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LOVE LEFT SORROWING.
Thou Thrush, that singest loud-and loud and free,
Upon that alder sit;
Or sing another song, or choose another tree.
Roll back, sweet Rill! back to thy mountain-bounds,
That cannot be sustained;
If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough
Oh let it then be dumb!
Be anything, sweet Rill, but that which thou art now.
Thou Eglantine, so bright with sunny showers,
For thus to see thee nodding in the air,
To see thy arch thus stretch and bend,
Disturbs me till the sight is more than I can bear."
The Man who makes this feverish complaint
WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES.
THE sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright;
Like many a voice of one delight,
I see the deep's untrampled floor
With green and purple sea-weeds strown;
Like light dissolved, in star-showers thrown.
The lightning of the noontide ocean
Is flashing round me, and a tone
Arises from its measured motion,—
How sweet, did any heart now share in my emotion!
Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
And walked with inward glory crowned;
Yet now despair itself is mild,
Even as the winds and waters are;
Which I have borne and yet must bear,—
Some might lament that I were cold,
They might lament-for I am one
Unlike this day, which, when the sun
Shall on its stainless glory set,
Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.
P. B. Shelley.
O, YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the west,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
So boldly he entered the Netherby hall,
Among bride's-men and kinsmen, and brothers and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), "O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"
"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;—
The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
Sir W. Scott.