Morning PACK, clouds, away, and welcome day To give my Love good-morrow T. HEYWOOD. Death the Leveller THE glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still: Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow, Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now, See where the victor-victim bleeds: To the cold tomb, Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. Annan Water ANNAN Water's wading deep, J. SHIRLEY. And my Love Annie's wondrous bonny; And I am loath she should wet her feet, Because I love her best of ony. He's loupen on his bonny gray, He rode the right gate and the ready; And he has ridden o'er field and fell, Through moor, and moss, and many a mire ; His spurs of steel were sair to bide, And from her four feet flew the fire. 'My bonny gray, now play your part! If ye be the steed that wins my dearie, With corn and hay ye'll be fed for aye, And never spur shall make you wearie.' "O boatman, boatman, put off your boat, 'O I was sworn so late yestreen, The side was stey, and the bottom deep, I wot she swam both strong and steady; But the stream was broad, and her strength did fail, And he never saw his bonny lady! To a Waterfowl UNKNOWN. WHITHER, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,— Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fann'd, And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Soon o'er thy shelter'd nest. Thou'rt gone the abyss of heaven Hath swallow'd up thy form-yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. He, who from zone to zone Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, W. C. BRYANT. So, We'll Go no More a Roving I So, we'll go no more a roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, II For the sword outwears its sheath, III Though the night was made for loving, Song WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I : In a cowslip's bell I lie ; There I couch, when owls do cry : On the bat's back I do fly After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, BYRON. Under the blossom that hangs on the bough! Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands : Courtsied when you have and kiss'd The wild waves whist, Foot it featly here and there ; And, sweet Sprites, the burthen bear. The watch-dogs bark: Hark, hark! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer SHAKESPEARE. The Land o' the Leal I'm wearin' awa', Jean, Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean, To the land o' the leal. In the land o' the leal. Ye were aye leal and true, Jean, To the land o' the leal. Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean, To the land o' the leal. Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean, LADY NAIRNE, |