O whither, whither dost thou fly? Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I? Wait, like some spell-bound knight, Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; Say not Good-night, but in some brighter clime 475. I FANNY GREVILLE Prayer for Indifference ASK no kind return of love, No tempting charm to please; Far from the heart those gifts remove, 18th Cent. 476. Nor peace nor ease the heart can know, Far as distress the soul can wound, JOHN LOGAN To the Cuckoo HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove! Thou messenger of Spring! Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, What time the daisy decks the green, Delightful visitant! with thee I hail the time of flowers, 1748-1788 The schoolboy, wand'ring through the wood Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, 477. What time the pea puts on the bloom, Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, O could I fly, I'd fly with thee! LADY ANNE LINDSAY Auld Robin Gray 1750-1825 WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, WHEN And a' the warld to rest are gane, The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride; To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea; And the croun and the pund were baith for me. He hadna been awa' a week but only twa, When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa'; My mother she fell sick,—and my Jamie at the seaAnd auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me. My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin; My heart it said nay; I look'd for Jamie back; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack; My father urged me sair my mother didna speak; I hadna been a wife a week but only four, O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say; I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; 478. Epigram 1746-1794 ON parent knees, a naked new-born child, Weeping thou sat'st while all around thee smiled: So live, that sinking to thy life's last sleep, Calm thou may'st smile, whilst all around thee weep. 479. THOMAS CHATTERTON Song from Alla SING unto my roundelay, O drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holyday, Like a running river be Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree. Black his cryne as the winter night, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree. Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree. 479. cryne] hair. rode] complexion. 1752-1770 |