RINGAN AND MAY.

That he and the lark were both to blame;
For there were some lays so soft and bland
That breast of maiden could not stand;
And, if he lay in the wood his lane,
Quhill I came back to list the strain.
Of an amorous bird amang the broom,
Then he might lie quhill the day of doom!

But for all the sturt and strife I made;
For all I did, and all I said,

Alas! I fear it will be lang

Or I forget that wee burd's sang!
And langer still or I can flee
The lad that told that sang to me!

REGINALD HEBER.

1783-1826.

ARTHUR AND GANORA.

'TWAS merry in the streets of Carduel,
When Pentecost renewed her festive call,
And the loud trumpet's clang and louder bell

The moss-grown abbey shook and bannered wall;
And still, from bower to mass, from mass to hall,
A sea of heads throughout the city flowed;

And, robed in fur, in purple, and in pall,
Of knights and dames the gaudy pageant yode,
And conquering Arthur last, and young Ganora rode.

Still as they passed, from many a scaffold high,
And window-lattice scattered roses flew,

And maidens, leaning from the balcony,

Bent their white necks the stranger bride to view, Whom that same morn, or e'er the sparkling dew Had from his city's herb-strewn pavement fled,

A village maid, who rank nor splendour knew,

To Mary's isle the conqueror's hand had led,

To deck her monarch's throne, to bless her monarch's bed.

Who then was joyful but the Logrian king?
Not that his hand a five-fold sceptre bore;
Not that the Scandian raven's robber wing
Stooped to his dragon banner, and the shore
Of peopled Gallia, and where ocean hoar

ARTHUR AND GANORA.

Girds with his silver ring the island green

Of saints and heroes; not that paynim gore Clung to his blade, and, first in danger seen, In many a forward fight his golden shield had been.

Nor warrior fame it was, nor kingly state

That swelled his heart, though in that thoughtful eye And brow that might not, even in mirth, abate

Its regal care and wonted majesty,

Unlike to love, a something seemed to lie;

Yet love's ascendant planet ruled the hour.

And as he gazed with lover's ecstasy,

And blended pride upon that beauteous flower,
Could fame, could empire vie with such a paramour!

For many a melting eye of deepest blue,

And many a form of goodliest mould were there, And ivory necks and lips of coral hue,

And many an auburn braid of glossy hair. But i might all those gorgeous dames compare With her in flowers and bridal white arrayed: Was none so stately form nor face so fair As hers, whose eyes, as mournful or afraid, Were big with heavy tears, the trembling village maid.

How fared it with the young Ganora's heart?
Did hope, did Hymen call the rapturous tear?
Or mourned perchance the village maid to part
From all the humble joys her heart held dear?
And, turning from that kingly front severe,
Roamed her sad memory o'er each milder grace
Of him her earliest love, the forestere?

Ah! lost for ever now! yet sweet to trace

The silver-studded horn, green garb, and beardless face.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

1784-1842.

THE MARINER'S SONG.

A WET sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,

And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,

Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

"O! for a soft and gentle wind!"
I hear a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free,
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon hornèd moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;

And hark! the music, mariners,

The wind is piping loud;

The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashes free,

While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.

BERNARD BARTON.

1784-1849.

THE DEAD.

NUMBER the grains of sand out-spread
Wherever ocean's billows flow;

Or count the bright stars over-head,
As these in their proud courses glow;

Count all the tribes on earth that creep, Or that expand the wing in air; Number the hosts that, in the deep, Existence and its pleasures share;

Count the green leaves that in the breath
Of spring's blithe gale are dancing fast;
Or those all faded sere in death,
Which flit before the wintry blast;

Ay! number these, and myriads more,
All countless as they seem to be;
There still remains an ampler store,
Untold by, and unknown to thee.

Ask'st thou "Who or what be they?"
Oh! think upon thy mortal doom;

And with anointed eye survey

The silent empire of the tomb.