TRIPPING DOWN THE FIELD

PATH

TRIPPING down the field-path,

Early in the morn, There I met my own love

'Midst the golden corn; Autumn winds were blowing, As in frolic chase, All her silken ringlets

Backward from her face;
Little time for speaking
Had she, for the wind,
Bonnet, scarf, or ribbon,
Ever swept behind.

Still some sweet improvement
In her beauty shone ;
Every graceful movement
Won me, one by one!

As the breath of Venus

Seemed the breeze of morn,
Blowing thus between us,
'Midst the golden corn.
Little time for wooing
Had we, for the wind
Still kept on undoing
What we sought to bind.

Oh! that autumn morning
In my heart it beams,
Love's last look adorning

With its dream of dreams :
Still, like waters flowing
In the ocean shell,
Sounds of breezes blowing
In my spirit dwell;
Still I see the field-path ;
Would that I could see
Her whose graceful beauty
Lost is now to me!

TAKE THE WORLD AS IT IS

TAKE the world as it is! there are good and bad in it,

And good and bad will be from now to the end;

And they, who expect to make saints in a minute,

Are in danger of marring more hearts than they'll mend.

'Tis but a little odor shed, A light gone out, a spirit fled, A funeral hour.

Then let us show a tranquil brow
Whate'er befalls;

That we upon life's latest brink
May look on Death's dark face, - and
think

An angel calls.

THE ROSE THOU GAV'ST

THE rose thou gav'st at parting—
Hast thou forgot the hour?
The moon was on the river,

The dew upon the flower:
Thy voice was full of tenderness,
But, ah! thy voice misleads;
The rose is like thy promises,
Its thorn is like thy deeds.

The winter cometh bleakly,
And dark the time must be ;
Bnt I can deem it summer

To what thou 'st prov'd to me.
The snow that meets the sunlight
Soon hastens from the scene;
But melting snow is lasting,
To what thy faith hath been.

'T WAS JUST BEFORE THE HAY WAS MOWN

'T WAS just before the hay was mown, The season had been wet and cold, When my good dame began to groan,

And speak of days and years of old : Ye were a young man then, and gay,

And raven black your handsome hair; Ah! Time steals many a grace away,

And leaves us many a grief to bear.

Tush! tush! said I, we 've had our time,
And if 't were here again 't would go ;
The youngest cannot keep their prime,
The darkest head some gray must show.
We've been together forty years,

And though it seem but like a day, We've much less cause, dear dame, for tears,

Than many who have trod life's way.

Goodman, said she, ye 're always right,

And 't is a pride to hear your tongue; And though your fine old head be white, 'Tis dear to me as when 't were young. So give your hand, — 't was never shown But in affection unto me;

And I shall be beneath the stone,

And lifeless, when I love not thee.

THE SEA-CHILD

HE crawls to the cliff and plays on a brink
Where every eye but his own would shrink;
No music he hears but the billow's noise,
And shells and weeds are his only toys.
No lullaby can the mother find

To sing him to rest like the moaning wind;
And the louder it wails and the fiercer it

sweeps,

The deeper he breathes and the sounder he sleeps.

And now his wandering feet can reach
The rugged tracks of the desolate beach ;
Creeping about like a Triton imp,

To find the haunts of the crab and shrimp.
He clings, with none to guide or help,
To the furthest ridge of slippery kelp;
And his bold heart glows while he stands
and mocks

The seamew's cry on the jutting rocks.

BABY MAY

CHEEKS as soft as July peaches,
Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches
Poppies paleness-round large eyes
Ever great with new surprise,
Minutes fill'd with shadeless gladness,
Minutes just as brimm'd with sadness,
Happy smiles and wailing cries,
Crows and laughs and tearful eyes,
Lights and shadows swifter born
Than on wind-swept Autumn corn,
Ever some new tiny notion
Making every limb all motion –
Catching up of legs and arms,
Throwings back and small alarms,
Clutching fingers-straightening jerks,
Twining feet whose each toe works,
Kickings up and straining risings,
Mother's ever new surprisings,
Hands all wants and looks all wonder
At all things the heavens under,
Tiny scorns of smil'd reprovings
That have more of love than lovings,

Mischiefs done with such a winning
Archness, that we prize such sinning,
Breakings dire of plates and glasses,
Graspings small at all that passes,
Pullings off of all that's able

To be caught from tray or table ;
Silences-small meditations,
Deep as thoughts of cares for nations,
Breaking into wisest speeches
In a tongue that nothing teaches,
All the thoughts of whose possessing
Must be wooed to light by guessing;
Slumbers-such sweet angel-seemings,
That we'd ever have such dreamings,
Till from sleep we see thee breaking,
And we'd always have thee waking;
Wealth for which we know no measure,
Pleasure high above all pleasure,
Gladness brimming over gladness,
Joy in care delight in sadness,
Loveliness beyond completeness,
Sweetness distancing all sweetness,
Beauty all that beauty may be
That's May Bennett, that's my baby.

MY AIN WIFE

I WADNA gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see ;
I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see ;

A bonnier yet I've never seen,
A better canna be —
I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see !

O couthie is my ingle-cheek,
An' cheerie is my Jean;

I never see her angry look,

Nor hear her word on ane.

She's gude wi' a' the neebours roun'
An' aye gude wi' me

I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see.

An' O her looks sae kindlie,
They melt my heart outright,
When o'er the baby at her breast
She hangs wi' fond delight:
She looks intill its bonnie face,
An' syne looks to me-
I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see.