I WANDERED BY THE BROOK-SIDE.

There was no burr of grasshopper,
No chirp of any bird,

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beside the elm-tree,

I watch'd the long, long shade,
And, as it grew still longer,

I did not feel afraid;
For I listen'd for a footfall,
I listen'd for a word,-
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

He came not, no, he came not,
The night came on alone,-
The little stars sat one by one,
Each on a golden throne;
The evening air pass'd by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirr'd,-

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

Fast silent tears were flowing, When something stood behind,

A hand was on my shoulder,

I knew its touch was kind:

It drew me nearer-nearer,—
We did not speak one word,
For the beating of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.

THOU lingering star, with less'ning ray,

That lov'st to greet the early morn,

Again thou usher'st in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

O Mary dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget?

Can I forget the hallow'd grove Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace;

Ah little thought we 'twas our last!

Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore,

O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on ev'ry spray, Till too, too soon, the glowing west Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care!
Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.

My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy blissful place of rest?

See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

35

Go where the water glideth gently ever,

Glideth through meadows that the greenest be; Go, listen to your own beloved river,

THINK OF ME.

Wander in forests, where the small flower layeth
Its fairy gem beneath the giant tree;
List to the dim brook pining as it playeth,
And think of me!

And when the sky is silver-pale at even,

And the wind grieveth in the lonely tree, Go out beneath the solitary heaven,

And think of me!

And when the moon riseth, as she were dreaming,
And treadeth with white feet the lulled sea,
Go, silent as a star, beneath her beaming,
And think of me!