ABSENCE. TO HER ABSENT SAILOR. FROM "THE TENT ON THE BEACH." HER window opens to the bay, In prayer she kneels : "Dear Lord!" she saith, "to many a home From wind and wave the wanderers come; I only see the tossing foam But, with her heart, if not her ear, JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, TO LUCASTA. IF to be absent were to be Away from thee; Or that, when I am gone, Then, my Lucasta, might I crave Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave. But I'll not sigh one blast or gale Or pay a tear to 'suage The foaming blue-god's rage; Though seas and lands be 'twixt us both, Like separated souls, All time and space controls: Above the highest sphere we meet, Unseen, unknown; and greet as angels greet. So, then, we do anticipate Our after-fate, And are alive i' th' skies, Can speak like spirits unconfined - their earthly bodies left behind. COLONEL RICHARD LOVELACE OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW. OF a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west; For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best. There wild woods grow, and rivers row, I see her in the dewy flowers, I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air; There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, There's not a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me of my Jean. FROM ROBERT BURNS. LOVE'S MEMORY. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDs well." I AM undone there is no living, none, SHAKESPEARE. THE SUN UPON THE LAKE IS LOW. THE sun upon the lake is low, The wild birds hush their song, The hills have evening's deepest glow, Yet Leonard tarries long. Now all whom varied toil and care From home and love divide, In the calm sunset may repair Each to the loved one's side. The noble dame on turret high, The flash of armor bright. The village maid, with hand on brow For Colin's darkening plaid. Now to their mates the wild swans row, By day they swam apart, And to the thicket wanders slow The hind beside the hart. The woodlark at his partner's side All meet whom day and care divide, But Leonard tarries long! SIR WALTER SCOTT. The throssil whusslit in the wood, The burn sang to the trees, And we, with nature's heart in tune, Concerted harmonies; And on the knowe abune the burn In the silentness o' joy, till baith Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trickled doun your cheek When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled-unsung! I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts As ye hae been to me? O, tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine! O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' langsyne? I've wandered east, I've wandered west. But in my wanderings, far or near, The fount that first burst frae this heart And channels deeper, as it rins, O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, And happy could I die, Did I but ken your heart still dreamed WILLIAM MOTHERWELL THERE lived a singer in France of old There shone one woman, and none but she. Died, praising God for his gift and grace: O brother, the gods were good to you. Sleep, and be glad while the world endures. Be well content as the years wear through; Give thanks for life, and the loves and lures; Give thanks for life, O brother, and death, For the sweet last sound of her feet, her breath, For gifts she gave you, gracious and few, Tears and kisses, that lady of yours. DAY, IN MELTING PURPLE DYING DAY, in melting purple dying; Blossoms, all around me sighing; Fragrance, from the lilies straying; Zephyr, with my ringlets playing; Ye but waken my distress; I am sick of loneliness! Thou, to whom I love to hearken, Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure; Gifts and gold are naught to me, Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling, Paint to thee the deep sensation, Yet but torture, if comprest In a lone, unfriended breast. Absent still! Ah! come and bless me! In a look if death there be, MARIA BROOKS BY THE ALMA RIVER. Ask no more, child. Never heed டப Willie, all to you and me Is that spot, whate'er it be, Where he stands no other word — How shall I watch for thee, when fears grow stronger, As night grows dark and darker on the hill! Stands-God sure the child's prayers heard - How shall I weep, when I can watch no longer! Come, we'll lay us down, my child; Poor the bed is, poor and hard; But thy father, far exiled, Sleeps upon the open sward, Dreaming of us two at home; Say, "O God! Thy will be done By the Alma River." DINAH MARIA MULOCK. THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. LINGER not long. Home is not home without thee: Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn. 0, let its memory, like a chain about thee, Gently compel and hasten thy return! Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy staying, Bethink thee, can the mirth of thy friends, though dear, Compensate for the grief thy long delaying WHAT shall I do with all the days and hours Weary with longing? Shall I flee away Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin Of casting from me God's great gift of time? Shall I, these mists of memory locked within, Leave and forget life's purposes sublime? O, how or by what means may I contrive To bring the hour that brings thee back more near? How may I teach my drooping hope to live Until that blessed time, and thou art here? I will this dreary blank of absence make More good than I have won since yet I live. So may this doomed time build up in me A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine; So may my love and longing hallowed be, And thy dear thought an influence divine. FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE |