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Break his bands of sleep asunder
-Thus, long ago,
The Passionate Shepherd
to his Love
COME live with me and be my love,
The Flowers o' the Forest I've heard them lilting, at the ewe-milking,
Lasses a' lilting, before dawn o' day; But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning ;
The Flowers o' the Forest are a’wede awae.
At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning ;
Lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae ;
Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her awae.
Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray ;
The Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede awae.
'Bout stacks, wi' the lasses at bogles to play ; But ilk maid sits dreary, lamenting her dearie
The Flowers o' the Forest are weded awae. Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border !
The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; The Flowers o' the Forest, that fought aye the foremost
The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay. We'll hear nae mair lilting, at the ewe-milking ;
Women and bairns are heartless and wae : Sighing and moaning, on ilka green loaningThe Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede awae.
Miss JANE ELLIOTT.'
THE skies they were ashen and sober ;
The leaves they were crisped and sere,
The leaves they were withering and sere ;
Of my most immemorial year ;
In the misty mid region of Weir, -
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
Here once, through an alley Titanic
cypress, I roamed with my Soul,-
As the scoriac rivers that roll,
As the lavas that restlessly roll Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole, That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.
Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere,
Our memories were treacherous and sere ; For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year
(Ah, night of all nights in the year !) We noted not the dim lake of Auber
(Though once we had journeyed down here), Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
And now, as the night was senescent,
And star-dials pointed to morn,
As the sun-dials hinted of morn, At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born, Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn, Astarte's bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.
And I said, 'She is warmer than Dian :
She rolls through an ether of sighs,
She revels in a region of sighs :
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
To point us the path to the skies
To the Lethean peace of the skies ; Come up in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes ; Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes.'
But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said—' Sadly, this star I mistrust
Her pallor I strangely mistrustOh, hasten !-oh, let us not linger!
Oh, fly !-let us fly !—for we must.' In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings until they trailed in the dustIn agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dustTill they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
I replied—This is nothing but dreaming :
Let us on by this tremulous light ;
Let us bathe in this crystalline light : Its sibyllic splendour is beaming
With hope and in beauty to-night
See !-it flickers up the sky through the night ; Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright-
That cannot but guide us aright,
Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom
And conquered her scruples and gloom ; And we passed to the end of a vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tomb,
By the door of a legended tomb;
On the door of this legended tomb ?'
my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were withering and sere ;