66 BARTHRAM'S DIRGE. (FROM MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER.") HEY shot him on the Nine-Stane Rig, TH Beside the Headless Cross; And they left him lying in his blood, They made a bier of the broken bough, A lady came to that lonely bower, She bathed him in the Lady-Well, And she plaited a garland for his breast, They row'd him in a lily sheet, And bare him to his earth, And the Grey Friars sung the dead man's mass, As they pass'd the Chapel-Garth. They buried him at the mirk midnight, When the dew fell cold and still, When the aspen grey forgot to play, And the mist clung to the hill. 1 Saugh, "sally," willow. 2 Ling, heather. They dug his grave but a bare foot deep, By the edge of the Nine-Stane Burn, And they cover'd him o'er wi' the heather-flower, The moss and the lady-fern. A Grey Friar stay'd upon the grave, And sang till the morning-tide; And a friar shall sing for Barthram's soul, While the Headless Cross shall bide. THE WORLD'S WANDERERS. ELL me, thou star whose wings of light In what cavern of the night Will thy pinions close now? Tell me, moon, thou pale and grey Weary wind who wanderest On the tree or billow? SHELLEY. TH MY LAST DUCHESS. (FERRARA.) HAT'S my last Duchess painted on the wall, And seem'd as they would ask me, if they durst, "Paint Or blush, at least. She thank'd men,-good; but thank'd Somehow, I know not how-as if she rank'd With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame In speech-(which I have not)—to make your Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, Then all smiles stopp'd together. There she stands Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me. SONG. [THE SEASON FOR WOOING.] D OST thou idly ask to hear At what gentle seasons Nymphs relent, when lovers near Press the tenderest reasons? Ah, they give their faith too oft To the careless wooer ; Maidens' hearts are always soft; Would that men's were truer ! Woo the fair one, when around When, o'er all the fragrant ground, Early herbs are springing : When the brookside, bank, and grove, All with blossoms laden, Shine with beauty, breathe of love,- Woo her when, with rosy blush, Summer eve is sinking; When on rills that softly gush Stars are softly winking; When, through boughs that knit the bower, Moonlight gleams are stealing; Woo her, till the gentle hour Woo her when autumnal dyes n; Tinge the woody mountain When the dropping foliage lies In the weedy fountain; |