LIFE. Ir is not growing like a tree In bulk doth make man better be; Or standing long, an oak three hundred year, Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night; In small proportions we just beauties see, Ben Jonson. MELROSE. If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, When the cold light's uncertain show'r When silver edges the imagery, And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die; When distant Tweed is heard to rave, And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, Then go-but go alone the while And view St. David's ruin'd pile, And, home returning, soothly swear, Scott. BOOK V. THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. OUR bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, And thrice, ere the morning, I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strains that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. 'Stay, stay with us; rest-thou art weary and worn!" And fain was the war-broken soldier to stay; But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. Campbell. THE EXILE OF ERIN. THERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin; Oh, sad is my fate, said the heart-broken stranger, A home and a country remain not for me! Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, O Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, And sigh for the friends that can meet me no more; Where now is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? But yet, all its fond recollections suppressing, Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh! And the harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, Erin, mavourneen! sweet Erin go bragh! Campbell. THE NIGHTS. Он, the summer night And she sits on a sapphire throne; From the bud to the rose o'er-blown! But the Autumn night Has a piercing sight, And a step both strong and free ; Like the wrath of the thunder, When he shouts to the stormy sea And the Winter night And she singeth a song of pain; Oh, the night brings sleep To life, new powers; To the sick and the weary, rest! Barry Cornwall. WHEN THE WIND BLOWS. WHEN the wind blows in the sweet rose-tree, 'Tis not for any one here, I trow. The gentle wind bloweth, The happy cow loweth, The merry stream floweth, Oh! the Spring, the bountiful Spring, Where come the sheep? To the rich man's moor. That's a fate that none can cure, Yet Spring doeth all she can, I trow. She brings the bright hours, She weaves the sweet flowers, For all below. Oh! the Spring, the bountiful Spring, ; Barry Cornwall. THE SHEPHERD AND HIS DOG ROVER. ROVER, awake! the grey cock crows; And in his earliest beams behold And hail the source of cheerful day |