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I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart
In thinking too of thee;

Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,

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!
As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze
Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease,
So piercing to my heart their force I feel!
And hark! with lessening cadence now they fall,
And now, along the white and level tide,
They fling their melancholy music wide;
Bidding me many a tender thought recall
Of summer-days, and those delightful years
When by my native streams, in life's fair prime,
The mournful magic of their mingling chime
First waked my wondering childhood into tears!
But seeming now, when all those days are o'er,
The sounds of joy once heard, and heard no more.

W. L. BOWLES.

The Braes of Parrow.

"THY braes were bonny, Yarrow stream!
When first on them I met my lover;
Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream!
When now thy waves his body cover!
For ever now, O Yarrow stream,

Thou art to me a stream of sorrow;
For never on thy banks shall I

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;
Alas, thou hast no more a brother!

No longer seek him, east or west,

And search no more the forest thorough;
For, wandering in the night so dark,
He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow.

"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,
No other youth became her marrow;

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,
Where we sat side by side

On a bright May mornin' long ago,
When first you were my bride:
The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high—
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,
The day is bright as then,
The lark's loud song is in my ear,

And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath, warm on my cheek,
And I still keep listenin' for the words
You never more will speak.

'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,
But, oh! they love the better still
The few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary,
My blessin' and my pride:
There's nothing left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.

Your's was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul,

And my arm's young strength was gone;
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow-
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now.
I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger pain was gnawin' there,
And you hid it, for my sake!

I bless you for the pleasant word,
When your heart was sad and sore—
Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm biddin' you a long farewell,
My Mary-kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darling,

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!

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