So may this doomed time build up in me A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine; So may my love and longing hallowed be, And thy dear thought an influence divine. FRANCES Anne Kemble. DAY, IN MELTING PURPLE DYING. DAY, in melting purple dying; Thou, to whom I love to hearken, Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure ; Gifts and gold are naught to me, Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling, Paint to thee the deep sensation, Rapture in participation ; Yet but torture, if comprest Absent still! Ah! come and bless me ! In a look if death there be, WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE? WHAT ails this heart o' mine? What ails this watery e'e? When thou art far awa', Thou 'lt dearer grow to me ; But change o' place and change o' folk May gar thy fancy jee. When I gae out at e'en, Or walk at morning air, Ilk rustling bush will seem to say Then I'll sit down and cry, And live aneath the tree, And when a leaf fa's i' my lap, I'll ca 't a word frae thee. I'll hie me to the bower That thou wi' roses tied, And where wi' mony a blushing bud I strove myself to hide. I'll doat on ilka spot Where I ha'e been wi' thee; And ca' to mind some kindly word By ilka burn and tree. SUSANNA BLAMIRE, A PASTORAL. My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent, When Phoebe went with me wherever I went; Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast: Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest! With such a companion to tend a few sheep, To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep; I was so good-humored, so cheerful and gay, My heart was as light as a feather all day ; But now I so cross and so peevish am grown, So strangely uneasy, as never was known. My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drowned, And my heart I am sure it weighs more than a pound. The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among; Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there, 'T was pleasure to look at, 't was music to hear: But now she is absent, I walk by its side, And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide; Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain? Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain. My lambkins around me would oftentimes play, And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they; How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time, When Spring, Love, and Beauty were all in their prime; But now, in their frolics when by me they pass, I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass; Be still, then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad, To see you so merry while I am so sad. My dog I was ever well pleased to see Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me; And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said, "Come hither, poor fellow ;" and patted his head. But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look Cry "Sirrah!" and give him a blow with my crook : Will no pitying power, that hears me complain, Or cure my disquiet or soften my pain? move; But what swain is so silly to live without love ! And I'll give him another; for why should not Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair; Tray Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe 's away? When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I seen, How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green! What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade, The cornfields and hedges and everything made ! But now she has left me, though all are still there, They none of them now so delightful appear : "T was naught but the magic, I find, of her eyes, Made so many beautiful prospects arise. Sweet music went with us both all the wood through, The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too; Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat, And chirp! went the grasshopper under our feet. But now she is absent, though still they sing on, The woods are but lonely, the melody 's gone : Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, Gave everything else its agreeable sound. Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue? And where is the violet's beautiful blue ? Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile? That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile ? Ah! rivals, I see what it was that you drest, And made yourselves fine for a place in her breast? You put on your colors to pleasure her eye, How slowly Time creeps till my Phoebe return, While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn! Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread, I could breathe on his wings, and 't would melt down the lead. Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear, And rest so much longer for 't when she is here. Ah, Colin old Time is full of delay, JOHN BYROM. THE SAILOR'S WIFE.* AND are ye sure the news is true? Is this a time to think o' wark? For there's nae luck about the house, There's little pleasure in the house And gie to me my bigonet, My bishop's-satin gown; For I maun tell the baillie's wife That Colin 's in the town. My Turkey slippers maun gae on, My stockin's pearly blue; It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, For he's baith leal and true. Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, And Jock his Sunday coat; There's twa fat hens upo' the coop Been fed this month and mair; And spread the table neat and clean, For wha can tell how Colin fared Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst Mariner's Wife is now given, by common consent,' says Sarah say. * Bartlett, in his Familiar Quotations, has the following: "The Tytler, to Jean Adam, '1710-1765." Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow, With a song on your lip and a smile on your cheek, love. Come, for my heart in your absence is weary, Haste, for my spirit is sickened and dreary, Come to the arms which alone should caress thee, Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee! JOSEPH BRENNAN. Eightscore eight hours? And lovers' absent hours More tedious than the dial eightscore times? O, weary reckoning! I dote on his very absence. Merchant of Venice, Act i. Sc. 2. SHAKESPEARE. PRESENCE IN ABSENCE. Our two souls, therefore, which are one, A breach, but an expansion, And though it in the centre sit, DR. J. DONNE. DISAPPOINTMENT AND ESTRANGEMENT. SONNET. Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride; WITH how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the But saving a crown, he had naething else beside. To make the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to skies, How silently, and with how wan a face! SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. THE BANKS O' DOON. YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, And I sae weary, fu' o' care? Thou 'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird, For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wistna o' my fate. I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee, And why do I live to say, Wae is me! WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye a' I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin ; at hame, When a' the weary world to sleep are gane, I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin. But I will do my best a gude wife aye to be, For Auld Robin Gray, he is kind to me. LADY ANNE BARNARD. |