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ABSENCE.

TO HER ABSENT SAILOR.

FROM "THE TENT ON THE BEACH."

HER window opens to the bay,
On glistening light or misty gray,
And there at dawn and set of day

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

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But, with her heart, if not her ear,
The old loved voice she seemed to hear:
"I wait to meet thee: be of cheer
For all is well!"

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER,

TO LUCASTA.

IF to be absent were to be

Away from thee;

Or that, when I am gone,
You or I were alone;

Then, my Lucasta, might I crave

Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave.

But I'll not sigh one blast or gale
To swell my sail,

Or pay a tear to 'suage

The foaming blue-god's rage;
For, whether he will let me pass
Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.

Though seas and lands be 'twixt us both,
Our faith and troth,

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,
If thus our lips and eyes

Can speak like spirits unconfined
In heaven,

- 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,
And monie a hill's between ;
But day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair;

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,
If Bertram be away. It were all one,
That I should love a bright particular star,
And think to wed it, he is so above me :
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:
The hind that would be mated by the lion
Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, though a plague,
To see him ev'ry hour; to sit and draw
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
In our heart's table, - heart too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favor:
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his relics.

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,
Who waits her gallant knight,
Looks to the western beam to spy

The flash of armor bright.

The village maid, with hand on brow
The level ray to shade,
Upon the footpath watches now

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
Twitters his closing song,

All meet whom day and care divide,

But Leonard tarries long!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

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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
For hours thegither sat

In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat.

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Tears trickled doun your cheek
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!
That was a time, a blessed time,

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.
I've borne a weary lot;

But in my wanderings, far or near,
Ye never were forgot.

The fount that first burst frae this heart
Still travels on its way;

And channels deeper, as it rins,
The luve o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sindered young
I've never seen your face nor heard
The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness.

And happy could I die,

Did I but ken your heart still dreamed
O' bygone days and me!

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL

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THERE lived a singer in France of old
By the tideless, dolorous, midland sea.
In a land of sand and ruin and gold

There shone one woman, and none but she.
And finding life for her love's sake fail,
Being fain to see her, he bade set sail,
Touched land, and saw her as life grew cold,
And praised God, seeing; and so died he.

Died, praising God for his gift and grace:
For she bowed down to him weeping, and said,
"Live"; and her tears were shed on his face
Or ever the life in his face was shed.
The sharp tears fell through her hair, and stung
Once, and her close lips touched him and clung
Once, and grew one with his lips for a space;
And so drew back, and the man was dead.

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.

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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,
Come, ere night around me darken;
Though thy softness but deceive me,
Say thou 'rt true, and I'll believe thee;
Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent,
Let me think it innocent !

Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure;
All I ask is friendship's pleasure;
Let the shining ore lie darkling,
Bring no gem in lustre sparkling ;

Gifts and gold are naught to me,
I would only look on thee!

Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling,
Ecstasy, but in revealing;

Paint to thee the deep sensation,
Rapture in participation;

Yet but torture, if comprest

In a lone, unfriended breast.

Absent still! Ah! come and bless me!
Let these eyes again caress thee.
Once in caution, I could fly thee;
Now, I nothing could deny thee.

In a look if death there be,
Come, and I will gaze on thee!

MARIA BROOKS

BY THE ALMA RIVER.
WILLIE, fold your little hands;
Let it drop, - that "soldier" toy;
Look where father's picture stands,
Father, that here kissed his boy
Not a month since, father kind,
Who this night may (never mind
Mother's sob, my Willie dear)
Cry out loud that He may hear
Who is God of battles, cry,
"God keep father safe this day
By the Alma River!"

Ask no more, child. Never heed
Either Russ, or Frank, or Turk ;
Right of nations, trampled creed,
Chance-poised victory's bloody work;
Any flag i' the wind may roll
On thy heights, Sevastopol!

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!

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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;
Or, beneath the starry dome,
Digs out trenches in the dark,
Where he buries - Willie, mark!-
Where he buries those who died
Fighting-fighting at his side-
By the Alma River.
Willie, Willie, go to sleep;
God will help us, O my boy!
He will make the dull hours creep
Faster, and send news of joy;
When I need not shrink to meet
Those great placards in the street,
That for weeks will ghastly stare
In some eyes-child, say that prayer
Once again,
-a different one,

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
Costs the fond heart that sighs to have thee here?
Linger not long. How shall I watch thy coming,
As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell;
When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming,
And silence hangs on all things like a spell!

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WHAT shall I do with all the days and hours
That must be counted ere I see thy face?
How shall I charm the interval that lowers
Between this time and that sweet time of grace?
Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,

Weary with longing? Shall I flee away
Into past days, and with some fond pretence
Cheat myself to forget the present day?

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'll tell thee; for thy sake I will lay hold
Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee,
In worthy deeds, each moment that is told
While thou, beloved one! art far from me.
For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try
All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains;
For thy dear sake I will walk patiently
Through these long hours, nor call their min-
utes pains.

I will this dreary blank of absence make
A noble task-time; and will therein strive
To follow excellence, and to o'ertake

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

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