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Now must I find
One to my mind:
The world is wide;
Spring fields are pied
With flowers for thee,
New love, and me!

April is in:
New loves begin!
Up, lovers all,
The cuckoo's call!


Dear friend, I know not if such days and nights Of fervent comradeship as we have spent,

Or if twin minds with equal ardor bent

To search the world's unspeakable delights.

Or if long hours passed on Parnassian heights

Together in rapt interminglement

Of heart with heart on thought sublime intent,

Or if the spark of heaven-born fire that lights Love in both breasts from boyhood, thus have wrought

Our spirits to communion; but I swear

That neither chance nor change nor time nor aught That makes the future of our lives less fair.

Shall sunder us who once have

breathed this air. Of soul-commingling friendship



Of all the mysteries wherethrough we move. This is the most mysterious — that a face,

Seen peradventure in some distant place,

Whitlu r we can return no more to prove

The world-old sanctities of human love,

Shall haunt our waking thoughts.

and gathering grace incorporate itself with every phase Whereby the soul aspires to God


Thus are we wedded through that

face to her

Or him who bears it; nay, one fleeting glance.

Fraught with a tale too deep for utterance. Even as a pebble cast into the sea,

Will on the deep waves of our spirit stir

Ripples that run through all eternity.

[From The Alps and Italy.]

ms self whereby we suffer; 'tis the greed

To grasp, the hunger to assimilate All that earth holds of fair and delicate,

The lust to blend with beauteous lives, to feed And take our fill of loveliness, which breed

This anguish of the soul intemperate;

'Tis self that turns to pain and poisonous hate

The calm clear life of love the angels lead. O, that 'twere possible this self to burn

In the pure flames of joy contemplative!


Lady, when first the message came to me

Of thy great hope and all thy future


I had no envy of that happiness which sets a limit to our joy in thee: But uttering orisons to gods who see

Our mortal strife, and bidding them to bless

With increase of pure good thy goodliness, I made unto the mild Mnemosyne More for myself than thee one prayer —that when Our paths are wholly severed, and thy years

Glide among other cares and far-off men,

She may watch over thee, as one

who hears The music of the past, and in thine


Murmur "They live and love thee now as then."


Nay, soul, though near to dying, do not this!

It may be that the world and all its ways

Seem but spent ashes of extinguished days

And love, the phantom of imagined bliss;

Yet what is man among the mysteries Whereof the young-eyed angels

sang their praise? Thou know'st not. Lone and wil

dered in the maze. See that life's crown thou dost not

idly miss.

Is friendship fickle? Hast thou found her so? Is God more near thee on that

homeless sea Than by the hearths where children come and go? Perchance some rotten root of sin in thee

Hath made thy garden cease to

bloom and glow: Hast thou no need from thine own

self to flee?

It is the centre of the soul that ails: We carry with us our own heart's disease;

And craving the impossible, we freeze

The lively rills of love that never fails.

What faith, what hope will lend the spirit sails To waft her with a light sprayscattering breeze jsies, From this Calypso isle of phantaSelf-sought, self-gendered, where the daylight pales? Where wandering visions of foregone desires

Pursue her sleepless on a stony strand;

Instead of stars, the bleak and baleful fires

Of vexed imagination, quivering spires

That have nor rest nor substance,

light the land, Paced by lean hungry men, a

ghostly band!

Oh, that the waters of oblivion Might purge the burdened soul of

her life's dross. Cleansing dark overgrowths that

dull the gloss Wherewith her pristine gold so

purely shone! Oh, that some spell might make us

dream undone Those deeds that fret our pillow,

when we toss Racked by the torments of that

living cross Where memory frowns, a grim

centurion! [smart, Sleep, the kind soother of our bodily is bought and sold by scales-weight;

quivering nerves Sink into slumber when the hand

of art

Hath touched some hidden spring of brain or heart:

But for the tainted will no medicine serves;

The road from sin to suffering never swerves.

What skill shall anodyne the mind diseased? Did Rome's fell tyrant cure his secret sore

With those famed draughts of

cooling hellebore? What opiates on the fiends of thought

have seized? This fever of the spirit hath been


By no grave simples culled on any shore;

No surgeon's knife, no muttered charm, no lore Of Pheebus Paian have those pangs appeased.

Herself must be her savior. Side by side

Spring poisonous weed and hopeful antidote

Within her tangled herbage; lonely pride

And humble fellow-service; dreams that dote

Deeds that aspire; foul sloth, free

labor: she Hath power to choose, and what

she wills, to be.

Thomas Noc

[from Ion.]

The blessings which the weak and

poor can scatter have their own season. 'Tis a little


To give a cup of water; yet its draught

Of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips.

May give a shock of pleasure to the frame

More exquisite than when nectarian juice

Renews the life of joy in happiest hours.

It is a little thing to speak a phrase Of common comfort, which by daily use

has almost lost its sense; yet in the ear

Of him who thought to die un

mourned, 'twill fall Like choicest music, fill the glazing


With gentle tears; relax the knotted hand

To know the bonds of fellowship again.

And shed on the departing soul, a


More precious than the benison of friends

About the honored death-bed of the rich


To him who else were lonely, that another

Of the great family is near, and feels.


Oh! never did a mighty truth prevail

With in felicities of place and time

As in those shouts sent forth with

joy sublime Fram the full heart of England's

youth, to hail Her once neglected bard within the


Of Learning's fairest citadel! That voice,

In which the future thunders, bids rejoice

Some who through wintry fortunes

did not fail To bless with love as deep as life,

the name Thus welcomed; — who in happy

silence share The triumph; while their fondest

musings claim Unhoped-for echoes in the joyous


That to their long-loved poet's spirit bear.

A nation's promise of undying fame.

Robert Tannahill.


The midges dance aboon the burn;

The dews begin to fa'; The pairtricks down the rushy holm

Set up their e'ening ea'. Now loud and clear the blackbird's song

Rings through the briery shaw, While flitting gay, the swallows play Around the castle wa\

Beneath the golden gloamin' sky

The mavis mends her lay; The red-breast pours his sweetest strains,

To charm the ling'ring day;
While weary yeldrins seem to wail

Their little nestlings torn,
The merry wren, frae den to den,

Gaes jinking through the thorn.

The roses fauld their silken leaves,

The foxglove shuts its bell; The honeysuckle and the birk

Spread fragrance through the dell. Let others crowd the giddy court

Of mirth and revelry.
The simple joys that Nature yields

Are dearer far to me.


The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond, And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin', To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom, And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie,— For guileless simplicity marks her its ain;

And far be the villain, divested of feeling,

Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flower o' Dumblane.

Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening,— Thou'i t dear to t he echoes of Calderwood glen; Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning. Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie! The s)>orts o' the city seemed foolish and vain; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain,

And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor, If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.



I Sit on the lonely headland,
Where the sea-gulls come and go:

The sky is gray above me,
And the sea is gray below.

There is no fisherman's pinnace
Homeward or outward bound;

I see no living creature

In the world's deserted round.

I pine for something human,
Man, woman, young or old,—

Something to meet and welcome,
Something to clasp and hold.

I have a mouth for kisses,
But there's no one to give and

I have a heart in my bosom
Beating for nobody's sake.

0 warmth of love that is wasted!
Is there none to stretch a hand?

No other heart t hat hungers
In all the living land?

I could fondle the fisherman's baby, And rock it into rest;

I could take the sunburnt sailor,
Like a brother, to my breast,

I could clasp the hand of any

Outcast of land or sea,
If the guilty palm but answered

The tenderness in me!

The sea might rise and drown me;

Cliffs fall and crush my head,— Were there one to love me, living,

Or weep to see me dead!

THE FATHER. The fateful hour, when death stood


And stretched his threatening hand in vain.

Is over now, and life's first cry Speaks feeble triumph through its pain.


But yesterday, and thee the earth Inscribed not on her mighty scroll:

To-day she opes the gate of birth, And gives the spheres another soul.

But yesterday, no fruit from me The rising winds of time had buried

To-day, a father,— can it be

A child of mine is in the world?

I look upon the little frame,

As helpless on my arm it lies: Thou giv'st me, child, a father's name,

God's earliest name in Paradise.

Like Him, creator too I stand: His power and mystery seem more near;

Thou giv'st me honor in the land, And giv'st my life duration here.

But love, to-day, is more than pride; Love sees his star of triumph shine,

For life nor death can now divide The souls that wedded breathe in thine:

Mine and thy mother's, whence arose The copy of my face in thee;

And as thine eyelids first unclose. My own young eyes look up to me.

Look on me, child, once more, once more.

Even with those weak, unconscious eyes; Stretch the small hands that help implore;

Salute me with thy wailing cries!

This is the blessing and the prayer A father's sacred place demands:

Ordain me. darling, for thy care, And lead me with thy helpless hands!

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