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The burnie that goes babbling by
Says nought that can be told.
She keeps her shadowy kine ;
The sorrows of thy line ! Step out three steps, where Andrew stood –
Why blanch thy cheeks for fear ? The ancient stile is not alone,
'Tis not the burn I hear !
Your sister Winifred !
She makes her immemorial moan,
She keeps her shadowy kine ; Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line !
TOMMY'S DEAD You may give over plough, boys, You may take the gear to the stead, All the sweat o' your brow, boys, Will never get beer and bread. The seed's waste, I know, boys, There's not a blade will grow, boys, 'Tis cropp'd out, I trow, boys, And Tommy's dead.
There's something not right, boys,
Send the colt to fair, boys,
Stop the mill to-morn, boys,
What am I staying for, boys ?
Put the shutters up, boys, Bring out the beer and bread, Make haste and sup, boys, For my eyes are heavy as lead ; There's something wrong i’ the cup, boys, There's something ill wi' the bread, I don't care to sup, boys, And Tommy's dead. I'm not right, I doubt, boys, I've such a sleepy head, I shall never more be stout, boys, You may carry me to bed. What are you about, boys ? The prayers are all said, The fire's rak'd out, boys, And Tommy's dead. The stairs are too steep, boys, You may carry me to the head, The night's dark and deep, boys, Your mother's long in bed, 'Tis time to go to sleep, boys, And Tommy's dead. I'm not us’d to kiss, boys, You
hand instead. All things go amiss, boys, You may lay me where she is, boys, And I 'll rest my old head : 'Tis a poor world, this, boys, And Tommy's dead.
Nor force nor fraud shall sunder us! O ye
grand Heroic utterance
-parted, yet a whole, Far yet unsever'd, - children brave and free Of the great Mother-tongue, and ye shall be Lords of an empire wide as Shakespeare's
soul, Sublime as Milton's immemorial theme, And rich as Chaucer's speech, and fair as
EPIGRAM ON THE DEATH OF
EDWARD FORBES NATURE, a jealous mistress, laid him low, He wood and won her ; and, by love made
bold, She show'd him more than mortal man
should know, Then slew him lest her secret should be told.
HOME IN WAR-TIME SHE turn’d the fair page with her fairer
hand More fair and frail than it was wont to be O’er each remember'd thing he lov'd to see She linger'd, and as with a fairy's wand Enchanted it to order. Oft she fann'd New motes into the sun ; and as a bee Sings thro' a brake of bells, so murmur'd
she, And so her patient love did understand The reliquary room. Upon the sill She fed his favorite bird. “Ah, Robin,
sing! He loves thee.” Then she touches a sweet
string Of soft recall, and towards the Eastern hill Smiles all her soul - for him who cannot
hear The raven croaking at his carrion ear.
many ? " said our good Captain.
The foe came thick and black,
might count them by the score.
And the tyrant's flag we knew !
and the Bo'sun's whistle blew.
Then our gallant Captain,
And pointed with his stump to the mid I saw, height after depth, Alp beyond Alp, dle of the foe.
O'er which the rising and the sinking soul “Hurrah, lads, in we go !”
Sails into distance, heaving as a ship (You should hear the British cheer, O'er a great sea that sets to strands unseen. Fore and aft.)
And as the mounting and descending bark,
Borne on exulting by the under deep, “There are twenty sail,” sang he, Gains of the wild wave something not the “But little Betsy Jane bobs to nothing on
wave, the sea !”
Catches a joy of going, and a will (You should hear the British cheer, Resistless, and upon the last lee foam Fore and aft.)
Leaps into air beyond it, so the soul
Upon the Alpine ocean mountain-toss'd, yon ugly craft
Incessant carried up to heaven, and plunged With the pennon at her main !
To darkness, and still wet with drops of Hurrah, my merry boys,
Held into light eternal, and again
And infinite succession, cannot stay
The mad momentum, but frenzied sight The foe, he beats to quarters, and the Of horizontal clouds and mists and skies Russian bugles sound ;
And the untried Inane, springs on the surge
Material, thro’ vacuity careers,
Doctor. And my Shakespeare! Call
Milton your Alps, and which is he among “We're old England's sons,
The tops of Andes ? Keep your Paradise, And we'll fight for her to-day !”
And Eves, and Adams, but give me the (You should hear the British cheer.
That Shakespeare drew, and make it grave “Fire away !”
With Shakespeare's men and women; let
with them, and you — a wager,
aye, DANTE, SHAKESPEARE,
A wager by my faith — either his muse
Was the recording angel, or that hand MILTON
Cherubic, which fills up the Book of Life, FROM “BALDER"
Caught what the last relaxing gripe let
By a death-bed at Stratford, and hence-
And top your Pelion, — Milton Switzerland,
This dear English land !
Shining with harvests, cool with dewy trees,
Are daughters, and Ophelia still more fair As once, sole standing on a peak supreme,
Than any rose she weaves; whose noblest To the extremest verge summit and gulf
In she runs,
The pulsing torrent of a nation's heart; Some legend low and long,
Some legend long and low, In quiet graveyards willow'd seemly round, Whose equal ebb and flow O’er which To-day bends sad, and sees his
To and fro creep
On the dim marge of gray
As to let go
Withouten sigh or smart,
When it sighs “No."
Some long low swaying song,
As the sway'd shadow long
Where, thro' the crowing cocks,
And by the swinging clocks,
Some weary woe.
Like a dream-boat at sea,
Rising from when to then, Among the singers that on earth aspire Sinking from then to when Beckon'd thee from us, and thou, and thy
While the waves go. lyre Sudden ascended out of sight? Yet even Low and high, high and low, In Heaven thou weepest ! Well, true wife, Now and then, then and now, to weep!
Now, now ; Thy voice doth so betray that sweet offence And when the now is then, and when the That no new call should more exalt thee
then is now, hence
And when the low is high, and when the But for thy harp. Ah, lend it, and such grace high is low, Shall still advance thy neighbor that thou | Low, low; keep
Let me float, let the boat Thy seat, and at thy side a vacant place !
Let me glide, let me slide FRAGMENT OF A SLEEP-SONG
Slow, slow ;
Gliding boat, sliding boat,
Glide away, slide away
Go, go ;
ONE TWILIGHT HOUR
HIDING THE SKELETON
FROM “MODERN LOVE” Whereby I know that I Love's temple leave,
And that the purple doors have clos'd behind. “ ALL OTHER Joys”
Poor soul ! if in those early days unkind
Thy power to sting had been but power to All other joys of life be strove to warm,
grieve, And magnify, and catch them to his lip; We now might with an equal spirit meet, But they had suffer'd shipwreck with the And not be match'd like innocence and vice. ship,
She for the Temple's worship has paid price, And gaz'd upon him sallow from the storm. And takes the coin of Pity as a cheat. Or if Delusion came, 't was but to show She sees thro' simulation to the bone : The coming minute mock the one that went. What's best in her impels her to the worst. Cold as a mountain in its star-pitch'd tent Never, she cries, shall Pity soothe Love's Stood high Philosophy, less friend than foe ;
thirst, Whom self-caged Passion, from its prison- | Or foul hypocrisy for truth atone !
Our spirits grew as we went side by side.
Love that had robb'd us so, thus bless'd our At dinner she is hostess, I am host.
In multitudinous chatterings, as the flood The topic over intellectual deeps
Full brown came from the west, and like In buoyancy afloat. They see no ghost.
pale blood With sparkling surface-eyes we ply the Expanded to the upper crimson cloud.
Love, that had robb’d us of immortal things, It is in truth a most contagious game ;
This little moment mercifully gave, HIDING THE SKELETON shall be its name. And still I see across the twilight wave Such play as this the devils might appall ! The swan sail with her young beneath her But here's the greater wonder; in that wings.
we, Enamor’d of our acting and our wits, Admire each other like true hypocrites.
JUGGLING JERRY Warm-lighted glances, Love's Ephemeræ, Pitch here the tent, while the old horse Shoot gayly o'er the dishes and the wine.
grazes : We waken envy of our happy lot.
By the old hedge-side we 'll halt a stage. Fast, sweet, and golden, shows our mar
It's nigh my last above the daisies : riage-knot.
My next leaf 'll be man’s blank page. Dear guests, you now have seen Love's Yes, my old girl ! and it's no use crying : corpse-light shine!
Juggler, constable, king, must bow.
Long to have me, and he has me now. They say that Pity in Love's service dwells,
We've travellid times to this old common : A porter at the rosy temple’s gate.
Often we've hung our pots in the gorse. I miss'd him going : but it is my fate We've had a stirring life, old woman ! To come upon him now beside his wells ; You, and I, and the old gray horse.
THE COIN OF PITY