TELL me not, sweet, I am unkinde, That for the nuunerie
Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde, To warre and armes I flee.
True, a new mistresse now I chase--
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith imbrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you, too, should adore;
I could not love thee, deare, so much, Loved I not honor more.
YE banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie!
There simmer first unfauld her robes,
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last farewell
O' my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As, underneath their fragrant shade,
I clasp'd her to my bosom!
The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life
Was my sweet Highland Mary!
Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;
But, oh, fell death's untimely frost,
That nipp'd my flower sae early!
Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!
Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips
I aft ha'e kiss'd sae fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwalt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust, That heart that lo'ed me dearly; But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary!
LINES ON ISABELLA MARKHAM.
WHENCE Comes my love? O heart, disclose;
It was from cheeks that shamed the rose,
From lips that spoil the ruby's praise,
From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze:
Whence comes my woe? as freely own;
Ah me! 'twas from a heart like stone.
The blushing cheek speaks modest mind,
The lips befitting words most kind,
The eye does tempt to love's desire,
And seems to say 'tis Cupid's fire;
Yet all so fair but speak my moan,
Sith naught doth say the heart of stone.
Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak
Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek—
Yet not a heart to save my pain?
O Venus, take thy gifts again!
Make not so fair to cause our moan,
Or make a heart that's like our own.
A VOICE by the cedar tree,
In the meadow under the Hall!
She is singing an air that is known to me,
A passionate ballad gallant and gay,
A martial song like a trumpet's call!
Singing alone in the morning of life,
In the happy morning of life and of May,
Singing of men that in battle array,
Ready in heart and ready in hand,
March with banner and bugle and fife
To the death, for their native land.
Maud with her exquisite face,
And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky,
And feet like sunny gems on an English green,
Maud in the light of her youth and grace,
Singing of Death, and of Honor that cannot die,
Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and
mean,
And myself so languid and base.
Be still, for you only trouble the mind
With a joy in which I cannot rejoice,
A glory I shall not find.
Still! I will hear you no more,
For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice
But to move to the meadow and fall before
Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore,
Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind,
Not her, not her, but a voice.
MAID of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh, give me back my heart!
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest!
Hear my vow before I go,
My life, I love you.
By those tresses unconfined,
Wooed by each Ægean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheek's blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes like the roe,
My life, I love you.
By that lip I long to taste;
By that zone-encircled waist;
By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By love's alternate joy and woe,
My life, I love you.
Maid of Athens! I am gone:
Think of me, sweet! when alone.
Though I fly to Istambol,
Athens holds my heart and soul:
Can I cease to love thee?
My life, I love you.
Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face,
Or like the silver crimson shroud
That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace:
Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline!
Her lips are like two budded roses
Whom ranks of lillies neighbor nigh,
Within which bonds she balm encloses
Apt to entice a diety:
Heigh-ho, would she were mine!
Her neck is like a stately tower
Where Love himself imprisoned lies
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes;
Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline!
Her paps are centers of delight,
Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,
Where nature moulds the dew of light
To feed perfection with the same:
Heigh-ho, would she were mine!
With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body every way is fed,
Yet soft of touch and sweet in view:
Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline!
Nature herself her shape admires;
The gods are wounded in her sight;
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
And at he eyes his brand doth light:
Heigh-ho, would she were mine!
Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
The absence of fair Rosaliue,
Since for a fair there's fairer none,
Nor for her virtues so divine:
Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline!
Heigh-ho, my heart! would God that she were
LIKE to the clear in highest sphere
Where all imperial glory shines:
Of selfsame color is her hair,
Whether unfolded, or in twines:
Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline!
Her eyes are sapphiers set in snow,
Resembling Heaven by every wink;
The gods do fear when as they glow,
And I do tremble when I think
Heigh-ho, would she were mine!
I SAT with Doris, the shepherd maiden:
Her crook was laden with wreathed flowers;
I sat and wooed her through sunlight wheeling,
And shadows stealing, for hours and hours.
And she, my Doris, whose lap encloses
Wild summer roses of rare perfume,
The while I sued her, kept hushed and hearkened
Till shades had darkened from gloss to gloom.
She touched my shoulder with fearful finger:
She said, "We linger; we must not stay;
My flock's in danger, my sheep will wander:
Behold them yonder-how far they stray!"
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