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O Caledonia! stern and wild,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Think what is now, and what hath been,
Seems, as to me, of all bereft,
Sole friends thy woods and streams
were left; And thus I love them better still Even in extremity of ill. By Yarrow's stream still let me
Though none should guide my feeble way;
Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,
Although it chill my withered cheek; Still lay my head by Teviot Stone, Though there, forgotten and alone, The bard may draw his parting groan.
[ From Ivanhoe.] REBECCA'S HYMN.
When Israel, of the Lord beloved,
Out from the land of bondage came, Her fathers' God before her moved,
An awful guide in smoke and flame. By day, along the astonished lands
The cloudy pillar glided slow; By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands
Returned the fiery column's glow.
There rose the choral hymn of praise, And trump and timbrel answered keen,
And Zlon's daughters poured their lays, [tween. With priest'sand warrior's voice beNo portents now our foes amaze, Forsaken Israel wanders lone; Our fathers would not know Thy ways,
And Thou hast left them to their own.
But present still, though now unseen!
When brightly shines the prosperous day,
Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen
To temper the deceitful ray. And, oh, when stoops on Judah's path
In shade and storm the frequent night,
Be Thou, long suffering, slow to wrath,
A burning and a shining light!
Our harps we left by Babel's streams, The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn;
No censer round our altar beams, And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn.
But Thou hast said, The blood of goat,
The flesh of rams I will not prize; A contrite heart, a humble thought, Are mine accepted sacrifice.
PAYMENT IN STORE.
As lords their laborers' hire delay, Fate quits our toil with hopes to come,
Which, if far short of present pay, Still owns a debt and names a sum.
Quit not the pledge, frail sufferer, then,
Although a distant date be given; Despair is treason towards men, And blasphemy to Heaven.
[From The Betrothed.]
FAITH IN UNFAITH.
Woman's faith and woman's trust —
I have strained the spider's thread
word was broken; Again her word and truth she plight, And I believed them again ere night.
All joy was bereft me the day that you left me, And climbed the tall vessel to sail yon high sea' s, O weary betide it! I wandered beside And banned it for parting my Willie and me.
Far o'er the wave hast thou followed
thy fortune, Oft fought the squadrons of France
and of Spain; Ae kiss of welcome's worth twenty at
Now I hae gotten my Willie again.
When the sky it was mirk, and the
And thought of the bark where my
Now that thy gallant ship rides at
Music to me were the wildest winds' roaring,
That e'er o'er Inch-Keith drove the dark ocean faem.
When the lights they did blaze, and the guns they did rattle, And blithe was each heart for the great victory, [battle. In secret I wept for the dangers of And thy glory itself was scarce comfort tor me.
But now shalt thou tell, while I eagerly listen. Of each bold adventure, and every brave scar; And trust me, I'll smile, though my een they may glisten; For sweet after danger's the tale of the war.
And oh, how we doubt when there's distance 'tween lovers, When there's naething to speak to the heart thro' the ee; How often the kindest and warmest prove rovers, And the love of the f aithf ullest ebbs like the sea.
Till, at times —could I help it? —I pined and I pondered If love could change notes like the bird on the tree — Now I'll ne'er ask if thine eyes may have wandered, Enough, thy leal heart has been constant to me.
THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW HILL.
The sun upon the Weird law Hill, In Ettrick's vale is sinking sweet;
The western wind is hush and still, The lake lies sleeping at my feet.
Yet not the landscape to mine eye Bears those bright hues that once it bore;
Though evening, with her richest dye, flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore.
With listless look along thy plain,
And coldly mark the holy fane
The quiet lake, the balmy air,
Are they still such as once they were? Or is the dreary change in me V
Alas, the warped and broken board. How can it bear the painter's dye! The harp of strained and tuneless chord,
How to the minstrel's skill reply! To aching eyes each landscape lowers, To feverish pulse each gale blows chill;
And Araby's or Eden's bowers
The violet in her greenwood bower, Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle,
May boast itself the fairest flower
Though fair her gems of azure hue. Beneath the dewdrop's weight reclining;
I've seen an eye of lovelier hue, More Break through watery lustre shining.
The summer sun that dew shall dry, Ere yet the day be past its morrow;
Nor longer in my false love's eye Remained the tear of parting sorrow.
HEL well T.V.
I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide; All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied.
On the right, Striden-edge round the
Red-tarn was bending. And Catchedieam its left verge was
defending, One huge nameless rock in the front
was ascending, when I marked the sad spot where
the wanderer had died.
Dark green was the spot 'mid the brown mountain-heather, Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay,
Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather, Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay.
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended,
The much-loved remains of her master defended, And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.
How long didst thou think that his
silence was slumber? When the wind waved his garment,
how oft didst thou start? How many long days and long weeks
didst thou number, Ere he faded before thee, the friend
of thy heart? And, oh! was it meet, that — no requiem read o'er him — No mother to weep, and no friend to
deplore him, And thou, little guardian, alone
stretched before him — Unhonored the pilgrim from life
When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded, The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall:
Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming;
In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming.
Far adown the long aisles sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.
But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,
To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb,
When, wildered, he drops from some Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover cliff huge in stature, flying, And draws his last sob by the side With one faithful friend but to witof his dam. ness thy dying,
And more stately thy couch by this j In the anus of Helvellyn and Catdesert lake lying, chedicam.
THE ROSE OF JERICHO.
And was it not enough that, meekly growing,
In lack of all things wherein plants delight.
Cool Jews, rich soil, and gentle showers refreshing. It yet could blossom into beauty bright?
In the hot desert, in the rocky crevice, By dusty waysides, on the rubbish heap,
Where'er the Lord appoints, itsmiles, believing That where He planteth, He will surely keep!
Nay, this is not enough, the fierce sirocco
Must root it up, and sweep it from its home, [desert, And bear it miles away, across the
Then fling it, ruthless, on the white sea-foam.
Do they thus end, those lives of patient duty. That grow, through every grief and pain more fair. — Are they thus cast aside, at length, forgotten? Ah no! my story is not ended there.
Those roots upon the waves of ocean floating,
That in their desert homes no moisture knew,
Now, at the fount their life-longthiret are quenching, Whence rise the gentle showers, the nightly dew.
They drink the main streams through every fibre, Until with hidden life each seed shall swell; Then come the winds of God, his word fulfilling, And bear them back, where He shall please, to dwell.
Thus live meek spirits, duly schooled
to duty, — The whirlwind storm may sweep
them from their place; What matter if by this affliction
Straight to their God, the fountain of all grace?
And when, at length, the final trial
Though hurled to unknown worlds,
they shall not die; Borne not by winds of wrath, but
God's own angels,
beneath His eye.
Till by the angel of the resurrection, One awful blast through heaven
and earth be blown; Then soul and body, met no more to
That all God's ways are true and just shall own!
Harriet Winslow Sewall.
WHY THUS LONGING!
Why thus longing, thus forever sighing
For the far-off, unattained and dim, While the beautiful, all round thee lying
Offers up its low, perpetual hymn?
Would'st thou listen to its gentle teaching, All thy restless yearnings it would still,
Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching, Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill.
Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee
Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw, [the If no silken cord of love hath bound
To some little world through weal and woe;
If no dear eyes thy fond love can
brighten. No fon.l voices answer to thine own, If no brother's sorrow thou canst
By daily sympathy and gentle tone.
Not by deeds that gain the world's applauses, Not by works that win thee world renown,
Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses, Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown.
Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely,
Every day a rich reward will give; Thou wilt find by hearty striving only.
And truly loving, thou canst truly live.
Dost thou revel in the rosy morning When all Nature hails the lord of light,
And his smile, nor low nor lofty scorning, Gladdens hall and hovel, vale and height?
Other hands may grasp the field and forest,
Proud proprietors in pomp may shine.
But with fervent love if thouadorest, Thou art wealthier, — all the world is thine.
Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest, Sighing that they are not thine alone,
Not those fair fields, but thyself thou lovest,
And their beauty and thy wealth are gone.