No song but sad dirges,

Like the wind through a ruin'd cell,
Or the mournful surges

That ring the dead seaman's knell.

When hearts have once mingled,
Love first leaves the well-built nest;
The weak one is singled
To endure what it once possest.
O Love, who bewailest

The frailty of all things here,
Why choose you the frailest

For your cradle, your home, and your bier?

Its passions will rock thee,

As the storms rock the ravens on high:
Bright reason will mock thee,
Like the sun from a wintry sky.

From thy nest every rafter
Will rot, and thine eagle home

Leave thee naked to laughter,

When leaves fall and cold winds come.

616

I

I can give not what men call love:
But wilt thou accept not

The worship the heart lifts above
And the heavens reject not,
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?

The Question

DREAM'D that, as I wander'd by the way, Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring; And gentle odours led my steps astray,

Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay

Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, But kiss'd it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream.

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets;

Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets;

Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birth
The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets-
Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth—

Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears
When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.

And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,

Green cowbind and the moonlight-colour'd May, And cherry-blossoms, and white cups whose wine Was the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day;

And wild roses, and ivy serpentine,

With its dark buds and leaves wandering astray; And flowers, azure, black, and streak'd with gold, Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold.

And nearer to the river's trembling edge

There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prank'd with white, And starry river-buds among the sedge,

And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,
Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge
With moonlight beams of their own watery light;
And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.
Methought that of these visionary flowers.

I made a nosegay, bound in such a way
That the same hues which in their natural bowers
Were mingled or opposed, the like array
Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours.
Within my hand; and then, elate and gay,
I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come,
That I might there present it-O! to whom?

AWAY! the moor is dark beneath the moon,

Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of even: Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon, And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven.

Pause not the time is past! Every voice cries 'Away!' Tempt not with one last tear thy friend's ungentle mood: Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay: Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude.

Away, away! to thy sad and silent home;

Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth;

Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come,
And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth.
The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around
thine head,

The blooms of dewy Spring shall gleam beneath thy feet:

But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead,

Ere midnight's frown and morning's smile, ere thou and peace, may meet.

The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose, For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep;

Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows; Whatever moves or toils or grieves hath its appointed sleep.

Thou in the grave shalt rest :—yet, till the phantoms flee, Which that house and heath and garden made dear to thee erewhile,

Thy remembrance and repentance and deep musings are not free

From the music of two voices, and the light of one sweet smile.

618.

Music, when Soft Voices die
MUSIC, when soft voices die,

Vibrates in the memory;

Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heap'd for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

619.

HEW AINSLIE

Willie and Helen

1792-1878

'WHAREFORE sou'd ye talk o' love,

Unless it be to pain us?

Wharefore sou'd ye talk o' love

Whan ye say the sea maun twain us?'

'It's no because my love is light,
Nor for your angry deddy;
It's a' to buy ye pearlins bright,
An' to busk ye like a leddy.'

'O Willy, I can caird an' spin,
Se ne'er can want for cleedin';
An' gin I hae my Willy's heart,

I hae a' the pearls I'm heedin'.

'Will it be time to praise this cheek

Whan years an' tears has blench'd it?
Will it be time to talk o' love

Whan cauld an' care has quench'd it?'

He's laid ae han' about her waist

The ither's held to heaven;

An' his luik was like the luik o' man
Wha's heart in twa is riven.

619. cleedin'] clothing.