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Come, Winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging bend the naked tree;
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,
When nature all is sad like me!

And maun I still on Menie doat,

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e? For it's jet, jet black, and it's like a hawk, And it winna let a body be!

R. Burns.

THE PRIDE OF YOUTH.

PROUD Maisie is in the wood,
Walking so early;

Sweet Robin sits on the bush

Singing so rarely.

"Tell me, thou bonny bird,
When shall I marry me?"
"When six braw gentlemen
Kirkward shall carry ye."

"Who makes the bridal bed,
Birdie, say truly?"

"The gray-headed sexton
That delves the grave duly.

"The glowworm o'er grave and stone
Shall light thee steady;
The owl from the steeple sing

Welcome, proud lady."

Sir W. Scott.

158

O WERE MY LOVE YON LILAC FAIR.

O WERE MY LOVE YON LILAC FAIR.

O WERE my love yon lilac fair
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring;
And I a bird to shelter there,

When wearied on my little wing:

How I wad mourn, when it was torn
By autumn wild, and winter rude!
But I wad sing on wanton wing,
When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd.

O gin my love were yon red rose
That grows upon the castle wa',
And I mysel' a drap o' dew,

Into her bonnie breast to fa'!

Oh! there beyond expression blest,
I'd feast on beauty a' the night;
Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest,
Till fley'd awa' by Phœbus' light.

R. Burns.

THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.

IT is the miller's daughter,

And she's grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel

That trembles at her ear:

For hid in ringlets day and night,
I'd touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle

About her dainty dainty waist,
And her heart would beat against me

In sorrow and in rest:

And I should know if it beat right,
I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace,

And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom,

With her laughter or her sighs, And I would lie so light, so light,

I scarce should be unclasp'd at night.

A. Tennyson.

160

TO HELEN.

TO HELEN.

HELEN, thy beauty is to me

Like those Nicéan barks of yore

That gently, o'er a perfumed sea

The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece
And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche

How statue-like I see thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand!
Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
Are holy land!

E. A. Poe.

SERENADE.

THERE be none of Beauty's daughters

With a magic like thee:

And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charmed ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:

And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o'er the deep,
Whose breast is gently heaving
As an infant's asleep:

So the spirit bows before thee
To listen and adore thee;

With a full but soft emotion,

Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

Lord Byron.

Modern Poets.

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