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Ne'er tell me of glories serenely adorning

The close of our day, the calm eve of our night, — Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of morning,

Her clouds and her tears are worth evening's best light.

Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning,

When passion first waked a new life thro' his frame, And his soul,—like the wood that grows precious in burning, —

Gave out all its sweets to Love's exquisite flame!



Sweet and low, sweet and low,

Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,

Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go;
Come from the dying moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me;
While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon;

Rest, rest, on mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon,
Father will come to his babe in-the nest:
Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon:
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

Alfred Tennyson.


Ye winds that sweep the grove's green tops

And kiss the mountains hoar, O softly stir the ocean-waves

That sweep along the shore!
For my love sails the fairest ship

That wantons on the sea;
O bend his masts with pleasant gales,

And waft him hame to me.

O leave nae mair the bonny glen,

Clear stream, and hawthorn grove, Where first we walked in gloaming gray,

And sighed and looked of love;
For faithless is the ocean wave,

And faithless is the wind:
Then leave nae mair my heart to break

'Mang Scotland's hills behind.

Allah Cunningham. BALLAD.

Oh, why does my lover linger,

The lover that loves me well, In bowers under the blue waves,

Lull'd by a breathing shell?

Why waits he among the corals,

In the cold sea-deeps alone, While the shore is tired with my foot-tread,

The wind sick with my moan?

My rose-woven wreath is fallen,

My hair all damp and torn, My bridal garments fading,

Their silver white is gone.

Yet in bowers under the blue waves,

Lull'd by a breathing shell,
While my bridal garments fade, waits

The lover that loves me well.

Oh, fairer than our palm-groves

The ruby corals must be ; —
He will not leave their cool shades

For even his love of me!

Yet far, far over the ocean

Left he his mother dear,
And his father's grave, and promised

To dwell forever here.

And over the wide, wide ocean

His dark-eyed sister left he,
To mourn for him, and promised

Forever to dwell with me.

Then dearer than his youth's bowers

The ruby corals must be,
Since he will not leave their cool shades

For even his love of me.

James W. Miller.

I Would take thee home to my heart, but thou wilt not come to me:

Ah! lonely art thou sailing far out on the stormy sea; And lonely am I sitting with the cold dark rocks around; Weary the sight of heaving waves, weary their thundering sound.



'O Wha will shoe my bonny foot?

And wha will glove my hand? And wha will lace my middle jimp

Wi' a lang lang linen band?

'O wha will kame my yellow hair
Wi' a new-made silver kame?

And wha will be my bairn's father
Till Lord Gregory come hame?'

'Thy father will shoe thy bonny foot,
Thy mother will glove thy hand,

Thy sister will lace thy middle jimp
Wi' a lang lang linen band.

'Thy brother will kame thy yellow hair, Wi' a new-made silver kame,

And God will be thy bairn's father,
Till Lord Gregory come hame.'

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