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230

MONTROSE TO HIS MISTRESS.

When all its sands are diamond sparks,

That dazzle as they pass ?

Ah! who to sober measurement

Time's happy swiftness brings,
When birds of paradise have lent
Their plumage to his wings ?

ROBERT WILLIAM SPENCER

MONTROSE TO HIS MISTRESS.

My dear and only love, I pray

That little world of thee
Be governed by no other sway

But purest monarchy;
For if confusion have a part,

Which virtuous souls abhor,
I'll call a synod in my heart,

And never love thee more.

As Alexander I will reign,

And I will reign alone;
My thoughts did evermore disdain

A rival on my throne.
He either fears his fate too much,

Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch,

To gain or lose it all.

MONTROSE TO HIS MISTRESS.

231

But I will reign and govern still,

And always give the law,
And have each subject at my will,

And all to stand in awe;
But 'gainst my batteries if I find

Thou storm or vex me sore,
As if thou set me as a blind,

I'll never love thee more.

And in the empire of thy heart,

Where I should solely be, If others do pretend a part,

Or dare to share with me;
Or committees if thou erect,

Or go on such a score,
I'll smiling mock at thy neglect,

And never love thee more.

But if no faithless action stain

Thy love and constant word,
I'll make thee famous by my pen,

And glorious by my sword;
I'll serve thee in such noble ways

As ne'er was known before;
I'll deck and crown thy head with bays,

And love thee more and more.

James GraHAME, MARQUIS OF MONTROSE.

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O, my love's like the steadfast sun,
Or streams that deepen as they run;
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,
Nor moments between sighs and tears,
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain,
Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain,
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows
To sober joys and soften woes,
Can make my heart or fancy flee,
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee.

Even while I muse, I see thee sit
In maiden bloom and matron wit ;
Fair, gentle, as when first I sued,
Ye seem, but of sedater mood;
Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee,
As when, beneath Arbigland tree,
We stayed and wooed, and thought the invon
Set on the sea an hour too soon;
Or lingered 'mid the falling dew,
When looks were fond and words were few.

Though I see smiling at thy feet,
Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet,
And time and care and birthtime woes
Have dimmed thine eye and touched thy rose,

THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG.

233

To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong
Whate'er charms me in tale or song,
When words descend like dews, unsought,
With gleams of deep, enthusiast thought,
And Fancy in her heaven flies free,
They come, my love, they come from thee

0, when more thought we gave, of old,
To silver, than some give to gold,
'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er
How we should deck our humble bower';
”Twas sweet to pull, in hope, with thee,
The golden fruit of Fortune's tree;
And sweeter still to choose and twine
A garland for that brow of thine,
A song-wreath which may grace my Jean,
While rivers flow, and woods grow green.

At times there come, as come there ought,
Grave moments of sedater thought,
When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night
One gleam of her inconstant light;
And Hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
Shines like a rainbow through the shower.
O then I see, while seated nigh,
A mother's heart shine in thine eye,
And proud resolve and purpose meek
Speak of thee more than words can speak.
I think this wedded wife of mine,

he best of all that's not divine.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM

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