JEANIE MORRISON.
I'VE wandered east, I've wandered west,
Through mony a weary way;
But never, never can forget
The luve o' life's young day!
The fire that 's blawn on Beltane e'en
May weel be black gin Yule;
But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond luve grows cool.
O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
The thochts o' bygane years
Still fling their shadows ower my path,
And blind my een wi' tears:
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears,
And sair and sick I pine,
As memory idly summons up
The blithe blinks o' langsyne.
"T was then we luvit ilk ither weel,
'T was then we twa did part;
Sweet time-sad time! twa hairns
scule,
Twa bairns, and but ae heart!
'T was then we sat on ae laigh bink,
To leir ilk ither lear;
O mornin' life! O mornin' luve!
O lichtsome days and lang,
When hinnied hopes around our hearts
Like simmer blossoms sprang!
O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin' dinsome toun,
To wander by the green burnside,
And hear its waters croon ?
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,
The flowers burst round our feet,
And in the gloamin' o' the wood,
The throssil whusslit sweet;
The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees,
And we, with Nature's heart in tune,
Concerted harmonies;
And on the knowe abune the burn
For hours thegither sat
In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat.
Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Tears trickled doun your cheek,
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
at That was a time, a blessed time,
Had ony power to speak!
And tones and looks and smiles were
I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,
When sitting on that bink,
Cheek touchin cheek, loof locked in loof,
What our wee heads could think?
When baith bent doun ower ae braid page,
Wi' ae buik on our knee,
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but
My lesson was in thee.
O, mind ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame,
Whene'er the scule-weans laughin' said,
We cleeked thegither hame?
And mind ye o' the Saturdays
(The scule then skail't at noon)
When we ran aff to speel the braes, —
The broomy braes o' June?
My head rins round and round about,
My heart flows like a sea,
As ane by ane the thochts rush back
O' scule-time and o' thee.
When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled, unsung!
I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,
Gin I hae been to thee
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts
As ye hae been to me?
O, tell me gin their music fills
Thine ear as it does mine!
O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit
Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?
I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
I've borne a weary lot;
But in my wanderings, far or near,
Ye never were forgot.
The fount that first burst frae this heart
Still travels on its way;
And channels deeper, as it rins,
The luve o' life's young day.
O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sindered young,
I've never seen your face, nor heard
The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I die,
Did I but ken your heart still dreamed
O' bygane days and me!
WITH fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread,-
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt;
And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch,
She sang the "Song of the Shirt!"
"Work! work! work!
While the cock is crowing aloof! And work-work-work,
Till the stars shine through the roof! It s, oh! to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If THIS is Christian work!
"Work-work-work!
Till the brain begins to swim; Work-work-work,
Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band;
Band, and gusset, and seam; Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in my dream!
"O men with sisters dear!
O men with mothers and wives! It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! Stitch-stitch-stitch,
In poverty, hunger, and dirt; Sewing at once, with a double thread, A SHROUD as well as a shirt!
"But why do I talk of death,
That phantom of grisly bone?
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own!
It seems so like my own
Because of the fast I keep;
O God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap!
"Work-work-work!
My labor never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread-and rags:
A shattered roof-and this naked floor-
A table-a broken chair-
HYMN OF NATURE.
GOD of the earth's extended plains!
The dark green fields contented lie;
The mountains rise like holy towers,
Where man might commune with the sky;
The tall cliff challenges the storm
That lowers upon the vale below,
Where shaded fountains send their
streams,
With joyous music in their flow.
God of the dark and heavy deep!
The waves lie sleeping on the sands,
Till the fierce trumpet of the storm
Hath summoned up their thundering
bands;
For every fire that fronts the sun,
And every spark that walks alone
Around the utmost verge of heaven,
Were kindled at thy burning throne.
God of the world! the hour must come,
And nature's self to dust return!
Her crumbling altars must decay,
Her incense fires shall cease to burn!
Have made man's warmest praises flow;
But still her grand and lovely scenes
For hearts grow holier as they trace
The beauty of the world below.
Then the white sails are dashed like foam, I
Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas,
Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale
Serenely breathes, Depart in peace.
God of the forest's solemn shade!
The grandeur of the lonely tree,
That wrestles singly with the gale,
Lifts up admiring eyes to thee;
But more majestic far they stand,
When, side by side, their ranks they form,
To wave on high their plumes of green,
And fight their battles with the storm.
God of the light and viewless air!
Where summer breezes sweetly flow,
Or, gathering in their angry might,
The fierce and wintry tempests blow;
All-from the evening's plaintive sigh,
That hardly lifts the drooping flower,
To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry —
Breathe forth the language of thy power.
God of the fair and open sky!
How gloriously above us springs
The tented dome, of heavenly blue,
Suspended on the rainbow's rings.
Each brilliant star, that sparkles through;
Each gilded cloud, that wanders free
In evening's purple radiance, gives
The beauty of its praise to thee.
God of the rolling orbs above!
Thy name is written clearly bright
In the warm day's unvarying blaze,
Or evening's golden shower of light.
I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY.
WOULD not live alway: I ask not to
Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way;
Where, seeking for rest, I but hover around
Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting
is found;
Where hope, when she paints her gay
Leaves her brilliance to fade in the night
bow in the air,
of despair,
And joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad
ray,
Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him away.
I would not live alway, thus fettered by sin,
Temptation without, and corruption within;
In a moment of strength, if I sever the chain,
Scarce the victory is mine ere I'm captive again.
E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears,
And the cup of thanksgiving with peni
The festival trump calls for jubilant songs,
But my spirit her own miserere prolongs.
I would not live alway: no, welcome
the tomb;
Immortality's lamp burns there bright
mid the gloom.
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.
There, too, is the pillow where Christ | The place is little changed, Mary;
While the anthems of rapture unceasingly roll,
And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul?
That heavenly music! what is it I hear? The notes of the harpers ring sweet on my ear!
And see soft unfolding those portals of gold,
The King all arrayed in his beauty behold! O, give me, O, give me the wings of a dove! Let me hasten my flight to those mansions above:
Ay! 't is now that my soul on swift pinions would soar,
And in ecstasy bid earth adieu evermore.
I'm sitting on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side
On a bright May morning long ago,
When first you were my bride.
The corn was springing fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high,
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.
The day's as bright as then;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again.
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your warm breath on my cheek,
And I still keep listening for the words
You nevermore may speak.
'Tis but a step down yonder lane,
The village church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary;
I see the spire from here.
But the graveyard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest,
Where I've laid you, darling, down to
sleep,
With your baby on your breast.
I'm very lonely now, Mary,
For the make no new friends;
poor
But, O, they love the better still
The few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary,
My blessing and my pride;
There's nothing left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.
I'm bidding you a long farewell,
My Mary kind and true,
But I'll not forget you, darling,
In the land I'm going to.
They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there;
But I'll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times less fair.
THE BELLE OF THE BALL.
YEARS, years ago, ere yet my dreams
Had been of being wise and witty;
Ere I had done with writing themes,
Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty, -
Years, years ago, while all my joys
Were in my fowling-piece and filly;
In short, while I was yet a boy,
I fell in love with Laura Lilly.
I saw her at a county ball;
There, when the sound of flute and fiddle
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