Some have their dead, where, sweet and calm, The summers bloom and go; The sea withholds my dead; I walk The bar when tides are low, And wonder how the grave-grass Can have the heart to grow. Flow on, O unconsenting sea, And keep my dead below; The night-watch set for me is long, But, through it all, I know, Or life comes, or death comes, God leads the eternal flow. HIRAM RICH. JAMES MELVILLE'S CHILD. NE time my soul was pierced as with a sword, A summer gift, my precious flower was given, With unformed laughter, musically sweet, How soon the wakening babe would meet my kiss: With outstretched arms, its care-wrought father greet! O, in the desert, what a spring was this! A few short months it blossomed near my heart: Alas! my pretty bud, scarce formed, was dying, Our fading flower I bade his mother bring, So very sweet at times our converse seemed, That the sure truth of grief a gladness made: Our little lamb by God's own Lamb redeemed! There were two milk-white doves my wife had nour ished: And I, too, loved, erewhile, at times to stand Marking how each the other fondly cherished, And fed them from my baby's dimpled hand! So tame they grew, that to his cradle flying, Full oft they cooed him to his noontide rest; And to the murmurs of his sleep replying, "I was a fair sight: the snow-pale infant sleeping, "And fed them from my baby's dimpled land." His mother found it, when she rose, sad hearted, The dove died too, as if of its heart-chill. "T was my first hansel and propine to Heaven; MRS. A. STUART MENTEATH. TO MARY IN HEAVEN. Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? ANNABEL LEE. ROBERT BURNS. T was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love, and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, But we loved with a love that was more than love, With a love that the wingéd seraphs of heaven And this was the reason that long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of cloud-land, chilling So that her high-born kinsman came To shut her up in a sepulchre, In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me. Yes! that was the reason (as all men know) In this kingdom by the sea, That the wind came out of the cloud by night, But our love it was stronger by far than the love For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes And so, all the night-tide I lie down by the side EDGAR ALLAN POE. SIMPLE child, WE ARE SEVEN. That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should she know of death? I met a little cottage girl: She was eight years old she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic woodland air, Her eyes were fair, and very fair;— "Sisters and brothers, little maid, "How many? Seven in all," she said, "And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we; "Two of us in the churchyard lie, "You say that two at Conway dwell, Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell, Then did the little maid reply, "You run about my little maid, If two are in the churchyard laid, Then ye are only five." "Their graves are green, they may be seen," "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door "My stockings there I often knit, I sit and sing to them. "And often after sunset, sir, I take my little porringer, "The first that died was little Jane; Till God released her of her pain; "So in the churchyard she was laid; "And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." "How many are you, then,” said I, "If they two are in heaven?" "O master! we are seven." "But they are dead; those two are dead? 'T was throwing words away; for still WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. E are what the past has made us. The results of the past are ourselves. The perishable emotions, and the momentary acts of bygone years, are the scaffolding on which we built up the being that we are. AULD ROBIN GRAY. HEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye's My heart it said nay, and I looked for Jamie back, come hame, And a' the weary warld to rest are gane, The waes o' my heart fall in showers frae my ee, Unkempt by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound by me. Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride, But saving a crown he had naithing else beside: He had nae been gane a twalmonth and a day, My mither she fell sick, and my Jamie was at sea, My faither could na work, my mither could na spin, Said, "Jeanie, for their sakes, will ye nae marry me?" But the wind it blew hard, and the ship was a wrack The ship was a wrack, why did na Jamie dee? Or why was I spared to cry, Wae's me! My faither urged me sair, my mither did na speak, But she lookéd in my face till my heart was like to break: They gi'ed him my hand, though my heart was in the sea, And so Robin Gray he was gudeman to me! I had na been a wife a week but only four, Igang like a gaist, but I care na much to spin; I dare na think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin; LADY ANNE BARNARD. MY LOVE IS DEAD. SING unto my roundelay! O drop the briny tear with me! Dance no more at holiday; Like a running river be. Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow tree. Black his hair as the summer night, White his neck as the winter snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light; Cold he dies in the grave below. My love is dead, etc. Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note; Hark! the raven flaps his wing See! the white moon shines on high; Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud. My love is dead, etc. Here upon my true-love's grave All the coldness of a maid. With my hands I 'll bind the briers Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, Drain my heart's blood away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day. My love is dead, etc. Water-witches, crowned with reytes, I die! I come! my true-love waits. THOMAS CHATTERTON. |