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But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay;

Mourn, sweetest complainer; man calls thee to mourn.

0 soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away;
Full quickly they pass—but they never return.

'Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky,
The moon half extinguished her crescent displays;
But lately I marked, when majestic on high
She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue
The path that conducts thee to splendour again:
But man's faded glory what change shall renew?
Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain!

'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more:

l mourn ; but ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;
For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,
Perfumed with fresh fragrance and glittering with dew:
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;

Kind nature the embryo blossom will save;
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn?
O, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave?

'Twas thus, by the light of false science betrayed,

That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind,

My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade,

Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.

"O, pity, great Father of light," then I cried,

"Thy creature, that fain would not wander from Thee:

Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride:

From doubt and from darkness Thou only canst free!"

'And darkness and doubt are now flying away;
No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn:
So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray,
The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.

See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending,
And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!
On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending,
And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb!'

Mrs. Barbauld.

Born 1743. Died 1825.


LIFE! we've been long together,
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear;
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;
Then steal away, give little warning,
Choose thine own time;
Say not 'Good night,' but in some brighter clime
Bid me 'Good morning.'


About 1750.

The Lament Of The Border Widow.

MY love he built me a bonnie bower,
And clad me all with lily flower;
A braver bower you ne'er did see,
Than my true love he built for me.

There came a man, by middle day,
He spied his sport, and went his way,
And brought the king that very night,
Who broke my bower and slew my knight.

He slew my knight to me so dear;
He slew my knight and poined his gear;
My servants all for life did flee,
And left me in extremitie.

I sewed his sheet, making my moan;
I watched his corpse, myself alone;
I watched his body, night and day;
No living creature came that way.

I took his body on my back,
And whiles I gaed and whiles I sat;
I digged a grave and laid him in,
And happed him with the sod so green.

But think na ye my heart was sair,
When I laid the mould on his yellow hair?
Think na ye my heart was wae,
When I turned about, away to gae?

No living man I 'll love again,
Since that my lovely knight is slain;
With one lock of his yellow hair,
I 'll bind my heart for evermair.

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B. 'Where gat ye that bonnie, bonnie bride?
Where gat ye that winsome marrow?'

A. 'I gat her where I dare na weel be seen,
Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.

'Weep not, weep not, my bonnie, bonnie bride,
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow;
Nor let thy heart lament to leave
Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.'

B. 'Why does she weep, thy bonnie, bonnie bride?
Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow?
And why daur ye nae mair weel be seen
Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow?'

A. 'Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep,
Laug maun she weep with dule and sorrow,
And lang maun I nae mair weel be seen
Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.

'For she has tint her lover, lover dear,

Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow;

And I ha'e slain the comeliest swain

That e'er pu'ed birks on the braes of Yarrow.

'Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, reid?
Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow?
And why yon melancholeous weeds,
Hung on the bonnie birks of Yarrow?

'What's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful flood?
What's yonder floats? Oh dule and sorrow!
Oh! 'tis the comely swain I slew
Upon the duleful braes of Yarrow!

'Wash, oh, wash his wounds, his wounds in tears,
His wounds in tears, with dule and sorrow,
And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds,
And lay him on the braes of Yarrow!

'Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad,

Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow,

And weep around in waeful wise,

His helpless fate on the braes of Yarrow.

'Curse ye, curse ye his useless, useless shield,
My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,
The fatal spear that pierced his breast,
His comely breast, on the braes of Yarrow.

'Did I not warn thee not to love,

And warn from fight? but, to my sorrow,

O'er-rashly bold, a stronger arm

Thou met'st, and fell on the braes of Yarrow.

'Sweet smells the birk ; green grows, green grows the grass,
Yellow on Yarrow's braes the gowan,
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan'.

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