O fool! to imagine that aught could subdue A love so well founded, a passion so true! Oh, what had my youth with ambition to do? Why left I Amynta? Why broke I my Vow? Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheephook restore, And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more. Alas! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine; Poor shepherd, Amynta can never be thine: Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain, The moments neglected return not again. Oh, what had my youth with ambition to do? Why left I Amynta? Why broke I my Vow? Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheephook restore, And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more. SIR GILBERT ELLIOT. THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. IN her ear he whispers gayly, "If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily, And I think thou lov'st me well." She replies, in accents fainter, "There is none I love like thee." Presses his without reproof: See the lordly castles stand; Summer woods, about them blowing, Made a murmur in the land. From deep thought himself he rouses, Says to her that loves him well, "Let us see these handsome houses Where the wealthy nobles dwell." So she goes, by him attended, Lay betwixt his home and hers: Parks with oak and chestnut shady, Parks and order'd gardens great, Ancient homes of lord and lady, Built for pleasure and for state. All he shows her makes him dearer : Evermore she seems to gaze On that cottage growing nearer, He shall have a cheerful home; And beneath the gate she turns; Than all those she saw before: Bows before him at the door. Is so great a lord as he. Her sweet face from brow to chin: As it were with shame she blushes, And her spirit changed within. Then her countenance all over Pale again as death did prove; But he clasp'd her like a lover, And he cheer'd her soul with love. So she strove against her weakness, Tho' at times her spirit sank: Shaped her heart with woman's meekness To all duties of her rank: And a gentle consort made he, And her gentle mind was such That she grew a noble lady, And the people loved her much. But a trouble weigh'd upon her, And perplex'd her, night and morn, With the burden of an honor Unto which she was not born. Faint she grew, and ever fainter, As she murmur'd, "Oh, that he Were once more that landscape-painter Which did win my heart from me!" So she droop'd and droop'd before him, Fading slowly from his side: Three fair children first she bore him, Then before her time she died. Weeping, weeping late and early, Walking up and pacing down, Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. And he came to look upon her, And he look'd at her and said, "Bring the dress and put it on her, That she wore when she was wed." ALFRED TENNYSON. MY ONLY JO AND DEARIE, 0. THY cheek is o' the rose's hue, My only jo and dearie, O; Thy neck is like the siller dew Upon the banks sae briery, O; Thy teeth are o' the ivory, Oh, sweet's the twinkle o' thine ee! The birdie sings upon the thorn Nae care to make it eerie, O; My only jo and dearie, O. Whan we were bairnies on yon brae, And youth was blinking bonny, O, Aft we wad daff the lee-lang day, Our joys fu' sweet and mony, O; Aft I wad chase thee o'er the lee, And round about the thorny tree, Or pu' the wild-flowers a' for thee, My only jo and dearie, O. I hae a wish I canna tine 'Mang a' the cares that grieve me, O; I wish thou wert for ever mine, And never mair to leave me, 0: Then I wad daut thee night and day, Nor ither warldly care wad hae, Till life's warm stream forgot to play, My only jo and dearie, O. RICHARD GALL. LUCY'S FLITTIN'. "TWAS when the wan leaf frae the birk tree was fa'in, And Martinmas dowie had wound up the year, That Lucy rowed up her wee kist wi' her a' in't, And left her auld maister and neibours sae dear: For Lucy had served i' the glen a' the simmer; She cam there afore the bloom cam on the pea; An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her, Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her ee. She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stannin'; Richt sair was his kind heart her flittin' to see. "Fare ye weel, Lucy!" quo' Jamie, and ran in; The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae her ee. As down the burnside she gaed slow wi' her flittin', "Fare ye weel, Lucy!" was ilka bird's sang; She heard the craw sayin't, high on the tree sittin', And the robin was chirpin't the brown leaves amang. "Oh, what is't that pits my puir heart in a flutter? And what gars the tears come sae fast to my ee? If I wasna ettled to be ony better, Then what gars me wish ony better to be? I'm just like a lammie that loses its mither; Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can see; I fear I hae tint my puir heart a'thegither, Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my ee. "Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae rowed up the ribbon, The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie gae me; Yestreen, when he gae me't, and saw I was sabbin', I'll never forget the wae blink o' his ee. Though now he said naething but Fare ye weel, Lucy!' It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see: He couldna say mair but just, 'Fare ye weel, Lucy!' Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee." The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when it's droukit; The hare likes the brake and the braird on the lea; When my passion seeks She, looking thro' and thro' me Smiling, never speaks: So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple, From beneath her gather'd wimple Glancing with black-beaded eyes, Till the lightning laughters dimple The baby-roses in her cheeks; Then away she flies. Prythee weep, May Lilian! Gayety without eclipse Wearieth me, May Lilian: Thro' my very heart it thrilleth When from crimson-threaded lips Silver-treble laughter trilleth : Prythee weep, May Lilian. Praying all I can, If prayers will not hush thee, Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, ALFRED TENNYSON. LOVE AND DEATH. But Lucy likes Jamie;-she turn'd and GLORIES, pleasures, pomps, delights, and Little white cottages, all in a row, Where the woolly-white clouds go sailing I seem to be able to see it all! For now, in summer, I take my chair, near; And Fanny, who lives just over the way, With her little hand's-touch so warm Hath not the dear little hand a tongue, When it stirs on my palm for the love of Do I not know she is pretty and young? That I only hear as they pass around; And as long as we sit in the music and light, She is happy to keep God's sight, And I am happy to keep God's sound. Why, I know her face, though I am blind I made it of music long ago: And I smile and talk, with the sun on my Strange large eyes, and dark hair twined cheek, And the little live hand seems to stir and speak, For Fanny is dumb and I am blind. Fanny is sweet thirteen, and she Round the pensive light of a brow of snow; And when I sit by my little one, And hold her hand, and talk in the sun, And hear the music that haunts the place, Has fine black ringlets, and dark eyes I know she is raising her eyes to me, clear, And I am older by summers three, Why should we hold one another so Because she cannot utter a word, Because I have never seen the sky, For the sun is shining, the swallows fly, And guessing how gentle my voice must be, And seeing the music upon my face. Though, if ever Lord God should grant me a prayer (I know the fancy is only vain), I should pray: Just once, when the weather is fair, To see little Fanny and Langley Lane; Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray to hear The bees and the blue-flies murmur low, The voice of the friend that she holds so And I hear the water-cart go by, Ah! life is pleasant in Langley Lane! There is always something sweet to hear! And the little soft fingers flutter in Chirping of birds, or patter of rain; mine. And Fanny, my little one, always near; And though I am weak, and cannot live | Yet I thought-but it might not be so long, And Fanny, my darling, is far from strong, And though we can never married be,— What then?-since we hold one another so dear, For the sake of the pleasure one cannot hear, And the pleasure that only one can see? ROBERT BUCHANAN. A PASTORAL BALLAD. IN FOUR PARTS. YE shepherds so cheerful and gay, Whose flocks never carelessly roam; Should Corydon's happen to stray, Oh call the poor wanderers home. Allow me to muse and to sigh, Nor talk of the change that ye find; None once was so watchful as I: I have left my dear Phillis behind. Now I know what it is, to have strove With the torture of doubt and desire; What it is, to admire and to love, And to leave her we love and admire. Ah lead forth my flock in the morn, And the damps of each ev'ning repel; Alas! I am faint and forlorn : I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell. Since Phillis vouchsafed me a look, I never once dreamt of my vine; May I lose both my pipe and my crook, If I knew of a kid that was mine. I prized every hour that went by, Beyond all that had pleased me before; But now they are past, and I sigh; And I grieve that I prized them no more. But why do I languish in vain? Why wander thus pensively here? The pride of that valley, is flown; 'Twas with pain that she saw me depart. She gazed, as I slowly withdrew; My path I could hardly discern ; So sweetly she bade me adieu, I thought that she bade me return. The pilgrim that journeys all day Is happy, nor heard to repine. And my solace wherever I go. II. HOPE. My banks they are furnish'd with bees, And my hills are white-over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss, Such health do my fountains bestowMy fountains all border'd with moss, Where the harebells and violets grow. Not a pine in my grove is there seen, But with tendrils of woodbine is bound: Not a beech's more beautiful green, But a sweetbrier entwines it around. Not my fields, in the prime of the year, More charms than my cattle unfold: Not a brook that is limpid and clear, But it glitters with fishes of gold. One would think she might like to retire To the bow'r I have labor'd to rear; Not a shrub that I heard her admire, But I hasted and planted it there. Oh how sudden the jessamine strove With the lilac to render it gay! Already it calls for my love, To prune the wild branches away. From the plains, from the woodlands and groves, What strains of wild melody flow? How the nightingales warble their loves From the thickets of roses that blow! And when her bright form shall appear, Each bird shall harmoniously join In a concert so soft and so clear, As she may not be fond to resign. |