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Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost ;

It vanished with a shriek of sorrow; Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,

And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow. His mother from the window looked

With all the longing of a mother; His little sister weeping walked

The greenwood path to meet her brother. They sought him east, they sought him west,

They sought him all the forest thorough ; They only saw the cloud of night,

They only heard the roar of Yarrow ! No longer from thy window look,

Thou hast no son, thou tender mother ! No longer walk, thou lovely maid ;

Alas, thou hast no more a brother ! No longer seek him east or west,

And search no more the forest thorough ; For, wandering in the night so dark,

He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow.

“ But Willie's gone, whom I thought on,

And does not hear me weeping ; Draws many a tear frae true love's e'e

When other maids are sleeping. “Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid,

The night I'll mak' it narrow, For a' the livelang winter night

I lie twined o' my marrow.
0, came ye by yon water-side ?

Pou'd you the rose or lily ?
Or came you by yon meadow green,

Or saw you my sweet Willie ?”
She sought him up, she sought him down,

She sought him braid and narrow; Syne, in the cleaving of a craig,

She found him drowned in Yarrow !

ANONYMOUS.

MARY'S DREAM.

The tear shall never leave my cheek,

No other youth shall be my marrow ; I'll seek thy body in the stream, And then with thee I 'll sleep in Yarrow.

JOHN LOGAX.

WILLY DROWNED IN YARROW. Down in yon garden sweet and gay

Where bonnie grows the lily, I heard a fair maid sighing say,

My wish be wi' sweet Willie ! “Willie's rare, and Willie's fair,

And Willie's wondrous bonny ; And Willie hecht to marry me

Gin e'er he married ony.

O gentle wind, that bloweth south,

From where my Love repaireth, Convey a kiss frae his dear mouth

And tell me how he fareth !

The moon had climbed the highest hill

Which rises o'er the source of Dee, And from the eastern summit shed

Her silver light on tower and tree, When Mary laid her down to sleep,

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, When, soft and slow, a voice was heard,

Saying, “Mary, weep no more for me!” She from her pillow gently raised

Her head, to ask who there might be, And saw young Sandy shivering stand,

With visage pale, and hollow e'e. “O Mary dear, cold is my clay ;

It lies beneath a stormy sea.
Far, far from thee I sleep in death ;

So, Mary, weep no more for me !
“ Three stormy nights and stormy days

We tossed upon the raging main ; And long we strove our bark to save,

But all our striving was in vain. Even then, when horror chilled my blood,

My heart was filled with love for thee : The storm is past, and I at rest;

So, Mary, weep no more for me ! “O maiden dear, thyself prepare ;

We soon shall meet upon that shore, Where love is free from doubt and care,

And thou and I shall part no more !" Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled,

No more of Sandy could she see; But soft the passing spirit said, Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!"

JOHN LOWE

O, tell sweet Willie to come doun

And hear the mavis singing, And see the birds on ilka bush

And leaves around them hinging. The lav'rock there, wi' her white breast

And gentle throat sae narrow; There's sport enench for gentlemen

On Leader haughs and Yarrow. "O, Leader hanghs are wide and braid,

And Yarrow haughs are bonny; There Willie hecht to marry me

If e'er he married ony.

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There was place and to spare for the frank young

smile, And the red young mouth, and the hair's young

gold. So, hush! I will give you this leaf to keep;

See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand. There, that is our secret ! go to sleep; You will wake, and remember, and understand.

ROBERT BROWNING.

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.
I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat side by side
On a bright May mornin' long ago,

When first you were my bride ;
The corn was springin' fresh and green,

And the lark sang loud and high ;
And the red was on your lip, Mary,

And the love-light in your eye.
The place is little changed, Mary ;

The day is bright as then ;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,

And the corn is green again ;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,

And your breathi, warm on my cheek ;
And I still keep list'nin' for the words

You nevermore will speak. 'T is but a step down yonder lane,

And the little church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary ;

I see the spire froin here.
But the graveyard lies between, Mary,

And my step might break your rest, -
For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep,

With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends; But, 0, they love the better still

The few our Father sends ! And you were all I had, Mary,

My blessin' and my priile ;
There's nothing left to care for now,

Since my poor Mary died.
Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,

That still kept hoping on,
When the trust in God had left my soul,

And my arm's young strength was gone ; There was comfort ever on your lip,

And the kind look on your brow, I bless you, Mary, for that same,

Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile

When your heart was fit to break,

LADY DUFFERIN.

When the hunger pain was gnawin' there, It haunts me still, though many a year las fled, And you hid it for my sake ;

Like some wild melody! I bless you for the pleasant word,

Alone it hange When your heart was sad and sore,

Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion, 0, I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,

An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm, Where grief can't reach you more !

But richly carved by Antony of Trent

With Scripture stories from the Life of Christ, I'm biddin' you a long farewell,

A chest that came from Venice, and had held My Mary — kind and true !

The ducal robes of some old Ancestor, But I'll not forget you, darling,

That by the way

it may be true or false In the land I'm goin' to ;

But don't forget the picture; and you will not They say there's bread and work for all,

When you have heard the tale they told me there. And the sun shines always there, – But I'll not forget old Ireland,

She was an only child, - her name Ginevra, Were it fifty times as fair !

The joy, the pride, of an indulgent Father;

And in her fifteenth year became a bride, And often in those grand old woods

Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, I'll sit, and shut my eyes,

Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies ;

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, And I'll think I see the little stile

She was all gentleness, all gayety, Where we sat side by side,

Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, But now the day was come, the day, the hour ; When first you were my bride.

Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ;
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave

Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
GINEVRA.

Great was the joy ; but at the Nuptial Feast, If ever you should come to Modena,

When allsate down, the Bride herself was wanting, Where among other trophies may be seen

Nor was she to be found ! Her father cried, Tassoni's bucket (in its chain it hangs (72)

“'T is but to make a trial of our love !" Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandina),

And filled his glass to all ; but his hand shook, Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate,

And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.

'T was but that instant she had left Francesco, Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,

Laughing and looking back, and flying still, And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,

Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. Will long detain you ; but, before you go,

But now, alas, she was not to be found ; Enter the house -- forget it not, I pray

Nor from that hour could anything be guessed, And look awhile upon a picture there.

But that she was not !

Weary of his life, *T is of a Lady in her earliest youth,

Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking, The last of that illustrious family ;

Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Done by Zampieri (73) -- but by whom I care not. Orsini lived, — and long might you have seen He who observes it, ere he passes on,

An old man wandering as in quest of something, Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, Something he could not find, he knew not what. That he may call it up when far away.

When he was gone, the house remained awhile

Silent and tenantless, — then went to strangers. She sits inclining forward as to speak, Her lips half open, and her finger up,

Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten, As though she said " Beware!” her vest of gold When on an idle day, a day of search Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to Mid the old lumber in the Gallery, foot,

That mouldering chest was noticed ; and 't was said An emerald stone in every golden clasp ; By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,

“Why not remove it from its lurking-place ?" A coronet of pearls.

'T was done as soon as said ; but on the way But then her face,

It burst, it fell ; and lo, a skeleton, So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,

With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, The overflowings of an innocent heart,

A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

All else had perished, save a wedding-ring, I will go down to her, I and none other,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,

Close with her, kiss her, and mix her with me; Engraven with a name, the name of both, Cling to her, strive with her, hold her fast. “Ginevra."

O fair white mother, in days long past
There then had she found a grave! Born without sister, born without brother,
Within that chest had she concealed herself, Set free my soul as thy soul is free.
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy;
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, O fair green-girdled mother of mine,
Fastened her down forever !

Sea, that art clothed with the sun and the rain,
Thy sweet hard kisses are strong like wine,

Thy large embraces are keen like pain !

Save me and hide me with all thy waves,
THE MISTLETOE BOUGH.

Find me one grave of thy thousand graves,

Those pure cold populous graves of thine, The mistletoe hung in the castle hall,

Wrought without hand in a world without stain. The holly branch shone on the old oak wall ; And the baron's retainers were blithe and gay, I shall sleep, and move with the moving ships, And keeping their Christmas holiday.

Change as the winds change, veer in the tide ; The baron beheld with a father's pride

My lips will feast on the foam of thy lips, His beautiful child, young Lovell's bride ; I shall rise with thy rising, with thee subside. While she with her bright eyes seemed to be Sleep, and not know if she be, if she were, The star of the goodly company.

Filled full with life to the eyes and hair,

As a rose is fulfilled to the rose-leaf tips “I'm weary of dancing now," she cried ;

With splendid summer and perfume and pride. " Here tarry a moment, -- I'll hide, I 'll hide ! And, Lovell, be sure thou ’rt first to trace

This woven raiment of nights and days, The clew to my secret lurking-place.”

Were it once cast off and unwound from me, Away she ran, - and her friends began

Naked and glad would I walk in thy ways, Each tower to search, and each nook to scan;

Alive and aware of thy waves and thee; And young Lovellcried, “O, where dost thou hide? Clear of the whole world, hidden at home, I'm lonesome without thee, my own dear bride.'

Clothed with the green, and crowned with the foam, They sought her that night ! and they sought her A pulse of the life of thy straits and bays,

A vein in the heart of the streams of the sea. next day ! And they sought her in vain when a week passed

away!
In the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot,
Young Lovell sought willly, — but found her not.
And years flew by, and their grief at last
Was told as a sorrowful tale long past ;

ANNABEL LEE.
And when Lovell appeared, the chililren cried,

It was many and many a year ago, See ! the old man weeps for his fairy bride.”

In a kingdom by the sea, At length an oak chest, that had long lain hid,

That a maiden lived, whom you may know Was found in the castle, they raised the lid,

By the name of Annabel Lee; And a skeleton form lay mouldering there

And this maiden she lived with no other thought In the bridal wreath of that lady fair !

Than to love, and be loved by me.
O, sad was her fate ! - in sportive jest
She hid from her lord in the old oak chest.

I was a child and she was a child,
It closed with a spring ! — and, dreadful doom,

In this kingdom by the sea ; The bride lay clasped in her living tomb !

But we loved with a love that was more than love,

I and my Annabel Lee, -
With a love that the wingéd seraphs of heaven

Coveted her and me.

ALGERXON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

THE DISAPPOINTED LOVER.

I will go back to the great sweet mother,

Mother and lover of men, the sea.

And this was the reason that long ago,

In this kingilom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her high-born kinsmen came,

And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre,

In this kingdom by the sea.

See ! the white moon shines on high;

Whiter is my true-love's shroud, Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud.

My love is dead, &c.

Here, upon my true-love's grave

Shall the barren flowers be laid, Nor one holy saint to save All the coldness of a maid.

My love is dead, &c.

The angels, not so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and me.
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know)

In this kingdom by the sea,
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we,

Of many far wiser than we ;
And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

With my hands I 'll bind the briers

Round his holy corse to gre ; Ouphant fairy, light your fires ; Here my body still shall be.

My love is dead, &c.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,

Drain my heart's blood away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day.

My love is dead, &c.

For the moon never beams without bringing me

dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
And so, all the night-tide I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my bride,

In her sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Water-witches, crowned with reytes,

Bear me to your lethal tide. I die ! I come ! my true-love waits.

Thus the damsel spake, and dieel.

THOMAS CHATTERYOX.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

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