So may this doomed time build up in me

A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine; So may my love and longing hallowed be, And thy dear thought an influence divine.

FRANCES Anne Kemble.

DAY, IN MELTING PURPLE DYING.

DAY, in melting purple dying;
Blossoms, all around me sighing;
Fragrance, from the lilies straying;
Zephyr, with my ringlets playing;
Ye but waken my distress;
I am sick of loneliness!

Thou, to whom I love to hearken,
Come, ere night around me darken ;
Though thy softness but deceive me,
Say thou 'rt true, and I'll believe thee;
Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent,
Let me think it innocent!

Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure ;
All I ask is friendship's pleasure ;
Let the shining ore lie darkling,
Bring no gem in lustre sparkling;

Gifts and gold are naught to me,
I would only look on thee!

Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling,
Ecstasy but in revealing;

Paint to thee the deep sensation,

Rapture in participation ;

Yet but torture, if comprest
In a lone, unfriended breast.

Absent still! Ah! come and bless me !
Let these eyes again caress thee.
Once in caution, I could fly thee;
Now, I nothing could deny thee.

In a look if death there be,
Come, and I will gaze on thee !
Maria Gowen BROOKS (Maria del Occidente).

WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE?

WHAT ails this heart o' mine?

What ails this watery e'e?
What gars me a' turn pale as death
When I take leave o' thee?

When thou art far awa',

Thou 'lt dearer grow to me ;

But change o' place and change o' folk May gar thy fancy jee.

When I gae out at e'en,

Or walk at morning air,

Ilk rustling bush will seem to say
I used to meet thee there :

Then I'll sit down and cry,

And live aneath the tree, And when a leaf fa's i' my lap, I'll ca 't a word frae thee.

I'll hie me to the bower

That thou wi' roses tied,

And where wi' mony a blushing bud

I strove myself to hide.

I'll doat on ilka spot

Where I ha'e been wi' thee;

And ca' to mind some kindly word

By ilka burn and tree.

SUSANNA BLAMIRE,

A PASTORAL.

My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent, When Phoebe went with me wherever I went; Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my

breast:

Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest!
But now she is gone, and has left me behind,
What a marvellous change on a sudden I find!
When things were as fine as could possibly be,
I thought 't was the Spring; but alas! it was
she.

With such a companion to tend a few sheep, To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep; I was so good-humored, so cheerful and gay, My heart was as light as a feather all day ; But now I so cross and so peevish am grown, So strangely uneasy, as never was known. My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drowned, And my heart I am sure it weighs more than a pound.

The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among; Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there, 'T was pleasure to look at, 't was music to hear: But now she is absent, I walk by its side, And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide; Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain? Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain.

My lambkins around me would oftentimes play,

And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they; How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time,

When Spring, Love, and Beauty were all in

their prime;

But now, in their frolics when by me they pass, I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass;

Be still, then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad, To see you so merry while I am so sad.

My dog I was ever well pleased to see Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me; And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said, "Come hither, poor fellow ;" and patted his head.

But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look Cry "Sirrah!" and give him a blow with my crook :

Will no pitying power, that hears me complain,

Or cure my disquiet or soften my pain?
To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion re-

move;

But what swain is so silly to live without love !
No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return,
For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn.
Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your
fair.

Tray

Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe 's away?

When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I seen,

How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green!

What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade,

The cornfields and hedges and everything made ! But now she has left me, though all are still there,

They none of them now so delightful appear : "T was naught but the magic, I find, of her eyes, Made so many beautiful prospects arise.

Sweet music went with us both all the wood

through,

The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too; Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat, And chirp! went the grasshopper under our feet.

But now she is absent, though still they sing on, The woods are but lonely, the melody 's gone : Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, Gave everything else its agreeable sound.

Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue? And where is the violet's beautiful blue ? Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile? That meadow, those daisies, why do they not

smile ?

Ah! rivals, I see what it was that you drest, And made yourselves fine for a place in her

breast?

You put on your colors to pleasure her eye,
To be plucked by her hand, on her bosom to die.

How slowly Time creeps till my Phoebe return,

While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I

burn!

Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread, I could breathe on his wings, and 't would melt down the lead.

Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear, And rest so much longer for 't when she is here. Ah, Colin old Time is full of delay,

JOHN BYROM.

THE SAILOR'S WIFE.*

AND are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?

Is this a time to think o' wark?
Ye jades, lay by your wheel;
Is this the time to spin a thread,
When Colin 's at the door?
Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a' ;

There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman 's awa’.

And gie to me my bigonet,

My bishop's-satin gown; For I maun tell the baillie's wife That Colin 's in the town. My Turkey slippers maun gae on, My stockin's pearly blue; It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, For he's baith leal and true.

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle pot;
Gie little Kate her button gown,

And Jock his Sunday coat;
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he's been long awa'.

There's twa fat hens upo' the coop

Been fed this month and mair;
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;

And spread the table neat and clean,
Gar ilka thing look braw,

For wha can tell how Colin fared
When he was far awa' ?

say.

* Bartlett, in his Familiar Quotations, has the following: "The Tytler, to Jean Adam, '1710-1765."

Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow,
Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow;
Strong, swift, and fond as the words which I
speak, love,

With a song on your lip and a smile on your cheek, love.

Come, for my heart in your absence is weary, Haste, for my spirit is sickened and dreary, Come to the arms which alone should caress thee, Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee! JOSEPH BRENNAN.

Eightscore eight hours? And lovers' absent

hours

More tedious than the dial eightscore times? O, weary reckoning!

I dote on his very absence. Merchant of Venice, Act i. Sc. 2.

SHAKESPEARE.

PRESENCE IN ABSENCE.

Our two souls, therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet

A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fixt foot, makes no show
To move, but doth if the other do.

And though it in the centre sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like the other foot, obliquely run.
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.
A Valediction forbidding Mourning.

DR. J. DONNE.

SONNET.

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;

skies,

How silently, and with how wan a face!
What may it be, that even in heavenly place
That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long with love acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;
I read it in thy looks, thy languished grace
To me that feel the like thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

THE BANKS O' DOON.

YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae weary, fu' o' care?

Thou 'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wantons through the flowering thorn;
Thou minds me o' departed joys,
Departed never to return.

Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird,
That sings beside thy mate;

For sae I sat, and sae I sang,

And wistna o' my fate.

I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee, And why do I live to say, Wae is me!

at hame,

When a' the weary world to sleep are gane,
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,
While my gudeman lies sound by me.

I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin. But I will do my best a gude wife aye to be, For Auld Robin Gray, he is kind to me.

LADY ANNE BARNARD.