I saw her pace, with quiet grace, the shaded path along, And pause to pluck a flower, or hear the thrush's song. Denied by her proud father as a suitor to be seen, She came to me, with loving trust, my gracious little queen. Above my station, heaven knows, that gentle maiden shone, For she was belle and wide beloved, and I a youth unknown. The rich and great about her thronged, and sought on bended knee For love this gracious princess gave, with all her heart, to me. So like a startled fawn before my longing eyes she stood, With all the freshness of a girl in flush of womanhood. I trembled as I put my arm about her form divine, And stammered, as in awkward speech, I begged her to be mine. 'Tis sweet to hear the pattering rain, that lulls a dimlit dream 'Tis sweet to hear the song of birds, and sweet the rippling stream; 'Tis sweet amid the mountain pines to hear the south winds sigh, More sweet than these and all beside was the loving, low reply. The little hand I held in mine held all I had of life, To mold its better destiny and soothe to sleep its strife. 'Tis said that angels watch o'er men, commissioned from above; My angel walked with me on earth, and gave to me her love. Ah! dearest wife, my heart is stirred, my eyes are dim with tears I think upon the loving faith of all these bygone years, For now we stand upon this spot, as in that dewy morn, With the bloom upon the alder and the tassel on the corn. DON PIATT. THE GOWAN GLITTERS ON THE SWARD. HE gowan glitters on the sward, The laverock's in the sky, And Collie on my plaid keeps ward, And time is passing by. O, no! sad and slow, And lengthened on the ground; My sheep-bells tinkle frae the west, O, no! sad and slow, The shadow lingers still; I hear below the water roar, O, no! sad and slow, These are nae sounds for me; The shadow of our trysting bush It creeps sae drearily. I coft yestreen, frae Chapman Tam, A snood o' bonnie blue, And promised, when our trysting cam', To tie it round her brow. O, no! sad and slow, The mark it winna' pass; The shadow o' that dreary bush Is tethered on the grass. O, now I see her on the way! She's past the witch's knowe; She's climbing up the brownie's brae; My heart is in a lowe. O, no! 'tis not so, "Tis glamrie I hae seen; The shadow o' that hawthorn bush Will move nae mair till e'en. My book o' grace I'll try to read, O, no! sad and slow, The time will ne'er be gane; JOANNA BAILLIE. T Paris it was, at the opera there; And she looked like a queen in a book that With the wreath of pearls in her raven hair, Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, The best, to my taste, is the Trovatoré; And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, The souls in purgatory. The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, "Non ti scordar di me ?" The Emperor there, in his box of state, Where his eagles in bronze had been. The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye: You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again, For one moment, under the old blue sky And both were silent, and both were sad - So confident of her charm! I have not a doubt she was thinking then I hope that to get to the kingdom of heaven, I wish him well for the jointure given Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love I thought of the dress that she wore last time, In that lost land, in that soft clime, Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot), Of the jasmine flower that she wore in her breast, And the one star over the tower. I thought of our little quarrels and strife, For I thought of her grave below the hill, And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, It made me creep, and it made me cold! And I turned and looked: she was sitting there, In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair, I was here, and she was there; And the glittering horseshoe curved between!— From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair And her sumptuous scornful mien, To my early love with her eyes downcast, To my early love from my future bride One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, I traversed the passage; and down at her side My thinking of her, or the music's strain, Or something which never will be exprest, Had brought her back from the grave again, With the jasmine in her breast. She is not dead, and she is not wed! But she loves me now, and she loved me then! And the very first word that her sweet lips said, My heart grew youthful again. The marchioness there, of Carabas, She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still; And but for her well, we 'll let that pass; She may marry whomever she will. But I will marry my own first love, With her primrose face, for old things are best; The world is filled with folly and sin, For beauty is easy enough to win; But one is n't loved every day. And I think, in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, If only the dead could find out when But O, the smell of that jasmine flower! ROBERT BULWER LYTTON. THE WELCOME. OME in the evening or come in the morning, warning, Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you. Light is my heart since the day we were plighted, I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them; Or saber and shield to a knight without armor; We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyrie, beaming, And trust, when in secret most tunefully streaming, Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver, As our souls flow in one down eternity's river.” So come in the evening or come in the morning, Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, me. THOMAS DAVIS. NEVER burn kindly written letters: it is so pleasant to read them over when the ink is brown, the paper yellow with age, and the hands that traced the friendly words are folded over the hearts that prompted them. Keep all loving letters. Burn only the harsh ones, and in burning, forgive and forget them. My lambkins around me would oftentimes play, But now, in their frolics when by me they pass, Be still, then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad, My dog I was ever well pleaséd to see Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me; And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said, "Come hither, poor fellow;" and patted his head. But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look Cry Sirrah!" and give him a blow with my crook: And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe 's away? When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I seen, How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green! Sweet music went with us both all the wood through, The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale, too; Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat, And chirp! went the grasshopper under our feet. But now she is absent, though still they sing on, The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone: Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, Gave everything else its agreeable sound. Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue? And where is the violet's beautiful blue? Does aught of its sweetness the blossoms beguile? That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile? Ah! rivals, I see why it was that you drest, And made yourselves fine for-a place in her breast; You put on your colors to pleasure her eye, To be plucked by her hand, on her bosom to die. How slowly Time creeps till my Phœbe return! Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear, Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say. Will no pitying power, that hears me complain, Or cure my disquiet or soften my pain? To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove; LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT. THE racing river leaped and sang Full blithely in the perfect weather, This rains out light from every part, And that with songs of joy was thrilling; But in the hollow of my heart, There ached a place that wanted filling. Before the road and river meet, And stepping-stones are wet and glisten, I heard a sound of laughter sweet, And paused to like it, and to listen. I heard the chanting waters flow, The cushat's note, the bee's low humming, Then turned the hedge, and did not knowHow could I? that my time was coming. A girl upon the highest stone, Half doubtful of the deed, was standing, So far the shallow flood had flown, Beyond the 'customed leap of landing. She knew not any need of me, Yet me she wanted all unweeting; She thought not I had crossed the sea, And half the sphere, to give her meeting. I waded out, her eyes I met, I wished the moments had been hours; I took her in my arms and set Her dainty feet among the flowers. And now possession crowns endeavor; JEAN INGELOW. |