52

LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR.

LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR.

I ARISE from dreams of thee

In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,

And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,

And a spirit in my feet
Hath led me-who knows how?

To thy chamber window, sweet!

The wandering airs they faint

On the dark, the silent stream
The champak odours fail

Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint

It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on thine,

Beloved as thou art!

Oh lift me from the grass!

I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain

On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!

My heart beats loud and fast:
Oh! press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last.

P. B. Shelley. A NIGHT-SONG OF LOVE.

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A NIGHT-SONG OF LOVE.

Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:
The fire-fly wakens: waken thou with me.

Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost, And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.

Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars, And all thy heart lies open unto me.

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake:
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.

A. Tennyson.

MORNING SONG TO MAUD.

1.

COME into the garden, Maud,

For the black bat, night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,

I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,

And the musk of the roses blown.

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MORNING SONG TO MAUD.

2

For a breeze of morning moves,

And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves

On a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,

To faint in his light, and to die.

There has fall’n a splendid tear

From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;

She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, “She is near, she is near;"

And the white rose weeps, “She is late;”
The larkspur listens, “I hear, I hear;"

And the lily whispers, “I wait.”

4.

She is coming, my own, my sweet;

Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,

Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat

Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

A. Tennyson. A FAREWELL.

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A FAREWELL.

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,

And fill it in a silver tassie; That I may drink before I go

A service to my bonnie lassie: The boat rocks at the pier of Leith,

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry, The ship rides by the Berwick-law,

And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.

The trumpets sound, the banners fly,

The glittering spears are rankéd ready; The shouts o' war are heard afar,

The battle closes thick and bloody: But it's not the roar o sea or shore

Wad make me langer wish to tarry; Nor shouts o'war that's heard afar

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.

R. Burns.

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THE MINSTREL-BOY.

THE MINSTREL-BOY.

THE Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.-
“Land of song!” said the warrior-bard,

“Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,

One faithful harp shall praise thee!”

The Minstrel fell!—but the foeman's chain

Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,

For he tore its chords asunder;
And said, “No chains shall sully thee,

Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the brave and free,

They shall never sound in slavery!”

T. Moore.