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Your aged eyes will see in mine all they've still

shown to you, And mine in yours all they have seen since this

old ring was new.

Mild is Maire bhan astór,
Mine is Maire bhan astór,
Saints will watch about the door
Of my Maire bhan astór.



And 0, when death shall come at last to bid me

to my rest, May I die looking in those eyes, and resting on

ADAM TO EVE. that breast; O, may my parting gaze be blessed with the dear O FAIREST of creation, last and best sight of you,

Of all God's works, creature in whom excelled Of those fond eyes,

fond as they were when Whatever can to sight or thought be formed, this old ring was new !

Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet !
WILLIAM COX BENNETT. How art thou lost, how on a sudden lost,

Defaced, deflowered, and now to death devote!
Rather, how hast thou yielded to transgress

The strict forbiddance, how to violate

The sacred fruit forbidden! Some cursed fraud

Of enemy hath beguiled thee, yet unknown, FAIR MARY, MY TREASURE.”

And me with thee hath ruined, for with thee

Certain my resolution is to die. In a valley far away

How can I live without thee, how forego With my Maire bhan astór,

Thy sweet converse, and love so dearly joined, Short would be the summer-day,

To live again in these wild woods forlorn ? Ever loving more and more ;

Should God create another Eve, and I Winter days would all grow long,

Another rib afford, yet loss of thee With the light her heart would pour,

Would never from my heart ; no, no, I feel With her kisses and her song,

The link of nature draw me : flesh of flesh, And her loving mait go leór.

Bone of my bone thou art, and from thy state
Fond is Maire bhan astór,

Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe.
Fair is Maire bhan astór,
Sweet as ripple on the shore, However, I with thee have fixed my lot,
Sings my Maire bhan astór.

Certain to undergo like doom ; if death

Consort with thee, death is to me as life ;

So forcible within my heart I feel

The bond of nature draw me to my own, O, her sire is very proud,

My own in thee, for what thou art is mine; And her mother cold as stone;

Our state cannot be severed, we are one, But her brother bravely vowed

One flesh ; to lose thee were to lose myself. She should be my bride alone ; For he knew I loved her well,

And he knew she loved me too,
So he sought their pride to quell,

But 't was all in vain to sue.
True is Maire bhan astór,

Tried is Maire bhan astór,

Portia. Brutus, my lord !
Had I wings I'd never soar

BRUTUS. Portia, what mean you ? Wherefore
From my Maire bhan astór.

rise you now?

It is not for your health thus to commit

Your weak condition to the raw-cold morning. There are lands where manly toil

Por. Nor for yours neither. You have un. Surely reaps it SOWS,

gently, Brutus, Glorious woods and teeming soil,

Stole from my bed : And yesternight, at supper, Where the broad Missouri flows;

You suddenly arose, and walked about, Through the trees the smoke shall rise, Musing, and sighing, with your arins across ;

From our hearth with mait go leor, And when I asked you what the matter was, There shall shine the happy eyes

You stared upon me with ungentle looks : Of my Maire bhan astór.

I urged you further; then you scratched your head,



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It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep, “But why do you go?" said the lady, while both And, could it work so much upon your shape,

sate under the yew, As it hath much prevailed on your condition, And her eyes were alive in their depth, as the I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord, kraken beneath the sea-blue. Make me acquainted with your cause of grief. BRU. I am not well in health, and that is all.

“ Because I fear you," he answered ; Por. Brutus is wise, and were he not in health, you are far too fair, He would embrace the means to come by it.

And able to strangle my soul in a mesh of your Bru. Why, so I do :- good Portia, go to bed. gold-colored hair."

Por. Is Brutus sick, - and is it physical To walk unbraced, and suck up the humors Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick,

“O that,” she said, “is no reason ! Such knots And will he steal out of his wholesome bed,

are quickly undone, To dare the vile contagion of the night,

And too much beauty, I reckon, is nothing but

too much sun.
And tempt the rheumy and unpurgéd air
To add unto his sickness ? No, my Brutus ;
You have some sick offence within your mind, “Yet farewell so," he answered ;

“the sunWhich, by the right and virtue of my place,

stroke 's fatal at times. I onght to know of: And upon my knees I value your husband, Lord Walter, whose gallop I charm you, by my once commended beauty,

rings still from the limes." By all your vows of love, and that great vow Which did incorporate and make us one, That you unfold to me, yourself, your half,

“O that,” she said, “is no reason. You smell Why you are heavy; and what men to-night

a rose through a fence : Have had resort to you,

for here have been

If two should smell it, what matter? who grumSome six or seven, who did hide their faces

bles, and where's the pretence ?”. Even from darkness. BRU.

Kneel not, gentle Portia. Por. I should not need, if you were gentle

“But I," he replied, “have promised another,

when love was free, Brutus. Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus,

To love her alone, alone, who alone and afar loves Is it expected, I should know no secrets

That appertain to you? Am I yourself
But, as it were, in sort or limitation,

"Why, that,” she said, “is no reason. Love's To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed,

always free, I am told. And talk to you sometimes ? Dwell I but in the Will you vow to be safe from the headache on suburbs

Tuesday, and think it will hold ?” of your good pleasure ? If it be no more, Portia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife.

“But you,” he replied, “have a daughter, a Bru. You are my true and honorable wife;

young little child, who was laid As dear to me, as are the ruddy drops

In your lap to be pure; so I leave you : the an. That visit my sad heart.

gels would make me afraid." Por. If this were true, then should I know

this secret. I grant I am a woman ; but, withal,

“O that,” she said, “is no reason. The angels A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife :

keep out of the way ; I grant I am a woman; but, withal,

And Dora, the child, observes nothing, although A woman well-reputed, Cato's daughter.

you should please me and stay."





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At which he rose up in his anger, 'Why, now, “Love's a virtue for heroes ! - as white as the you no longer are fair!

snow on high hills, Why, now, you no longer are fatal, but ugly and And immortal as every great soul is that strughateful, I swear.'

gles, endures, and fulfils.

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At which she laughed out in her scorn, —"These “I love my Walter profoundly, — you, Maude, men ! O, these men overnice,

though you faltered a week, Who are shocked if a color not virtuous is frankly For the sake of ... what was it ? an eyebrow ? or, put on by a vice.”

less still, a mole on a cheek ?

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Her eyes blazed upon him “And you ! You

“ And since, when all's said, you 're too noble to bring us your vices so near

stoop to the frivolous cant That we smell them ! You think in our presence About crimes irresistible, virtues that swindle, a thought 't would defame us to hear !

betray, and supplant,

XXIII. “What reason had you, and what right, – I ap

“ I determined to prove to yourself that, whate'er peal to your soul from my life,

you might dream or avow To find me too fair as a woman ? Why, sir, I am By illusion, you wanted precisely no more of me

than you have now. pure, and a wife.


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XVI. “Too fair?—not unless you misuse us! and surely

XXVI. "You wronged me : but then I considered...

if, once in a while, You attain to it, straightway you call us no longer

too fair, but too vile.

there's Walter! And so at the end, I vowed that he should not be mulcted, by me,

in the hand of a friend.



A moment,

I pray your attention !- I have a poor word in my head I must utter, though womanly custom would set

it down better unsaid.

“Have I hurt you indeed ? We are quits then.

Nay, friend of my Walter, be mine! Come, Dora, my darling, my angel, and help me. to ask him to dine."




“You grew, sir, pale to impertinence, once when

I showed you a ring.
You kissed my fan when I dropped it. No mat-

ter ! I've broken the thing.

("In the Parish of St. Neots, Cornwall, is a well, arched over with the robes of four kinds of trees, - withy, oak, elm, and ash, and dedicated to St. Keyne. The reported virtue of the water is this, that, whether husband or wife first drink thereof, they get the mastery thereby." - FULLER.)

XIX. You did me the honor, perhaps, to be moved at

my side now and then In the senses, - a vice, I have heard, which is

common to beasts and some men.

A WELL there is in the West country,

And a clearer one never was seen ; There is not a wife in the West country

But has heard of the well of St. Keyne.

“I have left a good woman who never was here,”

The stranger he made reply ; “But that my draught should be better for that,

I pray you answer me why." “St.Keyne,"quoth the countryman,“many a time

Drank of this crystal well,
And before the angel summoned her

She laid on the water a spell.
“If the husband of this gifted well

Shall drink before his wife,
A happy man thenceforth is he,

For he shall be master for life.
“But if the wife should drink of it first,

Heaven help the husband then !"
The stranger stooped to the well of St. Keyne,

And drank of the waters again. “You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes ?"

He to the countryman said. But the countryman smiled as the stranger spake,

And sheepishly shook his head. “I hastened, as soon as the wedding was done,

And left my wife in the porch.
But i' faith, she had been wiser than me,

For she took a bottle to church."


This hearth 's our own,

Our hearts are one, And peace is ours forever !

When I was poor,

Your father's door Was closed against your constant lover,

With care and pain,

I tried in vain
My fortunes to recover.
I said, To other lands I 'll roam,

Where Fate may smile on me, love"
I said, “ Farewell, my own old home !"
And I said, Farewell to thee, love !"

Sing Gille machree, &c.

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I might have said,

My mountain maid, Come live with me, your own true lover ;

I know a spot,

A silent cot,
Your friends can ne'er discover,
Where gently flows the waveless tide

By one small garden only;

An oak and an elm tree stand beside,

And behind does an ash-tree grow,
And a willow from the bank above

Droops to the water below.
A traveller came to the well of St. Keyne ;

Pleasant it was to his eye,
For from cock-crow he had been travelling,

And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear,

For thirsty and hot was he, And he sat down upon the bank,

Under the willow-tree.

There came a man from the nighboring town

At the well to fill his pail, On the well-side he rested it,

And bade the stranger hail. “Now art thou a bachelor, stranger ?” quoth he,

“For an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drank this day

That ever thou didst in thy life.
Or has your good woman, if one you have,

In Cornwall ever been ?
For an if she have, I 'll venture my life

She has drank of the well of St. Keyne.”


Mid pleasures and palaces though w may roam,
Be it ever so humble there 's no place like home!
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us here,
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with

Home ! home ! sweet, sweet home!
There 's no place like home !

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain !
0, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!
The birds singing gayly that came at my call;-
Give me them ! and the peace of mind dearer

than all !
Home ! home, &c.





Gille machrec,

Sit down by me,
We now are joined and ne'er shall sever;

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Far, far away,

By night and day,
I toiled to win a golden treasure ;

And golden gains

Repaid my pains
In fair and shining measure.
I sought again my native land,

Thy father welcomed me, love ;
I poured my gold into his hand,
And my guerdon found in thee, love;

Sing Gille machree

Sit down by me,
We now are joined, and ne'er shall sever;

This hearth 's our own,

Our hearts are one, And peace is ours forever.



MINE be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear ;
A willowy brook that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim list the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet gown



The village-church among the trees,
Where first our marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze
And point with taper spire to heaven.



HAPPY the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air

In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire ;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

In winter, fire.

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away
In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mixed ; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please

With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown ;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.




Dark is the night, and fitful and drearily

Rushes the wind like the waves of the sea :
Little care I, as here I sit cheerily,
Wife at my side and my baby on knee.

King, king, crown me the king :
Home is the kingilom, and Love is the king!

Flashes the firelight upon the dear faces,

Dearer and dearer and onward we go,
Forces the shadow behind us, and places
Brightness around us with warmth in the glow.

King, king, crown me the king :
Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king !

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