TO LUCASTA.

ON GOING TO THE WARS.

TELL me not, sweet, I am unkinde,
That from the nunnerie

Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde,
To warre and armes I flee.

True, a new mistresse now I chase.-
The first foe in the field;

And with a stronger faith imbrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you, too, shall adore;

I could not love thee, deare, so much,
Loved I not honour more.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

GOOD-BYE.

"FAREWELL! farewell!" is often heard
From the lips of those who part:
'T is a whispered tone, 't is a gentle word,
But it springs not from the heart.
It may serve for the lover's closing lay,
To be sung 'neath a summer sky;

But give to me the lips that say

The honest words, "Good-bye!"

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Adieu! adieu!" may greet the ear,
In the guise of courtly speech:

But when we leave the kind and dear,

"T is not what the soul would teach. Whene'er we grasp the hands of those We would have forever nigh,

The flame of Friendship bursts and glows
In the warm, frank words, "Good-bye."

The mother, sending forth her child
To meet with cares and strife,

Breathes through her tears her doubts and fears
For the loved one's future life.

No cold" adieu," no "farewell," lives
Within her choking sigh,

But the deepest sob of anguish gives,
"God bless thee, boy! Good-bye!"

Go, watch the pale and dying one,

When the glance hast lost its beam; When the brow is cold as the marble stone, And the world a passing dream;

And the latest pressure of the hand,

The look of the closing eye,

Yield what the heart must understand,

A long, a last Good-bye.

ANONYMOUS.

AE FOND KISS BEFORE WE PART.

AE fond kiss, and then we sever;

Ae fareweel, alas, forever!

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee;
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.

Who shall say that fortune grieves him,
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me.

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy—
Naething could resist my Nancy:
But to see her was to love her,
Love but her, and love forever.
Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met-or never parted,

We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest!
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, alas, forever!

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!

ROBERT BURNS.

O, MY LUVE'S LIKE A RED, RED
ROSE.

O, MY Luve's like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June:
O, my Luve 's like the melodie
That's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:

And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang.dry:

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my Luve,

Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

ROBERT BURNS.

MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART.

MAID of Athens, ere we part,

Give, O, give me back my heart!
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest!
Hear my vow before I go,

Ζώη μοῦ σας ἀγαπῶ.*

By those tresses unconfined,
Wooed by each gean wind;

By those lids whose jetty fringe

Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes like the roe,

Ζώη μου σάς ἀγαπῶ.

By that lip I long to taste;
By that zone-encircled waist;

* Zoë mou, sas ágapō; My life. I love thee.

By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By love's alternate joy and woe,
Ζώη μοῦ σάς ἀγαπῶ.

Maid of Athens! I am gone.
Think of me, sweet! when alone.
Though I fly to Istambol,

Athens holds my heart and sov':

Can I cease to love thee?

Ζώη μοῦ σάς ἀγαπῶ.

No!

LORD BYRON.

SONG,

OF THE YOUNG HIGHLANDER SUMMONED FROM HIS BRIDE BY THE FIERY CROSS OF RODERICK DHU."

66

FROM THE LADY OF THE LAKE."

THE heath this night must be my bed,
The bracken curtain for my head,
My lullaby the warder's tread,

Far, far from love and thee, Mary;
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid
My couch may be my bloody plaid,
My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid!
It will not waken me, Mary!

I may not, dare not, fancy now
The grief that clouds thy lovely brow,
I dare not think upon thy vow,

And all it promised me, Mary.