I pressed them down the sod beneath;
I placed one mossy stone above;
And twined the rose's fading wreath
Around the sepulchre of love.

Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead
Ere yet the evening sun was set:
But years shall see the cypress spread,
Immutable as my regret.

Thomas L. Peacock.

366

BONNIE LADY

ANN

THERE'S kames o' hinney 'tween my luve's lips,

An' gowd amang her hair;

Her breasts are lapt in a holie veil,

Nae mortal een keek there:

What lips dare kiss, or what hand dare touch,

Or what arm o' luve dare span,

The hinney lips, the creamy loof,

Or the waist o' Lady Ann!

She kisses the lips o' her bonnie red rose,

Wat wi' the blobs o' dew;

But nae gentle lip, nor simple lip,

Maun touch her lady mou;

But a broider'd belt wi' a buckle o' gowd

Her jimpy waist maun span

O, she's an armfu' fit for heaven,

My bonnie Lady Ann !

Her bower casement is latticed wi' flowers

Tied up wi' silver thread,

An' comely sits she in the midst

Men's longing een to feed.

She waves the ringlets frae her cheek

Wi' her milky, milky han',

An' her cheeks seem touch'd wi' the finger o' God,

My bonnie Lady Ann!

The morning cloud is tassel'd wi' gowd,

Like my luve's broider'd cap;

An' on the mantle which my love wears
Are monie a gowden drap;

Her bonnie eebree 's a holie arch

Cast by no earthlie han';

An' the breath o' God's atween the lips
O' my bonnie Lady Ann !

I am her father's gardener lad,
An' poor, poor is my fa';

My auld mither gets my wee, wee fee,
Wi' fatherless bairnies twa:

My Lady comes, my Lady gaes

Wi' a fou and kindly han'

O, the blessing o' God maun mix wi' my luve,

An' fa' on' Lady Ann!

Allan Cunningham.

367

HAME, HAME, HAME

HAME, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be,
O, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the tree,

The larks shall sing me hame in my ain countrie.

Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be,

O, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The green leaf o' loyaltie 's begun for to fa',
The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a';
But I'll water't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,
An' green it will grow in my ain countrie.

O, there's naught frae ruin my country can save
But the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave:
That a' the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie,
May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.

The great are now gane, a' wha ventured to save,
The new grass is springing on the top o' their graves;
But the sun thro' the mirk blinks blythe in my ee,
'I'll shine on ye yet in yere ain countrie.'

Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be,
Hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

X

Allan Cunningham.

368

THE CASTLED CRAG OF DRACHENFELS

THE castled crag of Drachenfels

Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,
Whose breast of waters broadly swells
Between the banks which bear the vine,
And hills all rich with blossom'd trees,
And fields which promise corn and wine,
And scatter'd cities crowning these,
Whose far white walls along them shine,
Have strew'd a scene, which I should see
With double joy wert thou with me.

And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes,
And hands which offer early flowers,
Walk smiling o'er this paradise;
Above, the frequent feudal towers

Through green leaves lift their walls of gray,
And many a rock which steeply lowers,
And noble arch in proud decay,

Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers;

But one thing want these banks of Rhine,-
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!

I send the lilies given to me;

Though long before thy hand they touch,
I know that they must wither'd be,
But yet reject them not as such;
For I have cherish'd them as dear,
Because they yet may meet thine eye,
And guide thy soul to mine even here,
When thou behold'st them drooping nigh,
And know'st them gather'd by the Rhine,
And offer'd from my heart to thine!

The river nobly foams and flows,
The charm of this enchanted ground,
And all its thousand turns disclose
Some fresher beauty varying round:
The haughtiest breast its wish might bound
Through life to dwell delighted here;
Nor could on earth a spot be found
To nature and to me so dear,

Could thy dear eyes in following mine
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine!

Byron.

369

SHE WALKS IN

BEAUTY

SHE walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half-impair'd the nameless grace,
Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

Byron.

370

FARE THEE WELL

FARE thee well! and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare thee well!
Even though unforgiving, never

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again!

Would that breast, by thee glanced over
Every inmost thought could show !

Then thou wouldst at last discover

'Twas not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee—
Though it smile upon the blow,

Even its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe:

Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?

Yet, O, yet thyself deceive not!
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not,
Hearts can thus be torn away.

Still thine own its life retaineth

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth Is-that we no more may meet!

There are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead:
Both shall live, but every morrow
Wake us from a widow'd bed.

And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say :-'Father!'
Though his care she must forego?

When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is press'd,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of him thy love had bless'd !

Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more may'st see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know ;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
Wither, yet with thee they go.

Every feeling hath been shaken :

Pride, which not a world could bow,

Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,

Even my soul forsakes me now.