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Willie, all to you and me
How shall I watch for thee, when fears grow Is that spot, whate'er it be,
stronger, Where he stands — no other word —
As night grows dark and darker on the hill ! Stands- Godsure the child's prayers heard — How shall I weep, when I can watch no longer ! Near the Alma River.
Ah ! art thou absent, art thou absent still? Willie, listen to the bells
Yet I should grieve not, though the eye that seeth Ringing in the town to-day ; That's for victory. No knell swells
Gazeth through tears that makeitssplendor dull; For the many swept away,
For oh ! I sometimes fear when thou art with me, Hundreds, thousands. Let us weep,
My cup of happiness is all too full.
Haste, haste thee home to thy mountain dwelling, Till the morning comes again ;
Haste, as a bird unto its peaceful nest ! Till the third dread morning tell
Haste, as a skiff, through tempests wide and
swelling, Who they were that fought and — fell
Flies to its haven of securest rest!
and hard ; But thy father, far exiled,
What shall I do with all the days and hours Dreaming of us two at home ;
That must be counted ere I see thy face? Or, beneath the starry dome,
How shall I charm the interval that lowers Digs out trenches in the dark,
Between this time and that sweet time of grace ? Where he buries — Willie, mark !Where he buries those who died
Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,
Weary with longing ? Shall I flee away
Into past days, and with some fond pretence Willie, Willie, go to sleep ;
Cheat myself to forget the present day?
Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin
Of casting from me God's great gift of time ? Faster, and send news of joy ;
Shall I, these mists of memory locked within, When I need not shrink to meet
Leave and forget life's purposes sublime ? Those great placards in the street, That for weeks will ghastly stare
O, how or by what means may I contrive In some eyes — child, say that
To bring the hour that brings thee back more
prayer Once again, - a different one,
near ? Say, “O God! Thy will be done
How may I teach my drooping hope to live By the Alma River."
Until that blessed time, and thou art here? I'll tell thee ; for thy sake I will lay hold
Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee,
In worthy deeds, each moment that is told THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND.
While thou, beloved one ! art far from me. LINGER not long. Home is not home without thee: For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn.
Allheavenward flights, all high and holy strains ; 0, let its memory, like a chain about thee,
For thy dear sake I will walk patiently Gently compel and hasten thy return !
Through these long hours, nor call their min. Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy utes pains. staying,
I will this dreary blank of absence make Bethink thee, can the mirth of thy friends,
A noble task-time; and will therein strive though dear,
To follow excellence, and to o'ertake Compensate for the grief thy long delaying
More good than I have won since yet I live. Costs the fond heart that sighs to have thee here?
So may this doomed time build up in me Linger not long. How shall I watch thy coming, 1 A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine ;
As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell; So may my love and longing hallowed be, When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming,
And thy dear thought an influence divine. And silence hangs on all things like a spell i
DINAH MARIA MULOCK.
FRANCES ANNE KEMBLR
DISAPPOINTMENT AND ESTRANGEMENT.
THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.
MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and socht me for his
bride ; But, saving a croun, he had naething else beside. To mak that croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to
sea ; And the croun and the pund were baith for me!
FOR aught that ever I could read,
He hadna been awa a week but only twa,
My father cou'dna work, and my mother cou'dna
spin ; I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I cou'dna
win; Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears
in his ee, Said, “Jenny, for their sakes, O marry me!”
THE BANKS O' DOON.
My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie
YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ? How can ye chant, ye little birds,
The ship it was a wrack! Why didna Jamie
dee? And I sae weary, fu'o' care ? Thou 'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, Or why do I live to say, Wae's me ?
That wantons through the flowering thorn; Thou minds me o' departed joys,
My father argued sair, — my mother didna speak, Departed — never to return.
But she lookit in my face till my heart was like
to break; Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,
Sae they gied him my hand, though my heart To see the rose and woodbine twine ;
was in the sea ; And ilka bird sang o' its luve,
And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me.
I hadna been a wife, a week but only four,
When, sitting sae mournfully at the door, And my fause luver stole my rose,
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I cou'dna think it he, But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.
Till he said, “I'm come back for to marry thee!”
I wish I were dead, but I'm no like to dee;
And why do I live to say, Wae's me? When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin ; hame,
I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin And a' the warld to sleep are gane ;
But I 'll do my best a gude wife to be, The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee,
For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me. When my gudeman lies sound by me.
LADY ANNE BARNARD
AULD ROB MORRIS.
Beside the sceptre. Thus I made my home
In the soft palace of a fairy Future ! THERE's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, My father died; and I, the peasant-born, He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise
Out of the prison of my mean estate ; He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And, with such jewels as the exploring mind And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. Brings from the caves of Knowledge, buy my She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
From those twin jailers of the daring heart, She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay;
Low birth and iron fortune. Thy bright image, As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
Glassed in my soul, took all the hues of glory, And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.
And lured me oni to those inspiring toils But 0, she's an heiress, auld Robin 's a laird,
By which man masters men! For thee, I grew And my daddie has naught but a cot-house and A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages ! yard;
For thee, I sought to borrow from each Grace A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed,
And every Muse such attributes as lend The wounds I must hide that will soon be my And passion taught me poesy, — of thee,
Ideal charms to Love. I thought of thee, dead.
And on the painter's canvas grew the life The day comes to me, but delight brings me of beauty ! - Art became the shadow
Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes ! The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane ;
Men called me vain, some, mad, - I heeded I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
for it was sweet, And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast. But still toiled on, hoped on,
If not to win, to feel more worthy, thee !
The thoughts that burst their channels into song, 0, how past describing had then been my bliss, And sent them to thee, — such a tribute, lady, As now my distraction no words can express ! As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest.
The name — appended by the burning heart
It had created – yea, the enthusiast's name, CLAUDE MELNOTTE'S APOLOGY AND That should have been thy triumph, was thy DEFENCE.
That very hour — when passion, turned to wrath, PAULINE, by pride Resembled hatred most; when thy disdain Angels have fallen ere thy time ; by pride, Made my whole soul a chaos — in that hour That sole alloy of thy most lovely mould - The tempters found me a revengeful tool The evil spirit of a bitter love
For their revenge! Thou hadst trampled on the And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee.
The strawberry-leaves were red and sear; Vain, frantic, - guilty, if thou wilt, became
October's airs were fresh and chill, A fountain of ambition and bright hope ;
When, pausing on the windy hill, I thought of tales that by the winter hearth
The hill that overlooks the sea, Old gossips tell, – how maidens sprung from You talked confidingly to me, kings
Me whom your keen, artistic sight Have stooped from their high sphere ; how Love, Has not yet learned to read aright, like Death,
Since I have veiled my heart from you, Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook And loved you better than you knew.
LORD EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.
You told me of your toilsome past;
You did not see the bitter trace
You walk the sunny side of fate;
Your life's proud aim, your art's high truth,
I used to dream in all these years
LINDA TO HAFED.
Were wafted off to seas unknown,
And we might live, love, die alone !
Where the bright eyes of angels only
A paradise so pure and lonely !
The passing smile her cheek put on ;
His eyes met hers, that smile was gone ;
I've seen my fondest hopes decay;
But 't was the first to fade away.
To glad me with its soft black eye,
And love me, it was sure to die !
Of all I ever dreamt or knew,
O misery! must I lose that too?
VIOLA. Ay, but I know,
In faith, they are as true of heart as we.
DUKE. And what's her history?
VIOLA. A blank, my lord. She never told | In the spring a livelier iris changes on the her love,
burnished dove ; But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns Feed on her damask cheek; she pined in thought; to thoughts of love. And, with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like Patience on a monument,
Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed ?
be for one so young, We men may say more, swear more : but, indeed, And her eyes on all my motions with a mute Our shows are more than will ; for still we prove observance hung. Much in our vows, but little in our love.
And I said, “My cousin Amy, speak, and speak
the truth to me ;
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being LOCKSLEY HALL.
sets to thee."
COMRADES, leave me here a little, while as yet On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color 't is early morn,
and a light, Leave me here, and when you want me, sound As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the upon the bugle horn.
'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the And she turned, — her bosom shaken with a curlews call,
sudden storm of sighs ; Dreary gleams about the moorland, flying over All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of
Locksley Hall :
Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the Saying, “I have hid my feelings, fearing they sandy tracts,
should do me wrong"; And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into Saying, “Dost thou love me, cousin ?” weeping, cataracts.
“ I have loved thee long."
Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I Love took up the glass of time, and turned it in went to rest,
his glowing bands ; Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in
Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through Love took up the harp of life, and smote on all the mellow shade,
the chords with might; Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed braid.
in music out of sight.
Here about the beach I wandered, nourishing a Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the youth sublime
copses ring, With the fairy tales of science, and the long And her whisper thronged my pulses with the result of time;
fulness of the spring.
When the centuries behind me like a fruitful Many an evening by the waters did we watch the land reposed ;
stately ships, When I clung to all the present for the promise And our spirits rushed together at the touching that it closed;
of the lips. When I dipt into the future far as human eye o my cousin, shallow-hearted ! O my Amy,
mine no more ! Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder O the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the barren, that would be.
barren shore ! In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs
robin's breast; In the spring the wanton lapwing gets himself Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a another crest;
shrewish tongue !