A Poetry-book of Modern Poets

COME O'ER THE SEA.

COME o'er the sea,

Maiden, with me,

Mine through sunshine, storm, and snows;
Seasons may roll,

But the true soul

Burns the same, where'er it goes.

Let fate frown on, so we love and part not;

'Tis life where thou art, 'tis death where thou art not. Then come o'er the sea,

Maiden, with me,

Come wherever the wild wind blows;

Seasons may roll,

But the true soul

Burns the same, where'er it goes.

Was not the sea

Made for the free,

Land for courts and chains alone?

Here we are slaves,

But on the waves

Love and liberty's all our own.

No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us,
All earth forgot, and all heaven around us—
Then come o'er the sea,

Maiden, with me,

Mine through sunshine, storm, and snows;
Seasons may roll,

But the true soul

Burns the same, where'er it goes.

Thomas Moore.

JOCK O' HAZELDEAN.

"WHY weep ye by the tide, ladie?
Why weep ye by the tide?
I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
And ye sall be his bride:
And ye sall be his bride, ladie,

Sae comely to be seen”

But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.

"Now let this wilfu' grief be done,
And dry that cheek so pale;
Young Frank is chief of Errington
And lord of Langley-dale;
His step is first in peaceful ha',

His sword in battle keen"-
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.

"A chain of gold ye sall not lack,
Nor braid to bind your hair,
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,
Nor palfrey fresh and fair;
And you the foremost o' them a'
Shall ride our forest-queen"-

But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.

THE YOUNG MAY MOON.

The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,
The tapers glimmer'd fair;

The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
And dame and knight are there:

They sought her baith by bower and ha';
The ladie was not seen!

She's o'er the Border, and awa'

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.

Sir W. Scott.

THE YOUNG MAY MOON.

THE Young May moon is beaming, love,
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love,
How sweet to rove

Through Morna's grove,

When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!
Then awake!-the heavens look bright, my dear,
'Tis never too late for delight, my dear,
And the best of all ways

To lengthen our days

Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear.

Now all the world is sleeping, love,

But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,
And I whose star,

More glorious far,

Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.
Then awake!-till rise of sun, my dear,

The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear,

Or, in watching the flight

Of bodies of light,

He might happen to take thee for one, my dear.

Modern Poets.

T. Moore,

INSUFFICIENCY.

THERE is no one beside thee and no one above thee,
Thou standest alone, as the nightingale sings!

And my words that would praise thee are impotent things. For none can express thee though all should approve thee. I love thee so, Dear, that I only can love thee.

Say what can I do for thee? weary thee, grieve thee?
Lean on thy shoulder, new burdens to add?
Weep my tears over thee, making thee sad?
Oh, hold me not-love me not! let me retrieve thee.
I love thee so, Dear, that I only can leave thee.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

INCLUSIONS.

OH! wilt thou have my hand, Dear, to lie along in thine?
As a little stone in a running stream, it seems to lie and

pine.

Now drop the poor pale hand, Dear, . . unfit to plight with thine.

Oh! wilt thou have my cheek, Dear, drawn closer to thine

own?

My cheek is white, my cheek is worn, by many a tear run

down.

Now leave a little space, Dear, . . lest it should wet thine

own.

Oh! must thou have my soul, Dear, commingled with thy soul?

Red grows the cheek, and warm the hand, the part is in

the whole!

Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate, when soul is joined to

soul.

E. B. Browning.

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