I do not think, where'er thou art, And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light ne'er seen before, As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore. Sonnet, AT OSTEND, JULY 22, 1787. REV. CHAS. WOLFE. How sweet the tuneful bells' responsive peal! W. L. BOWLES. The Braes of Varrow. "THY braes were bonny, Yarrow stream! Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow! "He promised me a milk-white steed, To bear me to his father's bowers; He promised me a little page, To 'squire me to his father's towers; He promised me a wedding ring,— The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow ; Now he is wedded to his grave, Alas! his watery grave in Yarrow! "Sweet were his words when last we met; My passion I as freely told him! Clasped in his arms, I little thought That I should never more behold him! Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost; It vanished with a shriek of sorrow; Thrice did the water-wraith ascend, And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow. "His mother from the window looked, With all the longing of a mother; His little sister weeping walked The green-wood path to meet her brother; They sought him east, they sought him west, They sought him all the forest thorough; They only saw the cloud of night, They only heard the roar of Yarrow. "No longer from thy window look, Thou hast no son, thou tender mother! No longer seek him, east or west, And search no more the forest thorough; "The tear shall never leave my cheek, No other youth shall be my marrow! I'll seek thy body in the stream, And then with thee I 'll sleep in Yarrow." The tear did never leave her cheek, She found his body in the stream, And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow. LOGAN. Lament of the Irish Emigrant. I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, On a bright May mornin' long ago, The place is little changed, Mary, 'T is but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near, The church where we were wed, Mary, I see the spire from here. But the grave-yard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest— For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends, Since my poor Mary died. Your's was the good, brave heart, Mary, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone; There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow— I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now. I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break, When the hunger pain was gnawin' there, And you hid it, for my sake! I bless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and sore— Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more! I'm biddin' you a long farewell, My Mary-kind and true! But I'll not forget you, darling, In the land I'm goin' to: They say there's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there But I'll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair! |