Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,

Think of him thy love had blessed!

Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou nevermore mayst see, Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest,

All my madness none can know; All my hopes, where'er thou goest,

Wither, yet with thee they go.

Every feeling hath been shaken;

Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee,- by thee forsaken,

Even my soul forsakes me now:

But 'tis done: all words are idle,

Words from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridle

Force their way without the will.

Fare thee well! — thus disunited,

Torn from every nearer tie,
Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted,

More than this I scarce can die.

THE TEAR

BY LORD BYRON

"O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros

Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater
Felix! in imo qui scatentem
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit.”.

GRAY.

When Friendship or Love our sympathies move,

When Truth in a glance should appear,
The lips may beguile with a dimple or smile,

But the test of affection's a Tear.

Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite's wile,

To mask detestation or fear;
Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye

Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear.

Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below,

Shows the soul from barbarity clear; Compassion will melt where this virtue is felt,

And its dew is diffused in a Tear.

The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the gale,

Through billows Atlantic to steer, As he bends o'er the wave which may soon be his

grave, The green sparkles bright with a Tear.

The soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath

In Glory's romantic career;
But he raises the foe when in battle laid low,
And bathes every sound with a Tear.

If with high-bounding pride he return to his bride,

Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear,
All his toils are repaid when, embracing the maid,

From her eyelid he kisses the Tear.
Sweet scene of my youth! seat of Friendship and Truth,

Where love chased each fast-fleeting year, Loth to leave thee, I mourn’d, for a last look I turn'd,

But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear.
Though my vows I can pour to my Mary no more,

My Mary to Love once so dear,
In the shade of her bower I remember the hour

She rewarded those vows with a Tear.

By another possesst, may she live ever blest!

Her name still my heart must revere:
With a sigh I resign what I once thought was mine,

And forgive her deceit with a Tear.
Ye friends of iny heart, ere from you I depart,

This hope to my breast is most near;
If again we shall meet in this rural retreat,

May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.
When my soul wings her flight to the regions of night,

And my corse shall recline on its bier,
As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes consume,

Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.

May no marble bestow the splendor of woe

Which the children of vanity rear;
No fiction of fame shall blazon my name,
All I ask — all I wish — is a ar.

OUTWARD

BY W. J. CAMERON

The sun's high and the moon's high;

The bay's a crescent of blue.
The ships of the world go by without,
But the great hill-gates stand round about

And only the waves come through.

The town sleeps and the bay sleeps.

Tangled and golden brown,
The seaweed drifts on a dreaming sea,
Where anchored boats rock lazily,

As the waves lap, up and down.

The night comes and the wind comes;

Landward the white crests ride. Hark to the voice in the wind that cries, As it drifts like a bird 'twixt the sea and the skies.

“There is one that will go with the tide!”

The dawn's here and the day's here!

The wind ebbs out, and the sea.
The mists roll back and the hills are plain,
But the great sea-gates are narrow in vain,

For the sea-bird's out to the sea.

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL

A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,

Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound,

To row us o'er the ferry.”

“Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,

This dark and stormy water?” “O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,

And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

“ And fast before her father's men

Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather.

“ His horsemen hard behind us ride;

Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?”

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
I'll
go, my chief,

I'm ready: -
It is not for your silver bright;

But for your winsome lady:

“And by my word! the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry: So, though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry."