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But, with her heart, if not her ear,
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
Her window opens to the bay,
In prayer she kneels :
Of stranger keels.
Before me glide;
The waves divide.
“O thou ! with whom the night is day And one the near and far away, Look out on yon gray waste, and say
Where lingers he. Alive, perchance, on some lone beach Or thirsty isle beyond the reach Of man, he hears the mocking speech
Of wind and sea.
IF to be absent were to be
Away from thee;
I were alone;
To swell my sail,
pay a tear to 'suage
Our faith and troth,
All time and space controls :
If thus our lips and eyes
“O dread and cruel deep, reveal
And tell your tale.
Or dying wail !
COLONEL RICHARD LOVELACE.
OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN
“Come, with your dreariest truth shut out
That stifles breath.
Of life in death!”
OF a' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west;
The lassie I lo'e best.
And monie a hill's between ;
Is ever wi' my Jean.
I see her sweet and fair;
It might have been the evening breeze
That rose and fell;
Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,
Thy subjects we, before thee; Thou art divine, fair Lesley,
The hearts o' men adore thee.
I am undone : there is no living, none,
The deil he could na scaith thee,
Or aught that wad belang thee; He'd look into thy bonnie face,
And say 'I canna wrang thee !'
The Powers aboon will tent thee;
Misfortune sha' na steer thee; Thou 'rt like themselves sae lovely
That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.
Return again, fair Lesley,
Return to Caledonie ! That we may brag we hae a lass
There's nane again sae bonnie.
THE SUN UPON THE LAKE IS LOW.
The sun upon the lake is low,
The wild birds hush their song,
Yet Leonard tarries long.
From home and love divide,
Each to the loved one's side.
I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
Through mony a weary way ;
The luve o' life's young day!
May weel be black gin Yule ;
Where first fond luve grows cule.
The noble dame on turret high,
Who waits her gallant knight,
The flash of armor bright.
The level ray to shade,
For Colin's darkening plaid.
By day they swam apart,
The hind beside the hart.
Twitters his closing song,
But Leonard tarries long!
O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
The thochts o' bygane years Still Aling their shadows ower my path,
And blind my een wi' tears : They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears,
And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up
The blithe blinks o' langsyne.
'T was then we luvit ilk ither weel,
'T was then we twa did part ; Sweet time -- sad time ! twa bairns at scule,
Twa bairns, and but ae heart !
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,
Gin I hae been to thee
As ye hae been to me ?
Thine ear as it does mine!
Wi' dreamings o' langsyne!
I've borne a weary lot ;
Ye never were forgot.
Still travels on its way ;
The luve o' life's young day.
Since we were sindered young
The music o' your tongue ;
And happy could I die,
THERE lived a singer in France of old
By the tideless, dolorous, midland sea.
There shone one woman, and none but she.
And praised God, seeing; and so died he.
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.
'T was then we sat on ae laigh bink,
To leir ilk ither lear; And tones and looks and smiles were shed,
I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,
When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof,
What our wee heads could think.
Wi' ae buik on our knee,
My lesson was in thee.
O, mind ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin', said
We cleeked thegither hame? And mind ye o' the Saturdays,
(The scule then skail't at noon,) When we ran off to speel the braes, –
The broomy braes o' June ?
My head rins round and round about,
My heart flows like a sea,
0' scule-time, and o' thec.
O lichtsome days and lang,
Like simmer blossoms sprang!
0, mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin' dinsome toun,
And hear its waters croon ?
The flowers burst round our feet,
The throssil whusslit sweet ;
The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees,
Concerted harmonies ;
For hours thegither sat
Wi' very gladness grat.
Tears trickled doun your cheek
Had ony power to speak !
When hearts were fresh and young,
Unsyllabled — unsung!
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.