A LITTLE WHILE.

Beyond the gathering and the strowing
I shall be soon;

Beyond the ebbing and the flowing,

Beyond the coming and the going,

I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home!

Sweet hope!

Lord, tarry not, but come!

Beyond the parting and the meeting
I shall be soon;

Beyond the farewell and the greeting,
Beyond this pulse's fever-beating,

I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home!

Sweet hope!

Lord, tarry not, but come!

Beyond the frost-chain and the fever
I shall be soon;

Beyond the rock-waste and the river,
Beyond the ever and the never,

I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home!

Sweet hope!

Lord, tarry not, but come!

HORATIUS BONAR

Too late I stayed-forgive the crime; Unheeded flew the hours:

How noiseless falls the foot of Time

That only treads on flowers!

And who, with clear account, remarks The ebbings of his glass,

MONTROSE TO HIS MISTRESS.

When all its sands are diamond sparks,
That dazzle as they pass?

Ah! who to sober measurement
Time's happy swiftness brings,
When birds of paradise have lent
Their plumage to his wings?

ROBERT WILLIAM SPENCER

MONTROSE TO HIS MISTRESS.

My dear and only love, I pray
That little world of thee
Be governed by no other sway
But purest monarchy;
For if confusion have a part,

Which virtuous souls abhor,
I'll call a synod in my heart,
And never love thee more.

As Alexander I will reign,
And I will reign alone;
My thoughts did evermore disdain
A rival on my throne.

He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,

Who dares not put it to the touch,
To gain or lose it all.

MONTROSE TO HIS MISTRESS.

But I will reign and govern still,
And always give the law,
And have each subject at my will,
And all to stand in awe;
But 'gainst my batteries if I find

Thou storm or vex me sore,

As if thou set me as a blind,
I'll never love thee more.

And in the empire of thy heart,
Where I should solely be,

If others do pretend a part,

Or dare to share with me;

Or committees if thou erect,
Or go on such a score,
I'll smiling mock at thy neglect,
And never love thee more.

But if no faithless action stain
Thy love and constant word,
I'll make thee famous by my pen,
And glorious by my sword;
I'll serve thee in such noble ways
As ne'er was known before;

I'll deck and crown thy head with bays,
And love thee more and more.

JAMES GRAHAME, MARQUIS OF MONTROSE.

THE POETS BRIDAL-DAY SONG.

O, MY love's like the steadfast sun,
Or streams that deepen as they run;
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,
Nor moments between sighs and tears,
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain,
Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain,
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows
To sober joys and soften woes,
Can make my heart or fancy flee,

One moment, my sweet wife, from thee.

Even while I muse, I see thee sit
In maiden bloom and matron wit;
Fair, gentle, as when first I sued,
Ye seem, but of sedater mood;
Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee,
As when, beneath Arbigland tree,

We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon
Set on the sea an hour too soon;

Or lingered 'mid the falling dew,

When looks were fond and words were few.

Though I see smiling at thy feet,
Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet,
And time and care and birthtime woes

Have dimmed thine eye and touched thy rose,