I shall hear thy sweet and touching voice in every wind that grieves, As it whirls from the abandoned oak its withered autumn leaves; In the gloom of the wild forest, in the stillness of the sea, I shall think, my Scottish lassie, I shall often think of thee! Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! In my sad and lonely hours The thought of thee comes o'er me like the breath of distant flowers: Like the music that enchants mine ear, that bless mine eye, the sights Like the verdure of the meadow, like the azure of the sky, Like the rainbow in the evening, like the blossoms on the tree, Is the thought, my Scottish lassie, is the lonely thought of thee! Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! - here's a parting health to thee! May thine be still a cloudless lot, though it be far from me! May still thy laughing eye be bright, and open still thy brow, Thy thoughts as pure, thy speech as free, thy heart as light as now! And whatsoe'er my after fate, my dearest toast shall be Still a health, my Scottish lassie! still a hearty health to thee! Eliza Cook. FAIRY MAY. COME hither, little Fairy May, I'll give you silks and satins bright, I'll bring you to my castle hall, 'Mid lords and ladies gay: "No, thank you, sir, I'd rather not," Quoth little Fairy May! Says mother, "He's a proper youth; And all that they could say, "No, thank you, sir, I'd rather not," "Come, Fairy May, your words unsay, You know within your heart of hearts, "Well, sir, and much I care for that!" "Lose such a prize!" her father cries; "No, thank you, sir, I'd rather not," C. W. Goodhart. BEAUTY. COMPARE her eyes Not to the sun, for they do shine by night: Not to the moon, for they are changing never: Not to the stars, for they have purer light: Not to the fire, for they consume not ever: But to the Maker's self, they likest be, Whose light doth lighten all things here we see. Spenser. A NOBLE YOUTH. As some rich woman, on a winter's morn, fire At cock-crow, on a starlit winter's morn, When the frost flowers the whitened window pane And wonders how she lives, and what the thoughts Of that poor drudge must be; so Rustum eyed Which in a queen's secluded garden throws M. Arnold. THE WORLD IS BRIGHT BEFORE THEE. TO * * * * THE world is bright before thee; There is a song of sorrow, And youth's warm promise o'er. Believe it not, though lonely Thy evening home may be; Though Time thy bloom is stealing, The wild-flower wreath of feeling, James Percival. |