Hark! the raven flaps his wing

In the briered dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing To the nightmares as they go. My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

See the white moon shines on high;

Whiter is my true-love's shroud, Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud. My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Here, upon my true-love's grave,
Shall the garish flowers be laid,
Nor one holy saint to save

All the sorrows of a maid.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

With my hands I'll bind the briers
Round his holy corse to gre;
Elfin-fairy, light your fires,
Here my body still shall be.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

Come with acorn cup and thorn,
Drain my heart's blood all away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
Water-witches, crowned with reytes,
Bear me to your deadly tide.
I die I come— my true-love waits.
Thus the damsel spake, and died.

GEORGE CRABBE.

[1754-1832.]

ISAAC ASHFORD.

NEXT to these ladies, but in naught allied,

A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died. Noble he was, contemning all things mean,

His truth unquestioned and his soul

serene:

Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid : At no man's question Isaac looked dismayed:

Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace;

Truth, simple truth, was written in his

face;

Yet while the serious thought his soul approved,

Cheerful he seemed, and gentleness he loved;

To bliss domestic he his heart resigned, And with the firmest, had the fondest mind.

Were others joyful, he looked smiling on, And gave allowance where he needed none; Good he refused with future ill to buy, Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh.

A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast No envy stung, no jealousy distressed (Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind

To miss one favor which their neighbors find);

Yet far was he from stoic pride removed; He felt humanely, and he warmly loved. I marked his action when his infant died, And his old neighbor for offence was tried; The still tears, stealing down that furrowed cheek,

Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak.

If pride were his, 't was not their vulgar

pride

Who, in their base contempt, the great

deride;

Nor pride in learning, though my clerk agreed,

If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed;

Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew None his superior, and his equals few: But if that spirit in his soul had place, It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace;

A pride in honest fame, by virtue gained, In sturdy boys to virtuous labors trained; Pride in the power that guards his coun

try's coast,

And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast; | Pride in a life that slander's tongue defied, In fact, a noble passion, misnamed pride. He had no party's rage, no sectary's whim;

fate,

He dropt expiring at his cottage-gate.
I feel his absence in the hours of prayer,
And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there;
I see no more those white locks thinly
spread

Round the bald polish of that honored head;

No more that awful glance on playful wight

Compelled to kneel and tremble at the sight,

To fold his fingers all in dread the while, Till Mister Ashford softened to a smile; No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer,

Nor the pure faith (to give it force) are there: .

But he is blest, and I lament no more, A wise good man contented to be poor.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

[1763-1855.]

A WISH.

MINE be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.

Where first our marriage-vows were given,
The village-church among the trees,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heaven.

ITALIAN SONG.

DEAR is my little native vale,
The ring-dove builds and murmurs there;
Close by my cot she tells her tale
To every passing villager.

The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange groves and myrtle bowers,
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours
With my loved lute's romantic sound;
Of crowns of living laurel weave
For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet danced in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay
Sung in the silent greenwood shade:
These simple joys that never fail
Shall bind me to my native vale.

Yestreen when to the trembling string The dance gaed through the lighted ha', To thee my faney took its wing,

I sat, but neither heard nor saw.
Though this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sighed, and said amang them a',
"Ye are na Mary Morison."

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace
Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

ROBERT BURNS.

[1759-1796.]

OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW.

OF a' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west;

For there the bonnie lassie lives,
The lassie I lo'e best.

There wild woods grow, and rivers row,
And monie a hill 's between;
But day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair;

I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
I hear her charm the air;
There's not a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green,
There's not a bonnie bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean.

MARY MORISON.

O MARY, at thy window be!

It is the wished, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor: How blithely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison.

HIGHLAND MARY.

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 fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasped 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' monie a vow and locked embrace
Our parting was fu' tender;
And pledging aft to meet again,

We tore ourselves asunder;
But, O, fell Death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early!
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips
I aft hae kissed sae fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt 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.