INDEX OF FIRST LINES.

They that never had the use,
Thorough yon same bending plain,

Those lips, that Love's own hands did make,
Thou art to all lost love the best,
Thou lingering star, with lessening ray,
Three days ago, Lord Ronald's child,

Thrice happy he who by some shady grove,
Thrice, oh, thrice happy shepherd's life and state,

Thus talking, hand in hand alone they passed,
Thus to be lost, and thus to sink and die,

117

300

184

405

418

282

Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream!

163

'T is from high life, high characters are drawn,

407

'T is long since we were forced to part, at least it seems so to my grief, 443
To fair Fidele's grassy tomb,

315

To him who in the love of nature holds,

351

190

428

447

146

Underneath this marble hearse,
Under the greenwood tree,
Up from the shore of the placid lake,

To whom belongs this valley fair,

'T was at the royal feast, for Persia won,

Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village green,
Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall,

Vale of the cross, the shepherds tell,
Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower!
Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan,
Wee, sleekit, cowrin', timorous beastie,
Were there one whose fires,

What beckoning Ghost, along the moonlight shade,
What needs my Shakspeare for his honoured bones,
What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy,
What's hallowed ground? Has earth a clod,
When I consider how my light is spent,

-

471

Page

211

48

427

298

391

361

213

329

56

86

128

321

297

225

366

15

111

350

When in disgrace, with fortune and men's eyes,
When I was a dweller in Cloudland,
When love with unconfined wings,
When maidens such as Hester die,
When May is in his prime,

When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free,

When the sheep are in the fauld, when the cows come hame,

When we for age could neither read nor write,

Where the remote Bermudas ride,

Why came I so untimely forth,

Will you hear a Spanish lady,
With blackest moss the flower-plots,
With fingers weary and worn,

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climbst the skies,

With thee conversing I forget all time,

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,

Ye field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 't is true,
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more,

14