What softened remembrances come o'er the heart,
In gazing on those we've been lost to so long!
The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part,
Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng;
As letters some hand hath invisibly traced,
When held to the flame will steal out on the sight, So many a feeling, that long seemed effaced,
The warmth of a moment like this brings to light.
And thus, as in memory's bark we shall glide,
To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew,
Though oft we may see, looking down on the tide,
The wreck of full many a hope shining through;
Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers,
That once made a garden of all the gay shore,
Deceived for a moment, we'll think them still ours,
And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once more.
So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most,
Is all we can have of the few we hold dear;
And oft even joy is unheeded and lost,
For want of some heart, that could echo it, near.
Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is gone,
To meet in some world of more permanent bliss,
For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hastening on,
Is all we enjoy of each other in this.
But, come, the more rare such delights to the heart,
The more we should welcome, and bless them the more; They're ours, when we meet,--they are lost when we part, Like birds that bring summer, and fly when 'tis o'er. Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink,
Let sympathy pledge us, through pleasure, through pain,
That, fast as a feeling but touches one link,
Her magic shall send it direct through the chain.
I HEARD a laverock singing with glee,
And oh but the bird sang cheerilye;
Then I askit at my true love Ringan,
If he kend what the bonny bird was singing?
Now, my love Ringan is blythe and young,
But he has a fair and flattering tongue;
And oh, I'm feared I like ower weel
His tales of love, though kind and leal!
So I said to him, in scornful ways,
"You ken nae word that wee burd says!"
Then my love he turned about to me,
And there was a smile in his pawky ee;
And he says, "My May, my dawtied dow,
I ken that strain far better nor you;
For that little fairy that lilts so loud,
And hangs on the fringe of the sunny cloud,
Is telling the tale, in chants and chimes,
I have told to thee a thousand times.
I will let thee hear how our strains accord,
And the laverock's sweet sang, word for word:
'Oh, my love is bonny and mild to see,
As sweetly she sits on her dewy lea,
And turns up her cheek and clear gray eye,
To list what's saying within the sky!
For she thinks my morning hymn so sweet,
Wi' the streamers of Heaven aneath my feet,
Where the proud goshawk could never won,
Between the gray cloud and the sun,-
And she thinks her love a thing of the skies,
Sent down from the holy Paradise,
To sing to the world, at morn and even,
The sweet love songs in the bowers of Heaven.
'O my love is bonny, and young, and chaste,
As sweetly she sits in her mossy nest!
And she deems the birds on bush and tree,
As nothing but dust and droul to me.
Though the robin warble his waesome chirl,
And the merle gar all the greenwood dirl,
And the storm-cock touts on his towering pine,
She trows their song's a mock to mine;
The linty's cheip a ditty tame,
And the shilfa's everlasting rhame;
The plover's whew a solo drear,
And the whilly-whaup's ane shame to hear;
And, whenever a lover comes in view,
She cowers beneath her screen of dew.
'O my love is bonny! her virgin breast
Is sweeter to me nor the dawning east;
And well do I like, at the gloaming still,
To dreep from the lift or the lowering hill,
And press her nest as white as milk,
And her breast as soft as the downy silk.'"
Now when my love Ringan had warbled away
To this base part of the laverock's lay,
My heart was like to burst in twain,
And the tears flowed from mine eyne like rain;
At length he said, with a sigh full lang,
"What ails my love at the laverock's sang?"
Says I, "He's ane base and wicked bird,
As ever rose from the dewy yird;
It's a shame to mount on his morning wing,
At the yetts of heaven sic sangs to sing;
And all to win, with his amorous din,
A sweet little virgin bird to sin,
And wreck, with flattery and song combined,
His dear little maiden's peace of mind!
Oh, were I her, I would let him see,
His songs should all be lost on me!"
Then my love took me in his arms,
And 'gan to laud my leifou charms;
But I would not so much as let him speak,
Nor stroke my chin, nor kiss my cheek:
For I feared my heart was going wrang,
It was so moved at the laverock's sang.
Yet still I lay with an upcast ee,
And still he was singing sae bonnilye,
That, though with my mind I had great strife,
I could not forbear it for my life,
But, as he hung on the heaven's brow,
I said, I ken not why, nor how,
"What's that little deevil saying now?"
Then my love Ringan, he was so glad,
He leugh till his folly pat me mad;
And he said, "My love, I will tell you true,
He seems to sing that strain to you;
For it says, 'I will range the yird and air
To feed my love with the finest fare;
And when she looks from her bed to me,
With the yearning love of a mother's ee,
Oh, then I will come, and draw her nearer,
And watch her closer, and love her dearer,
And we never shall part till our dying day,
But love and love on for ever and aye!'"
Then my heart it bled with a thrilling pleasure
When it learned the laverock's closing measure,
And it rose, and rose, and would not rest,
And would hardly bide within my breast.
Then up I rose, and away I sprung,
And said to my love, with scornful tongue,
That it was ane big and burning shame;
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