me sit on your knee, Willie,

Let me shed by your hair, And look into the face, Willie,

I never sall see mair !

A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie,

A sair stoun' through my heart; O, haud me up and let me kiss

Thy brow ere we twa pairt. Anither, and anither yet !

How fast my life-strings break ! Fareweel! fareweel! through yon kirk-yard

Step lichtly for my sake!

The lav'rock in the lift, Willie,

That lilts far ower our heid, Will sing the morn as merrilie

Abune the clay-cauld deid ; And this green turf we 're sittin' on,

Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen, Will hap the heart that luvit thee

As warld has seldom seen.

I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,

For the last time in my life, A puir heart-broken thing, Willie,

A mither, yet nae wife.
Ay, press your hand upon my heart,

And press it mair and mair,
Or it will burst the silken twine,

Sae strang is its despair.
O, wae 's me for the hour, Willie,

When we thegither met,
O, wae 's me for the time, Willie,

That our first tryst was set !
O, wae's me for the loanin' green

Where we were wont to gae,
And wae's me for the destinie

That gart me luve thee sae !

But 0, remember me, Willie,

On land where'er ye be ;
And O, think on the leal, leal heart,

That ne'er luvit ane but thee !
And O, think on the cauld, cauld mools

That file my yellow hair,
That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin
Ye never sall kiss mair!

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL

BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH.

RESIGNATION.

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,

Clothed with celestial grace ;
There is no flock, however watched and tended, and beautiful with all the soul's expansion
But one dead lamb is there !

Shall we behold her face.
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,
But has one vacant chair !

And though, at times, impetuous with emotion

And anguish long suppressed, The air is full of farewells to the dying,

The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, And mournings for the dead ;

That cannot be at rest,
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted !

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling,

We may not wholly stay ;
Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions By silence sanctifying, not concealing,
Not from the ground arise,

The grief that must have way.
But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

BURIED TO-DAY.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ;

Amid these earthly damps
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers

May be heaven's distant lamps.

February 23, 1858.

There is no Death! What seems so is transition :

This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life elysian,

Whose portal we call Death.

BURIED to-day.

When the soft green buds are bursting out,

And up on the south-wind comes a shout
Of village boys and girls at play
In the mild spring evening gray.

Taken away

She is not dead, the child of our affection, Sturdy of heart and stout of limb,
But gone unto that school

From eyes that drew halftheir light from him,
Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And put low, low underneath the clay,
And Christ himself doth rule.

In his spring, on this spring day.

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