I do not think, where'er thou art, And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart Yet there was round thee such a dawn As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore. Sonnet, AT OSTEND, JULY 22, 1787. REV. CHAS. WOLFE. How sweet the tuneful bells' responsive peal! W. L. BOWLES. The Braes of Parrow. "THY braes were bonny, Yarrow stream! Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow! "He promised me a milk-white steed, To bear me to his father's bowers; He promised me a little page, To 'squire me to his father's towers; He promised me a wedding ring,— The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow;— Now he is wedded to his grave, Alas! his watery grave in Yarrow! "Sweet were his words when last we met; My passion I as freely told him! Clasped in his arms, I little thought That I should never more behold him! Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost; It vanished with a shriek of sorrow; Thrice did the water-wraith ascend, And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow. "His mother from the window looked, With all the longing of a mother; His little sister weeping walked The green-wood path to meet her brother; They sought him east, they sought him west, They sought him all the forest thorough; They only saw the cloud of night, They only heard the roar of Yarrow. "No longer from thy window look, Thou hast no son, thou tender mother! No longer walk, thou lovely maid; No longer seek him, east or west, And search no more the forest thorough; "The tear shall never leave my cheek, No other youth shall be my marrow! I'll seek thy body in the stream, And then with thee I 'll sleep in Yarrow." The tear did never leave her cheek, She found his body in the stream, And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow. LOGAN Lament of the Irish Emigrant. I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, On a bright May mornin' long ago, The place is little changed, Mary, And the corn is green again; 'T is but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near, The church where we were wed, Mary, I see the spire from here. But the grave-yard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest—— For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends, Your's was the good, brave heart, Mary, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone; I bless you for the pleasant word, I'm biddin' you a long farewell, In the land I'm goin' to: They say there's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there But I'll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair! |