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Willie, all to you and me

Is that spot, whate'er it be,
Where he stands — no other word
Stands-God sure the child's prayers heard
Near the Alma River.
Willie, listen to the bells
Ringing in the town to-day;
That's for victory. No knell swells
For the many swept away,

Hundreds, thousands. Let us weep,
We, who need not, just to keep
Reason clear in thought and brain
Till the morning comes again;
Till the third dread morning tell
Who they were that fought and — fell
By the Alma River.

Come, we'll lay us down, my child;
Poor the bed is, - poor and hard;
But thy father, far exiled,

Sleeps upon the open sward,
Dreaming of us two at home;
Or, beneath the starry dome,
Digs out trenches in the dark,
Where he buries - Willie, mark!·
Where he buries those who died
Fighting-fighting at his side -
By the Alma River.
Willie, Willie, go to sleep;

God will help us, O my boy!
He will make the dull hours creep

Faster, and send news of joy; When I need not shrink to meet Those great placards in the street, That for weeks will ghastly stare In some eyes-child, say that prayer Once again, -a different one, Say, "O God! Thy will be done By the Alma River."

DINAH MARIA MULOCK.

THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND.

LINGER not long. Home is not home without thee:
Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn.
O, let its memory, like a chain about thee,
Gently compel and hasten thy return!

Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy staying,

Bethink thee, can the mirth of thy friends, though dear, Compensate for the grief thy long delaying Costs the fond heart that sighs to have thee here? Linger not long. How shall I watch thy coming,

As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell; When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming, And silence hangs on all things like a spell !

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O, how or by what means may I contrive

To bring the hour that brings thee back more
near?
How may I teach my drooping hope to live
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
While thou, beloved one! art far from me.
For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try

All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains;
For thy dear sake I will walk patiently
Through these long hours, nor call their min-
utes pains.

I will this dreary blank of absence make

A noble task-time; and will therein strive To follow excellence, and to o'ertake

More good than I have won since yet I live. So may this doomed time build up in me

A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine ; So may my love and longing hallowed be, And thy dear thought an influence divine.

FRANCES ANNE KEMBLR

DISAPPOINTMENT AND ESTRANGEMENT.

Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and socht me for his bride;

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.

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FOR aught that ever I could read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth:
But, either it was different in blood,
Or else misgratled in respect of years;
Or else it stood upon the choice of friends;
Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it,
Making it momentary as a sound,
Swift as a shadow, short as any dream;
Brief as the lightning in the collied night,
That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,
And ere a man hath power to say, - Behold!
The jaws of darkness do devour it up:
So quick bright things come to confusion.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE BANKS O' DOON.

YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae weary, fu' o' care?

Thou 'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wantons through the flowering thorn;
Thou minds me o' departed joys,

Departed- never to return.

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,

To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o' its luve,

And, fondly, sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pou'd a rose,

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree; And my fause luver stole my rose, But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

ROBERT BURNS.

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O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say ;
We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away?
I wish I were dead, but I'm no like to dee;
And why do I live to say, Wae's me?

AULD ROBIN GRAY.

hame,

WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;
I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin
But I'll do my best a gude wife to be,
For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me.

And a' the warld to sleep are gane;
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee,
When my gudeman lies sound by me.

LADY ANNE BARNARD

AULD ROB MORRIS.

THERE'S auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,
He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld

Beside the sceptre. Thus I made my home
In the soft palace of a fairy Future!
My father died; and I, the peasant-born,
Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise
Out of the prison of my mean estate;
And, with such jewels as the exploring mind
Brings from the caves of Knowledge, buy my

ransom

From those twin jailers of the daring heart, Low birth and iron fortune. Thy bright image, Glassed in my soul, took all the hues of glory, And lured me on to those inspiring toils By which man masters men! For thee, I grew A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages! For thee, I sought to borrow from each Grace And every Muse such attributes as lend And passion taught me poesy, Ideal charms to Love. I thought of thee, - of thee, 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! Men called me vain,

nane:

some, mad, I heeded

not;

The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane;
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.

men:

He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay;
As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.

But O, she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird, And my daddie has naught but a cot-house and yard;

A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed,

The wounds I must hide that will soon be my

dead.

O, had she but been of a lower degree,

I then might hae hoped she wad smiled upon

me!

O, how past describing had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction no words can express!

ROBERT BURNS.

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kings

Have stooped from their high sphere; how Love, like Death,

Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook

At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour The thoughts that burst their channels into song, And sent them to thee, such a tribute, lady, As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest. The name-appended by the burning heart That longed to show its idol what bright things It had created-yea, the enthusiast's name, CLAUDE MELNOTTE'S APOLOGY AND That should have been thy triumph, was thy

scorn!

DEFENCE.

- for it was sweet, But still toiled on, hoped on, If not to win, to feel more worthy, thee!

PAULINE, by pride
Angels have fallen ere thy time; by pride,
That sole alloy of thy most lovely mould -
The evil spirit of a bitter love

And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee.
From my first years my soul was filled with thee; It turned, and stung thee!

I saw thee midst the flowers the lowly boy

Tended, unmarked by thee, a spirit of bloom,
And joy and freshness, as spring itself
Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape!
I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man
Entered the breast of the wild-dreaming boy;
And from that hour I grew what to the last
I shall be-thine adorer! Well, this love,
Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, became
A fountain of ambition and bright hope;
I thought of tales that by the winter hearth
Old gossips tell, - how maidens sprung from

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That very hour — when passion, turned to wrath,
Resembled hatred most; when thy disdain
Made my whole soul a chaos-in that hour
The tempters found me a revengeful tool
For their revenge! Thou hadst trampled on the
worm,

LORD EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.

LEFT BEHIND.

It was the autumn of the year;

The strawberry-leaves were red and sear;
October's airs were fresh and chill,
When, pausing on the windy hill,
The hill that overlooks the sea,
You talked confidingly to me,
Me whom your keen, artistic sight
Has not yet learned to read aright,
Since I have veiled my heart from you,
And loved you better than you knew.

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LINDA TO HAFED.

FROM THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS." "How sweetly," said the trembling maid, Of her own gentle voice afraid, So long had they in silence stood, Looking upon that moonlight flood, "How sweetly does the moonbeam smile To-night upon yon leafy isle ! Oft in my fancy's wanderings, I've wished that little isle had wings, And we, within its fairy bowers,

Were wafted off to seas unknown, Where not a pulse should beat but ours, And we might live, love, die alone! Far from the cruel and the cold,

Where the bright eyes of angels only
Should come around us, to behold
A paradise so pure and lonely!
Would this be world enough for thee?'
Playful she turned, that he might see

The passing smile her cheek put on ;
But when she marked how mournfully

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His eyes met hers, that smile was gone; And, bursting into heartfelt tears, "Yes, yes," she cried, "my hourly fears, My dreams, have boded all too right, We part forever part-to-night! I knew, I knew it could not last,

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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,
Feed on her damask cheek; she pined in thought;
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like Patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed?
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
Much in our vows, but little in our love.

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should
be for one so young,

observance hung.

SHAKESPEARE.

LOCKSLEY HALL.

and a light,

COMRADES, leave me here a little, while as yet On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color 't is early morn, Leave me here, and when you want me, sound As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the upon the bugle horn. northern night.

'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the And she turned, her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs;

curlews call,

Dreary gleams about the moorland, flying over All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of Locksley Hall: hazel eyes,

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest,

Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the

west.

In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

And I said, "My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me;

Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee."

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they sandy tracts, should do me wrong";

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And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into Saying, "Dost thou love me, cousin?" weeping, "I have loved thee long."

cataracts.

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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.

Love took up the glass of time, and turned it in
his glowing hands;
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in
golden sands.

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, could see, 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 !

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