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O whither, whither dost thou fly?
Where bend unseen thy trackless course?
And in this strange divorce,

Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I?
To the vast ocean of empyreal flame
From whence thy essence came
Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed
From matter's base encumbering weed?
Or dost thou, hid from sight,

Wait, like some spell-bound knight,
Through blank oblivious years th' appointed hour
To break thy trance and reassume thy power?
Yet canst thou without thought or feeling be?
O say, what art thou, when no more thou'rt thee?
Life! we have been long together,

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear;
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ;-
Then steal away, give little warning,
Choose thine own time;

Say not Good-night, but in some brighter clime
Bid me Good-morning!

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,
That sighs for peace and ease.

18th Cent.

476.

Nor peace nor ease the heart can know,
That, like the needle true,
Turns at the touch of joy or woe,
But, turning, trembles too.

Far as distress the soul can wound,
'Tis pain in each degree:
"Tis bliss but to a certain bound,
Beyond is agony.

JOHN LOGAN

To the Cuckoo

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!

Thou messenger of Spring!

Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome ring.

What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear:
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.

1748-1788

The schoolboy, wand'ring through the wood
To pull the primrose gay,

Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear,
And imitates thy lay.

477.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fli'st thy vocal vale,
An annual guest in other lands,
Another Spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No Winter in thy year!

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the Spring.

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,
While my gudeman lies sound by me.

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;
But saving a croun he had naething else beside:

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;
I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win;
Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e
Said, 'Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!'

My heart it said nay; I look'd for Jamie back;

But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;
His ship it was a wrack-Why didna Jamie dee?
Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me!

My father urged me sair my mother didna speak;
But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break :
They gi'ed him my hand, tho' my heart was in the sea;
Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.

I hadna been a wife a week but only four,
When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door,
I saw my Jamie's wraith,-for I couldna think it he,
Till he said, 'I'm come hame to marry thee.'

O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;
We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away:
I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee;
And why was I born to say, Wae's me!

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;
I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be,
For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.

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.

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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
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed

All under the willow-tree.

Black his cryne as the winter night,
White his rode as the summer snow,
Red his face as the morning light,
Cold he lies in the grave below:
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed

All under the willow-tree.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note,
Quick in dance as thought can be,
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
O he lies by the willow-tree!
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed

All under the willow-tree.

479. cryne] hair.

rode] complexion.

1752-1770

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