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If I had thought thou couldst have died.

If I had thought thou couldst have died,

I might not weep for thee;

But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be;
It never through my mind had past
The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more.

And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again,

And still the thought I will not brook
That I must look in vain.

But, when I speak, thou dost not say

What thou ne'er leftst unsaid,
And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary! thou art dead.

If thou wouldst stay e'en as thou art,
All cold, and all serene,

I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been! While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have, Thou seemest still mine own,

But there I lay thee in thy grave -

And I am now alone

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart

In thinking too of thee;

Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore.

Sonnet,

AT OSTEND, JULY 22, 1787.

REV. CHAS. WOLFE

How sweet the tuneful bells' responsive peal!
As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze
Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease,
So piercing to my heart their force I feel!
And hark! with lessening cadence now they fall,
And now, along the white and level tide,
They fling their melancholy music wide;
Bidding me many a tender thought recall
Of summer-days, and those delightful years
When by my native streams, in life's fair prime,
The mournful magic of their mingling chime
First waked my wondering childhood into tears!
But seeming now, when all those days are o'er,
The sounds of joy once heard, and heard no more.

W. L. BowLES.

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The Braes of Varrow.

"THY braes were bonny, Yarrow stream!
When first on them I met my lover;
Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream!
When now thy waves his body cover!
For ever now, O Yarrow stream,

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Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; For never on thy banks shall I

Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow!

'He promised me a milk-white steed,
To bear me to his father's bowers;
He promised me a little page,

To 'squire me to his father's towers;
He promised me a wedding ring,—
The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow ;
Now he is wedded to his grave,

Alas! his watery grave in Yarrow!

Sweet were his words when last we met;
My passion I as freely told him!
Clasped in his arms, I little thought

That I should never more behold him!
Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost;
It vanished with a shriek of sorrow;
Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,

And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow.

"His mother from the window looked, With all the longing of a mother; His little sister weeping walked

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The green-wood path to meet her brother: They sought him east, they sought him west, They sought him all the forest thorough; They only saw the cloud of night,

They only heard the roar of Yarrow.

No longer from thy window look,

Thou hast no son, thou tender mother! No longer walk, thou lovely maid;

Alas, thou hast no more a brother!

No longer seek him, east or west,

And search no more the forest thorough;
For, wandering in the night so dark,
He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow.

"The tear shall never leave my cheek,
No other youth shall be my marrow;

I'll seek thy body in the stream,

And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow."
The tear did never leave her cheek,
No other youth became her marrow;
She found his body in the stream,

And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.

LOGAN.

Cament of the Irish Emigrant.

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat side by side

On a bright May mornin' long ago,
When first you were my bride:
The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high-
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,
The day is bright as then,
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath, warm on my cheek,
And I still keep listenin' for the words
You never more will speak.

'T is but a step down yonder lane,
And the little church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary,
I see the spire from here.

But the grave-yard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest-
For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep
With your baby on your breast.

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