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Those firs were old, our grandsires told,

In their good fathers' days, And my soul it grieves that their needle leaves

Must crackle in the blaze.

Beneath their shade how oft we played !

There was our place of wooing
But now we're wed, and peace is fled,

And we shall see their ruin.

In battle plain shall I be slain,

And never would I shrink,
Oh! were that all, what may befall

To thee, I dare not think.

And our sweet boy, our baby joy,

He'll for his mother cry,
Till the hot smoke, his voice shall choke,

And then my bird will die.

Green are the


and thick as waves, Within our holy groundAnd here, and there, an hillock fair,

An infant's grave is found.

Our fathers died, their whole fireside

Is laid in peace together,
But vile as stones, our bleaching bones

Must brave the wind and weather.

Nay, love, let's fly, to the hill so high,

Where eagles build their nest,
Among the heather we'll couch together,

As blithely as the best.

We'll leave the bower and tender flower

That we have nursed with care;
But the wild blue bell shall bloom as well

Beside our craggy lair.

We shall not die, for all birds that fly

Shall thither bring us food, And come the worst, w'ell be help'd the first,

Before the eagle's brood.

The mist beneath, that curls its wreath

Around the hill-top hoar,
There will we hide, my bonny bride,

And ne'er be heard of more.



Like one pale, flitting, lonely gleam

Of sunshine on a winter's day,
There came a thought upon my dream,
I know not whence, but fondly deem
It came from far


Those sweet, sweet snatches of delight

That visit our bedarken'd clay
Like passage birds, with hasty flight,
It cannot be they perish quite,

Although they pass away.

They come and go, and come again ;

They're ours, whatever time they stay: Think not, my heart, they come in vain, If one brief while they soothe thy pain

Before they pass away.

But whither go they? No one knows

Their home,—but yet they seem to say, That far beyond this gulf of woes There is a region of repose

For them that pass away.


And the imperial votaress passed on
In maiden meditation fancy free.-SHAKSPEARE.

I BLAME not her, because


soul Is not like her’s,-a treasure Of self-sufficing good,—a whole

Complete in every measure.

I charge her not with cruel pride,

With self-admired disdain Too happy she, or to deride,

Or to perceive my pain.

I blame her not-she cannot know

What she did never prove :
Her streams of sweetness purely flow

Unblended yet with love.

No fault hath she, that I desire

What she cannot conceive; For she is made of bliss entire,

And I was born to grieve.

And though she hath a thousand wiles,

And, in a moment's space,
As fast as light, a thousand smiles

Come showering from her face,

Those winsome smiles, those sunny looks,

Her heart securely deems,
Cold as the flashing of the brooks

In the cold moonlight beams.

Her sweet affections, free as wind,

Nor fear, nor craving feel; No secret hollow hath her mind

For passion to reveal.

Her being's law is gentle bliss,

Her purpose, and her duty; And quiet joy her loveliness,

And gay delight her beauty.

Then let her walk in mirthful pride,

Dispensing joy and sadness, By her light spirit fortified

In panoply of gladness.

The joy she gives shall still be her's,

The sorrow shall be mine;
Such debt the earthly heart incurs

That pants for the divine.

But better 'tis to love, I ween,

And die of slow despair,
Than die, and never to have seen

A maid so lovely fair.

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