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;
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 a while!
And I will come again, my love,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

BURNS.

To the Nightingale.

O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon blooming spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,
Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill,
While the jolly hours lead on propitious May.
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day,

First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill,
Portend success in love; O if Jove's will
Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay,
Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate
Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh;

As thou from year to year has sung too late
For my relief, yet hadst no reason why:

Whether the Muse, or Love, call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I.

MILTON.

Sonnet.

THRICE happy he who by some shady grove, Far from the clamorous world doth live his own, Though solitary, who is not alone,

But doth converse with that eternal Love:

O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan,
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widowed dove,
Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne,
Which good make doubtful do, the evil approve!
O how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath,
And sighs embalmed, which new-born flowers unfold,
Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath!
How sweet are streams, to poison drunk in gold!
The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights;
Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.

DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN.

Go, lovely Rose!

Song.

Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,

And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung

In deserts where no men abide,

Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired:

Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired,

And not blush so to be admired.

Then die! that she

The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee,

How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

WALLER

The Sabbath Bells.

THE cheerful sabbath bells, wherever heard,
Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice
Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims
Tidings of good to Zion: chiefly when
Their piercing tones fall sudden on the ear
Of the contemplant, solitary man,

Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced to lure
Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft,

And oft again, hard matter, which eludes

And baffles his pursuit-thought-sick and tired

Of controversy, where no end appears,

No clue to his research, the lonely man

Half wishes for society again.

Him thus engaged, the sabbath bells salute
Sudden! his heart awakes, his ears drink in
The cheering music; his relenting soul
Yearns after all the joys of social life,

And softens with the love of human kind.

CHARLES LAMB.