CCIX LOVE'S DIET TELL me, fair maid, tell me truly, Let roses blow, And dew-stars to green blade cling: More light and rare, Befits that gentlest Nursling. Feed him with the sigh that rushes 'Twixt sweet lips, whose muteness speaks With the eloquence that flushes All a heart's wealth o'er soft cheeks; Feed him with a world of blushes, And the glance that shuns, yet seeks : So light and good, That the spirit child is fed; And with the tear Of joyous fear, That the small Elf's liquorèd. W. MOTHERWELL. CCX TO HELENE-ON A GIFT-RING CARELESSLY LOST I SENT a ring-a little band Of emerald and ruby stone, And bade it, sparkling on thy hand, Tell thee sweet tales of one Whose constant memory Was full of loveliness and thee. A shell was graven on its gold,— 'Twas Cupid fix'd without his wings To Helene once it would have told Her love is buried with that stone. Thou shalt not see the tears that start From eyes by thoughts like these beguil'd; Thou shalt not know the beating heart, Ever a victim and a child: Yet, Helene, love-believe The heart that never could deceive. I'll hear thy voice of melody In the sweet whispers of the air; And look on Heaven to look on thee. CCXI THE TRYSTING HOUR THE gowan glitters on the sward, Oh, no! sad an' slow, And lengthen'd on the ground, My sheep-bell tinkles frae the west, Alack! I canna' hear. Oh, no! sad an' slow, The shadow lingers still, And like a lanely ghaist I stand R I hear below the water roar, To ca' the bairnies in. Oh, no! sad an' slow, These are na' sounds for me, The shadow of our trystin' bush It creeps sae drearily! Oh, now I see her on the way, Oh, no! 'tis no' so, 'Tis glam'rie I hae seen, The shadow of that hawthorn bush My book o' grace I'll try to read, Oh, no! sad an' slow, The time will ne'er be gane, The shadow of the trystin' bush Is fix'd like ony stane. JOANNA BAILLIE. CCXII SONG THEY who may tell love's wistful tale, The sever'd cloud is brighten'd. Love, like the silent stream, is found The deeper, that it hath no sound Submit, my heart; thy lot is cast, I feel this mis'ry will not last, JOANNA BAILLIE. CCXIII A PICTURE My Love o'er the water bends dreaming; It glideth and glideth away: She sees there her own beauty, gleaming Through shadow and ripple and spray. |