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Thy father—anything to thee!
Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
Hath led me to this lonely place.
Joy have I had; and going hence
I bear away my recompense.
In spots like these it is we prize
Our memory, feel that she hath eyes:
Then why should I be loath to stir?
I feel this place was made for her;

To give new pleasure like the past,
Continued long as life shall last.
Nor am I loath, though pleased at heart,
Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;
For I, methinks, till I grow old,
As fair before me shall behold
As I do now, the cabin small,
The lake, the bay, the waterfall;
And Thee, the Spirit of them all!

William Wordsworth

112

HIGHLAND MARY

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E banks and braes and streams around

The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie!
There simmer first unfauld her robes,

And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last fareweel

O’my sweet Highland Mary.

Braes: hillsides

Drumlie: muddy

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,

How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade

I clasped her to my bosom!
The golden hours on angel wings

Flew o’er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life

Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi'

mony a vow and locked embrace
Our parting was fu' tender;
And pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels asunder;
But, oh! fell Death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early!
Now green’s the sod, and cauld's the clay,

That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,

I aft hae kissed sae fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance

That dwelt on me sae kindly;
And moldering now in silent dust

That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core

Shall live my Highland Mary.

Robert Burns

113

TO MARY IN HEAVEN

THO

"HOU lingering star, with lessening ray,

That lov'st to greet the early morn,
Again thou usher’st in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.

O Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget,

Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met

To live one day of parting love! Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace;

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,

O’erhung with. wild woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,

Twined amorous round the raptured scene; The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,

The birds sang love on every spray, Till soon, too soon, the glowing west

Proclaimed the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,

And fondly broods with miser care! Time but the impression stronger makes,

As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast?

Robert Burns 114

SHE

HE dwelt among the untrodden

ways
Beside the springs of Dove;
A maid whom there were none to praise,

And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye!
-Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and oh,
The difference to me!

William Wordsworth

115

SLUMBER did my spirit seal;

ASI had no human fears;

She seemed a thing that could not feel

The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force;

She neither hears nor sees;
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.

William Wordsworth 176

ROSE AYLMER

!

H what avails the sceptered race!

Ah what the form divine!
What every virtuc, every grace!

Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes

May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.

Walter Savage Landor

117

HELEN OF KIRCONNELL

I

WAD I were where Helen lies;

Night and day on me she cries;
O that I were where Helen lies

On fair Kirconnell lea!

Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,

And died to succor me!

O think na but my heart was sair
When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair!
I laid her down wi’ meikle care

On fair Kirconnell lea.

As I went down the waterside,
Nane but my foe to be my guide,
Nane but my foe to be my guide,

On fair Kirconnell lea;
Burd: maid

Meikle: great

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