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But yonder when the wind is keen,
And rainy air is clear,

The merchant city's spires are seen,
The toil of men grows near.

Along the coast-way grind the wheels

Of endless carts of coal;

And on the sides of giant keels
The shipyard hammers roll.

The world creeps here upon the shout,
And stirs my heart to pain;
The mist descends and blots it out,
And I am strong again.

Strong and alone, my dove, with thee;
And though mine eyes be wet,
There's nothing in the world to me
So dear as my regret.

I would not change my sorrow sweet
For others' nuptial hours;

I love the daisies at thy feet

More than their orange flowers.

My hand alone shall tend thy tomb

From leaf-bud to leaf-fall,

And wreathe around each season's bloom Till autumn ruins all.

Let snowdrops early in the year

Droop o'er her silent breast; And bid the later cowslip rear The amber of its crest.

Come hither, linnets tufted-red;

Drift by, O wailing tern;
Set pure vale lilies at her head,
At her feet lady-fern.

Grow, samphire, at the tidal brink,

Wave pansies of the shore, To whisper how alone I think Of her for evermore.

The Churchyard on the Sands 1069

Bring blue sea-hollies thorny, keen,
Long lavender in flower;

Gray wormwood like a hoary queen,
Stanch mullein like a tower.

O sea-wall, mounded long and low,
Let iron bounds be thine;
Nor let the salt wave overflow
That breast I held divine.

Nor float its sea-weed to her hair,
Nor dim her eyes with sands;
No fluted cockle burrow where
Sleep folds her patient hands.

Though thy crest feel the wild sea's breath,
Though tide-weight tear thy root,

Oh, guard the treasure-house, where death
Has bound my Darling mute.

Though cold her pale lips to reward
With love's own mysteries,

Ah, rob no daisy from her sward,
Rough gale of eastern seas!

Ah, render sere no silken bent

That by her head-stone waves; Let noon and golden summer blent Pervade these ocean graves.

And, ah, dear heart, in thy still nest,
Resign this earth of woes,
Forget the ardors of the west,
Neglect the morning glows.

Sleep and forget all things but one,
Heard in each wave of sea,-
How lonely all the years will run

Until I rest by thee.

John Byrne Leicester Warren [1835-1895)

THE MINSTREL'S SONG

From "Ella"

OH sing unto my roundelay;

Oh drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holiday;

Like a running river be!

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree!

Black his hair as the winter night,

White his throat as the summer snow Red his cheek as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note; Quick in dance as thought can be;

Deft his tabor, cudgel stout,

Oh, he lies by the willow tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the briery dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing,
To the night-mares as they go.

See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true love's shroud;
Whiter than the morning sky,

Whiter than the evening cloud.

Here, upon my true love's grave,

Shall the barren flowers be laid

Not one holy saint to save

All the coldness of a maid.

With my hands I'll twist the briers

Round his holy corpse to gre;

Elfin fairy, light your fires,

Here my body still shall be.

Highland Mary

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my heartès blood away;
Life and all its good I scorn,

Dance by night, or feast by day.

Water-witches, crowned with reeds,
Bear me to your deadly tide.
I die! I come! my true love waits!-
Thus the damsel spake, and died.

1071

Thomas Chatterton [1752-1770]

HIGHLAND MARY

YE banks and braes and streams around

The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfauld her robes,

And there the langest tarry;

For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,.
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,

As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasped her to my bosom!
The golden hours on angel's wings
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life

Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace
Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels asunder;

But, O! fell Death's untimely frost,

That nipped my flower sae early!
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now,

those rosy lips,

I aft hae kissed sae fondly!

And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly;

And moldering now in silent dust
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!

But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

TO MARY IN HEAVEN

THOU lingering star, with lessening ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,
Again thou usher'st in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.

O Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget,

Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love! Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past;

Thy image at our last embrace,

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,

O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green;

The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twined amorous round the raptured scene;

The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed,
The birds sang love on every spray,—
Till soon, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaimed the speed of wingèd day.

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