And in blossomed vale and grove But that time is gone and past, Can the summer always last? And the swains are wiser grown, And the heart is turned to stone, And the maiden's rose may wither; Oh, for the old true-love time, JOHN CROWNE. WISHES For obscuRITY. How miserable a thing is a great man! Take noisy vexing greatness they that please; Lease. Give me obscure and safe and silent Acquaintance and commerce let me have none With any powerful thing but time alone: My rest let Time be fearful to offend, And creep by me as by a slumbering friend; Oh, wretched he who, called abroad by power, To know himself can never find an hour! Strange to himself, but to all others known, Lends every one his life, but uses none; So, ere he tasted life, to death he goes, And himself loses ere himself he knows. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD. Then foul fa' the hands that wad Her white arm wad be a pillow for me Far safter than the down; And luve wad winnow owre us his kind, kind wings, An' sweetly I'd sleep, an' soun'. Come here to me, thou lass o' my luve, Come here, and kneel wi' me! The morn is fu' o' the presence o' God, An' I canna pray without thee. The morn-wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' new flowers, The wee birds sing kindlie an' hie; Our gudeman leans owre his kaleyard dyke, And a blithe auld bodie is he. The beuk maun be taen when the carle comes hame, Wi' the holie psalmodie; Fu' soon I'll follow thee, my lassie, I looked on thy death-cold face, my lassie, I looked on thy death-cold face; Thou seemed a lily new cut i' the bud, An' fading in its place. I looked on thy death-shut eye, my lassie, I looked on thy death-shut eye; a lovelier light in the brow o' heaven An' Fell time shall ne'er destroy. Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie, Thy lips were ruddy and calm; And thou maun speak o' me to thy But gane was the holy breath o' heav God. And I will speak o' thee. SHE'S GANE TO DWELL IN HEAVEN. SHE'S gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie, She's gane to dwall in heaven: Ye're owre pure, quo' the voice o' God, A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING For dwalling out o' heaven! SEA. O, what'll she do in heaven, my las- A WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast- "O for a soft and gentle wind!" And white waves heaving high,The white waves heaving high, my lads, The good ship tight and free; The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we. And put on those of light. gone to dwell In love, They're their God's and angels'! Mutual love, That bound them here, no longer needs a speech For full communion; nor sensations, strong, Within the breast, their prison, strive in vain To be set free, and meet their kind in joy. Changed to celestials, thoughts that rise in each By natures new, impart themselves, though silent. Each quickening sense, each throb of holy love, Affections sanctified, and the full glow [one, Of being, which expand and gladden By union all mysterious, thrill and live In both immortal frames;- -sensation all, And thought, pervading, mingling sense and thought! Ye paired, yet one! wrapt in a consciousness Twofold, yet single, this life! THE SOUL. this is love, COME, brother, turn with me from pining thought And all the inward ills that sin has wrought; Come, send abroad a love for all who live, And feel the deep content in turn they give. Kind wishes and good deeds, - they make not poor; They'll home again, full laden, to thy door; The streams of love flow back where they begin, For springs of outward joys lie deep within. Even let them flow, and make the places glad The music of those waters running near; And thy faint spirit drink the cooling stream, And thine eye gladden with the playing beam That now upon the water dances, now Leaps up and dances in the hanging bough. Is it not lovely? Tell me, where doth dwell The power that wrought so beautiful a spell? In thine own bosom, brother? Then as thine Guard with a reverent fear this power divine. And if, indeed, 't is not the outward state, But temper of the soul by which we een do see The shining gates o' heaven, an' mine ain countree. The earth is flecked wi' flowers, monytinted, fresh, an' gay, The birdies warble blithely, for my Father made them sae; But these sights and these soun's will as naething be to me, When I hear the angels singing in my ain countree. I've his gude word of promise that some gladsome day, the King To his ain royal palace his banished hame will bring: Wi' een an wi' hearts runnin' owre, we shall see The King in his beauty in our ain countree. My sins hae been mony, an' my sor rows hae been sair, But there they'll never vex me, nor be remembered mair; His bluid has made me white, his hand shall dry mine e'e, When he brings me hame at last, to my ain countree. Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest, I wad fain be ganging noo, unto my Saviour's breast: |