"Bitterly wept I over the stone:
Bitterly weeping, I turned away;
There lies the body of Ellen Adair;
And there the heart of Edward Gray!"
Lord Tennyson.
Among the beautiful pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,
Is one of a dim old forest,
That seemeth best of all;
Not for its gnarled oaks olden,
Dark with the mistletoe;
Not for the violets golden
That sprinkle the vale below;
Not for the milk-white lilies
That lean from the fragrant ledge,
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
And stealing their golden edge;
Not for the vines on the upland,
Where the bright red berries rest,
Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip,
It seemeth to me the best.
I once had a little brother,
With eyes that were dark and deep;
In the lap of that old dim forest
He lieth in peace asleep:
Light as the down of the thistle,
Free as the winds that blow
We roved there the beautiful summers,
The summers of long ago;
But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And, one of the autumn eves,
I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.
Sweetly his pale arms folded
My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face;
And when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,
The one of the dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.
Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae weary, fu' o' care?
Thou 'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wantons through the flowering thorn;
Thou minds me o' departed joys,
Departed-never to return.
Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And ilka bird sang o' its luve,
And, fondly, sae did I o' mine.
Wi' lightsome heart I pou'd a rose,
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree;
And my fause luver stole my rose,
But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.
Robert Burns.
"ROCK OF AGES.".
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,"
Thoughtlessly the maiden sung,
Fell the words unconsciously
From her girlish, gleeful tongue;
Sung as little children sing,
Sung as sing the birds in June;
Fell the words like light leaves sown
On the current of the tune-
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee."
Felt her soul no need to hide-
Sweet the song as song could be
And she had no thought beside;
All the words unheedingly
Fell from lips untouched by care,
Dreaming not that each might be
On some other lips a prayer—
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee."
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me
'Twas a woman sung them now, Pleadingly and prayerfully;
Every word her heart did know;
Rose the song as storm-tossed bird
Beats with weary wing the air;
Every note with sorrow stirred,
Every syllable a prayer-
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee."
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me—
Lips grown aged sung the hymn Trustingly and tenderly,
Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim
"Let me hide myself in Thee."
Trembling through the voice, and low,
Rose the sweet strain peacefully
As a river in its flow;
Sung as only they can sing,
Who life's thorny paths have pressed;
Sung as only they can sing
Who behold the promised rest.
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,"
Sung above a coffin-lid;
Underneath, all restfully
All life's cares and sorrows hid.
Never more, O storm-tossed soul,
Never more from wind or tide,
Never more from billow's roll
Wilt thou need thyself to hide.
Could the sightless, sunken eyes,
Closed beneath the soft gray hair,
Could the mute and stiffened lips,
Move again in pleading prayer,
Still, ay still the words would be,
"Let me hide myself in Thee."
"An' sure I was tould to come to yer Honor,
To see if ye'd write a few words to me Pat.
He's gone for a soldier, is Misther O'Connor,
Wid a sthripe on his arm and a band on his hat.
"An' what 'll ye tell him? It ought to be aisy
For sich as yer Honor to spake wid the pen,— Jist say I'm all right, and that Mavoorneen Daisy (The baby, yer Honor) is betther again.
"For when he went off it's so sick was the childer
She niver held up her blue eyes to his face ; And when I'd be cryin' he 'd look but the wilder,
An' say, 'Would you wish for the counthry's disgrace?'
"So he left her in danger, and me sorely gratin', To follow the flag wid an Irishman's joy ;
O, it's often I drame of the big drums a batin',
An' a bullet gone straight to the heart of me boy.
say will he send me a bit of his money,
For the rint an' the docther's bill, due in a wake ;— Well, surely, there's tears on yer eye-lashes, honey! Ah, faith, I've no right with such freedom to spake.
"You've overmuch trifling, I'll not give ye trouble,
I'll find some one willin'- O, what can it be?
What's that in the newspaper folded up double?
Yer Honor, do n't hide it, but rade it to me.
"What, Patrick O'Connor! No, no, 'tis some other!
Dead! dead! no, not him! 'Tis a wake scarce gone by.
Dead! dead! why, the kiss on the cheek of his mother,
It has n't had time yet, yer Honor, to dry.
"Do n't tell me! It's not him!
Shot dead! O for love of sweet Heaven, say no.
O, what'll I do in the world wid poor Daisy!
O, how will I live, an' O, where will I go!
"The room is so dark, I'm not seein' yer Honor,
I think I'll go home-" And a sob, thick and dry,
Came sharp from the bosom of Mary O'Connor,
But never a tear-drop welled up to her eye.
"Hi! Harry Holly! Halt,-and tell
A fellow just a thing or two;
You've had a furlough, been to see
How all the folks in Jersey do.
It's months ago since I was there,—-
I, and a bullet from Fair Oaks;
When you were home,- old comrade, say,
Did you see any of our folks?
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