Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, In desarts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee; How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair. Yet, though thou fade, From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise; That goodness Time's rude hand defies That Virtue lives when Beauty dies t. This closing stanza was added by Henry Kirke White, a poetical genius of high attainment, and of still more exquisite promise. CLXXVIII. LOVE WILL NOT BLOOM WHERE ENVY BREATHES. AIR-Gilderoy. Love will not bloom where envy breathes; It shuns ambition's rays, And ne'er its beauteous tendrils wreathes, There lightly bounds the vigorous roe, There chrystal streamlets ceaseless flow In artless melody: The purple heath-bell's fresh perfume The daisy's heaven-ward eye The waving fern-the golden broom→→ There scowls, nor jealousy, nor pride→→ No worldly passions war→→ And, though the great our joys deride, Their own are meaner far: Long, long shall love its flowers display Where minds are innocently gay, There is, when day's last shadows fly, 'Neath memory's retrospective eye, A secret rapture in a sigh A pleasure in a tear. There is, when hush'd is every sound, When peaceful silence reigns around, Then come, now bustling day is o'er, Peace to my wounded heart restore, CLXXX. THE LORD'S MARIE *. The Lord's Marie has kepp'd her locks Up wi' a gowden kame, And she has put on her net-silk hose, And awa to the tryste has gane; * This truly excellent old song, was procured by the Editor of the Re. liques of Burns, from Mrs. Copeland of Dalbeatie, in Galloway, by whose exertions many specimens of the Caledonian Muse, of unquestionable merit, have been rescued from oblivion. It is founded, says Mrs. Copeland, on a O saft, saft fell the dew on her locks, And saft, saft on her brow; Ae sweet drap fell on her strawberrie lip, O whare gat ye that leal maiden, O whare gat ye that young damsel, O whare gat ye that bonnie, bonnie lass, O here's se drap o' the damask wine ;- Fu' white, white was her bonnie neck, But ruddie, ruddie grew her hause, While she supp'd the bluid-red wine. • Come, here's thy health, young stranger doo, Wha wears the gowden kame ; This night will mony drink thy health, And kend na wha to name.' traditional story of a daughter of Lord Maxwell of Nithsdale accom. panying, in disguise, a peasant to a rustic dancing tryste. "The Lord's daughter sae gay," was discovered through the disguise of her rustic habili ments. Tradition places the song at the Revolution, 1688. The language is more modern, but the ideas belong to that period. It is one of those happy productions, which keep a lasting hold of the mind by their enticing tale, and simple dramatic narration; indeed, the simplicity of our lyrics, their broad humour, their vivid description, and their strong touches of native feeling and sensibility, make a lasting impression on the heart. They are perhaps the fairest any nation can boast, and will survive amid the wreck of those which society tramples down in its progress. |