An' a lovelier light in the brow of heaven Fell time shall ne'er destroy. Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie, Thy lips were ruddy and calm; But gane was the holy breath of heaven To sing the evening psalm. There's nought but dust now mine, lassie, There's nought but dust now mine; My saul's wi thee in the cauld grave, An' why should I stay behin'? CUNNINGHAM. THE PEASANT'S RETURN. AND passing here through evening dew, He hastened happy to her door, For she wer gone from earthly eyes The moth did eat her Sunday cape; WILLIAM BARNES. Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove; O no; it is an ever-fixèd mark, That looks on tempests, and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error, and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. SHAKSPEARE. THE PILOT'S DAUGHTER. O'ER western tides the fair Spring Day Was smiling back as it withdrew, And all the harbor, glittering gay, Returned a blithe adieu; Great clouds above the hills and sea Kept brilliant watch, and air was free Where last lark firstborn star shall greet, When, for the crowning vernal sweet, Round her gentle, happy face, As lightly blew the veering wind, They touched her cheeks, or waved behind, Unbound, unbraided, and unlooped; Or when to tie her shoe she stooped, Below her chin the half-curls drooped, And veiled the pilot's daughter. Rising, she tossed them gayly back, With gesture infantine and brief, To fall around as soft a neck As the wild-rose's leaf. Her Sunday frock of lilac shade (That choicest tint) was neatly made, And not too long to hide from view The stout but noway clumsy shoe, And stockings' smoothly-fitting blue, That graced the pilot's daughter. With look half timid and half droll, And then with slightly downcast eyes, And blush that outward softly stole, Unless it were the skies Whose sun-ray shifted on her cheek, She turned when I began to speak; But 'twas a brightness all her own That in her firm light step was shown, And the clear cadence of her tone; The pilot's lovely daughter. Were it my lot (the sudden wish) To hand a pilot's oar and sail, Or haul the dripping moonlight mesh, Spangled with herring-scale; By dying stars, how sweet 'twould be, And dawn-blow freshening the sea, With weary, cheery pull to shore, To gain my cottage home once more, And clasp, before I reach the door, My love, the pilot's daughter. This element beside my feet Allures, a tepid wine of gold; One touch, one taste, dispels the cheat 'Tis salt and nipping cold: A fisher's hut, the scene perforce |