Yet more, Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main! Yet more, Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, Yet more, Give back the lost and lovely! those for whom To thee the love of woman hath gone down; Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee! Restore the dead, thou Sea! MRS. HEMANS. 14. THE BLUEBELL OF SCOTLAND. Oh where! and oh where! is your Highland laddie gone? He's gone to fight the French for King George upon the throne; And it's oh! in my heart how I wish him safe at home. Oh where! and oh where! does your Highland laddie dwell? What clothes, in what clothes is your Highland laddie clad? His bonnet's ot the Saxon green, his waistcoat's of the plaid; And it's oh! in my heart that I love my Highland lad. Suppose, oh suppose, that your Highland lad should die? The bagpipes shall play over him, I'll lay me down and cry; And it's oh! in my heart that I wish he may not die! OLD SONG. 15. THE LAND OF STORY-BOOKS. At evening when the lamp is lit, They sit at home and talk and sing, There in the night, where none can spy, All in my hunter's camp I lie, And play at books that I have read Till it is time to go to bed. There are the hills, these are the woods, And there the river by whose brink I see the others far away So when my nurse comes in for me R. L. STEVENSON. 16. A WINTER'S TALE. So late! and all the passers gone: So tired! the winds are loud and bleak; She sleeps; the tears are on her cheeks Her violets are dead. Soft, soft! the Christmas morn grows bright; There comes, all clad in golden light, A little angel-child. He stops, and marks the cold, cold place; The poor, thin hands, the tear-stained face Upon her head and eyelids wet And blessed the little maid; Then passed away: the glad bells broke The little flower-girl turned and woke Her flowers are fresh and fair! F. E. WEATHERLY. 17. THE TIGER. Tiger, tiger, burning bright, In what distant deeps or skies And what shoulder and what art When thy heart began to beat, What dread hand formed thy dread feet? What the hammer, what the chain, When the stars threw down their spears, Did He who made the lamb make thee? W. BLAKE. 18. THE THREE FISHERS. Three fishers went sailing away to the West, Each thought on the woman who loved him the best, Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,! And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown. But men must work and women must weep, Though storms be sudden and waters deep, And the harbour bar be moaning. Three corpses lay out on the shining sands, In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep; And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. CHAS. KINGSLEY. 19. HOW'S MY BOY? Ho, sailor of the sea! How's my boy my boy? "What's your boy's name, good wife, And in what good ship sailed he?" What care I for the ship, sailor? My boy's my boy to me. HOEKZEMA, Poetry. 4th Ed. |