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Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace

Our parting was fu' tender ;
And pledging aft to meet again,

We tore ourselves asunder;
But 0 ! fell death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early!
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,

That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips

I aft hae kissed sae fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance

That dwelt on me sae kindly !
And mouldering now in silent dust

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary.

ROBERT BURNS.

When first I met Thee. WHEN

HEN first I met thee, warm and young,

There shone such truth about thee,
And on thy lip such promise hung,

I did not dare to doubt thee.
I saw thee change, yet still relied,

Still clung with hope the fonder,
And thought, though false to all beside,
From me thou could'st not wander.
But go, deceiver ! go.

The heart, whose hopes could make it
Trust one so false, so low,

Deserves that thou shouldst break it.

When every tongue thy follies named,

I fed the unwelcome story;

WHEN FIRST I JET THEE.

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Or found, in e'en the faults they blamed,

Some gleams of future glory.
I still was true, when nearer friends

Conspired to wrong, to slight thee;
The heart that now thy falsehood rends
Would then have bled to right thee.
But go, deceiver ! go-

Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken
From pleasure's dream, to know

The grief of hearts forsaken.

E'en now, though youth its bloom has shed,

No lights of age adorn thee :
The few, who loved thee once, have fled,

And they who flatter, scorn thee.
Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves,

No genial ties enwreath it;
The smiling there, like light on graves,
Has rank cold hearts beneath it.
Go-go-though worlds were thine,

I would not now surrender
One taintless tear of mine

For all thy guilty splendor!

And days may come, thou false one ! yet,

When e'en those ties shall sever;
When thou wilt call, with vain regret,

On her thou'st lost forever;
On her who, in thy fortune's fall,

With smiles had still received thee,
And gladly died to prove thee all
Her fancy first believed thee.
Go-go—'tis vain to curse,

'Tis weakness to upbraid thee;
Hate cannot wish thee worse
Than guilt and shame have made thee.

THOMAS MOORE.

The Specter Boat.

A BALLAD.

L
IGHT rued false Ferdinand to leave a lovely maid forlorn,

Who broke her heart and died to hide her blushing

cheek from scorn. One night he dreamt he wooed her in their wonted bower of

love, Where the flowers sprang thick around them, and the birds

sang sweet above.

But the scene was swiftly changed into a churchyard's dismal

view, And her lips grew black beneath his kiss from love's delicious

hue, What more he dreamt, he told to none; but, shuddering,

pale, and dumb, Looked out upon the waves like one that knew his hour was

come.

'T was now the dead watch of the night—the helm was lashed

a-lee, And the ship rode where Mount Ætna lights the deep Levan

tine sea ;

When beneath its glare a boat came, rowed by a woman in

her shroud, Who, with eyes that made our blood run cold, stood up and

spoke aloud :

“Come, traitor, down, for whom my ghost still wanders

unforgiven ! Come down, false Ferdinand, for whom I broke my peace

with heaven !" It was vain to hold the victim, for he plunged to meet her

call, Like the bird that shrieks and flutters in the gazing serpent's

thrall.

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

163

You may guess the boldest mariner shrunk daunted from the

sight, For the Specter and her winding-sheet shone blue with

hideous light; Like a fiery wheel the boat spun with the waving of her hand, And round they went, and down they went, as the cock crew from the land.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

The Bridge of Sighs.

“Drowned ! Drowned ?"-HAMLET.

ONE more unfortunate

,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care !
Fashioned so slenderly-
Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements,
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing!

Touch her not scornfully!
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly-
Not of the stains of her;
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny,
Rash and undutiful;
Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers
One of Eve's family
Wipe those poor lips of hers,
Oozing so clammily.

Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb-
Her fair auburn tresses-
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?

Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
0! it was pitiful !
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.

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