A gowne made of the finest wooll A belt of straw, and ivie buds, The Shepheard swaines shall dance and sing CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. Here hath been dawning T. CARLYLE. THE SEVEN SISTERS; OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE. S I. EVEN daughters had Lord Archibald, You could not say in one short day Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, II. Fresh blows the wind, a western wind, And from the shores of Erin, Across the wave a Rover brave To Binnorie is steering : Right onward to the Scottish strand The gallant ship is borne; The warriors leap upon the land, And hark! the Leader of the band Hath blown his bugle horn. Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, III. Beside a grotto of their own, IV. Away the seven fair Campbells fly, And, over hill and hollow, With menace proud, and insult loud, The youthful Rovers follow. Cried they, "Your Father loves to roam : Enough for him to find The empty house when he comes home;. For us your yellow ringlets comb, For us be fair and kind!" Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, V. Some close behind, some side by side, They run, and cry, "Nay, let us die, A lake was near; the shore was steep; There never foot had been; They ran, and with a desperate leap Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, VI. The stream that flows out of the lake, Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, WORDSWORTH. [SONG.] (FROM 66 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.") T is the miller's daughter, IT And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel That trembles at her ear: For hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so warm and white. And I would be the girdle About her dainty, dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me, In sorrow and in rest: And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight. And I would be the necklace, With her laughter or her sighs; I scarce should be unclasp'd at night. AUTUMN. TENNYSON. A DIRGE. `HE warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is THE Wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying; And the year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead Is lying. Come, months, come away, In your saddest array,- Of the dead cold year, And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling, The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling For the year; The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone To his dwelling. Come, months, come away; |