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Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not But those lips that echoed the sounds of mine

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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-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 dreariest 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;

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

LOVE'S MEMORY.

FROM “ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL,” ACT I. SC. I.

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 plague,
To see him every hour; to sit and draw
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,

Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave. In our heart's table, heart too capable

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I LOVE MY JEAN.

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 ;

But 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 ;

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.

* The points of the compass.

Of every line and trick of his sweet favor:
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his relics.

SHAKESPEARE.

O, 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!

• Harm.

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!

'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.

O, 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 ane 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!

O, 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;

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 dew-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!

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 dee,

Did I but ken your heart still dreamed
O' bygane days and me!

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

THE RUSTIC LAD'S LAMENT IN THE
TOWN.

O, WAD that my time were owre but,
Wi' this wintry sleet and snaw,
That I might see our house again,

I' the bonnie birken shaw!

For this is no my ain life,

And I peak and pine away

Wi' the thochts o' hame and the young flowers, In the glad green month of May.

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I used to wauk in the morning
Wi' the loud sang o' the lark,
And the whistling o' the ploughman lads,
As they gaed to their wark;

I used to wear the bit young lambs

Frae the tod and the roaring stream; But the warld is changed, and a' thing now To me seems like a dream.

There are busy crowds around me,

On ilka lang dull street;

Yet, though sae mony surround me,
I ken na ane I meet:

And I think o' kind kent faces,

And o' blithe an' cheery days, When I wandered out wi' our ain folk, Out owre the simmer braes.

Waes me, for my heart is breaking!
I think o' my brither sma',
And on my sister greeting,

When I cam frae hame awa.
And O, how my mither sobbit,

As she shook me by the hand, When I left the door o' our auld house, To come to this stranger land.

There's nae hame like our ain hame
O, I wush that I were there!
There's nae hame like our ain hame
To be met wi' onywhere;
And O that I were back again,

To our farm and fields sae green;
And heard the tongues o' my ain folk,
And were what I hae been !

. DAVID MACBETH MOIR.

THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND.

As night grows dark and darker on the hill! How shall I weep, when I can watch no longer! Ah! art thou absent, art thou absent still?

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O, how or by what means may I contrive

To bring the hour that brings thee back more near?

LINGER not long. Home is not home without How may I teach my drooping hope to live

thee:

Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn. O, let its memory, like a chain about thee, Gently compel and hasten thy return!

Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy staying,

Until that blessèd 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
While thou, beloved one! art far from me.

Bethink thee, can the mirth of thy friends, For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try

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, As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell; When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming, And silence hangs on all things like a spell !

All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains;
For thy dear sake I will walk patiently
Through these long hours, nor call their min-
utes pains.

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.

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