WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN.

CHARLES EDWARD IN EXILE.

LOVE may die, and hatred slumber,
And their memory will decay,
As the watered garden recks not
Of the drought of yesterday;
But the dream of power once broken,
What shall give repose again?
What shall charm the serpent-furies
Coiled around the maddening brain?
What kind draught can nature offer
Strong enough to lull their sting?
Better to be born a peasant

Than to live an exiled king!
Oh, these years of bitter anguish !—
What is life to such as me,
With my very heart as palsied
As a wasted cripple's knee!
Suppliant-like for alms depending
On a false and foreign court;
Jostled by the flouting nobles,
Half their pity, half their sport,
Forced to hold a place in pageant
Like a royal prize of war,
Walking with dejected features
Close behind his victor's car;

Styled an equal-deemed a servant-
Fed with hopes of future gain:

CHARLES EDWARD IN EXILE.

Worse by far is fancied freedom
Than the captive's clanking chain!
Could I change this gilded bondage
Even for the dusky tower,
Whence King James beheld his lady
Sitting in the castle bower;
Birds around her sweetly singing,
Fluttering on the kindled spray,
And the comely garden glowing
In the light of rosy May.
Love descended to the window-

Love removed the bolt and bar

Love was warder to the lovers

From the dawn to even-star.

Wherefore, Love! didst thou betray me?
Where is now the tender glance-
Where the meaning looks once lavished
By the dark-eyed maid of France?
Where the words of hope she whispered,
When around my neck she threw

That same scarf of broidered tissue,
Bade me wear it and be true-
Bade me send it as a token

When my banner waved once more

On the castled keep of London,

Where my fathers' waved before?
And I went and did not conquer-
But I brought it back again—
Brought it back from storm and battle-
Brought it back without a stain;
And once more I knelt before her,
And I laid it at her feet,

Saying, "Wilt thou own it, Princess?
There at least is no defeat!"

WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN.

Scornfully she looked upon me

With a measured eye and coldScornfully she viewed the token,

Though her fingers wrought the gold; And she answered, faintly flushing, "Hast thou kept it, then, so long? Worthy matter for a minstrel To be told in knightly song! Worthy of a bold Provençal, Pacing o'er the peaceful plain, Singing of his lady's favour,

Boasting of her silken chain-
Yet scarce worthy of a warrior
Sent to wrestle for a crown!

Is this all that thou hast brought me
From thy fields of high renown?

Is this all the trophy carried

From the lands where thou hast been?

It was broidered by a Princess,

Canst thou give it to a Queen?"

Woman's love is writ in water!

Woman's faith is traced on sand-
Backwards-backwards let me wander
To the noble northern land:
Let me feel the breezes blowing
Fresh along the mountain side!
Let me see the purple heather,

Let me hear the thundering tide,
Be it hoarse as Corrievreckan

Spouting when the storm is highGive me but one hour of ScotlandLet me see it ere I die!

GEORGE MEREDITH.

WILL O' THE WISP.

FOLLOW me, follow me,

Over brake and under tree,

Through the bosky tanglery,

Brushwood and bramble!

Follow me, follow me,

Laugh and leap and scramble!

Follow, follow,

Hill and hollow,

Fosse and burrow,

Fen and furrow,

Down into the bulrush beds,

'Midst the reeds and osier heads,
In the rushy soaking damps,
Where the vapours pitch their camps,
Follow me, follow me,

For a midnight ramble!

O! what a mighty fog,

What a merry night O ho!
Follow, follow, nigher, nigher—
Over bank, and pond, and briar,
Down into the croaking ditches,

Rotten log,

Spotted frog,

Beetle bright

With crawling light,

What a joy O ho!

GEORGE MEREDITH.

Deep into the purple bog-

What a joy O ho!

Where like hosts of puckered witches
All the shivering agues sit

Warming hands and chafing feet,

By the blue marsh-hovering oils:

O the fools for all their moans!

Not a forest mad with fire

Could still their teeth, or warm their bones, Or loose them from their chilly coils.

What a clatter,

How they chatter!

Shrink and huddle,

All a muddle,

What a joy O ho!

Down we go, down we go,
What a joy O ho!

Soon shall I be down below,

Plunging with a gray fat friar,
Hither, thither, to and fro,

What a joy O ho!

Breathing mists and whisking lamps,
Plashing in the slimy swamps;
What a joy O ho!

While my cousin Lantern Jack,

With cock ears and cunning eyes,
Turns him round upon his back,

Daubs him oozy green and black,

Sits upon his rolling size,

Where he lies, where he lies,

Groaning full of sack

Staring with his great round eyes!

What a joy, O ho!

Sits upon him in the swamps