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A midnight bell, a parting groan
These are the sounds we feed upon ; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley ; Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
J. FLETCHIER. 105 TO A LOCK OF HAIR Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright As in that well-remember'd night When first thy mystic braid was wove, And first my Agnes whisper'd love.
Since then how often hast thou prest The torrid zone of this wild breast, Whose wrath and hate have sworn to dwell With the first sin that peopled hell ; A breast whose blood 's a troubled ocean, Each throb the earthquake's wild commotion ! 10 O if such clime thou canst endure Yet keep thy hue unstain'd and pure, What conquest o’er each erring thought Of that fierce realm had Agnes wrought ! I had not wander'd far and wide With such an angel for my guide ; Nor heaven nor earth could then reprove me If she had lived, and lived to love me.
Not then this world's wild joys had been To me one savage hunting scene, My sole delight the headlong race And frantic hurry of the chase ; To start, pursue, and bring to bay, Rush in, drag down, and rend my prey, Then—from the carcass turn away! Mine ireful mood had sweetness tamed, And soothed each wound which pride inflamed :Yes, God and man might now approve me If thou hadst lived, and lived to love me !
! SIR W. SCOTT.
THE FORSAKEN BRIDE
O waly waly up the bank,
And waly waly down the brae, And waly waly yon burn-side
Where I and my Love wont to gae ! I leant my back unto an aik,
I thought it was a trusty tree; But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,
Sae my true Love did lichtly me.
O waly waly, but love be bonny
A little time while it is new;
And fades awa' like morning dew.
Or wherefore should I kame my hair ? For my true Love has me forsook,
And says he'll never loe me mair.
Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed ;
The sheets shall ne'er be 'fil'd by me : Saint Anton's well sall be my drink,
Since my true Love has forsaken me. Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw
And shake the green leaves aff the tree ? O gentie Death, when wilt thou come ?
For of my life I am wearie.
'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,
Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie ; 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,
But my Love's heart grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgow town
We were à comely sight to see ;
And I myself in cramasie.
But had I wist, before I kist,
That love had been sae ill to win ;
And pinn'd it with a siller pin.
And set upon the nurse's knee,
I wish I were where Helen lies ;
On fair Kirconnell lea!
And died to succour me! think na but my heart was sair When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair! I laid her down wi’ meikle care
On fair Kirconnell lea ;
For her sake that died for me,
Until the day I die.
O that I were where Helen lies !
Says, “ Haste and come to me !!
On fair Kirconnell lea.
On fair Kirconnell lea.
THE TWA CORBIES
Where sall we gang and dine to-day ? '
· Mony a one for him makes mane,
Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do ye fall so fast ?
Your date is not so past,
And go at last.
What, were ye born to be
An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good-night ?
And lose you quite.
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave :
Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon :
Has not attain'd his noon.