XV

DAFT JEAN

DAFT JEAN,

The waesome wean,

She cam' by the cottage, she cam' by the ha',

The laird's ha' o' Wutherstanelaw,

The cottar's cot by the birken shaw;

An' aye she gret,

To ilk ane she met,

For the trumpet had blawn an' her lad was awa'.

"Black, black," sang she,

"Black, black my weeds shall be,

My love has widowed me !

Black, black!" sang she.

Daft Jean, the waesome wean,

She cam' by the cottage, she cam' by the ha',

The laird's ha' o' Wutherstanelaw,

The cottar's cot by the birken shaw;

Nae mair she creepit,

Nae mair she weepit,

She stept 'mang the lasses the queen o' them a'. The queen o' them a',

The queen o' them a',

She stept 'mang the lasses the queen o' them a', For the fight it was fought i' the fiel' far awa', An' claymore in han' for his love an' his lan', The lad she lo'ed best he was foremost to fa'.

"White, white,” sang she,

"White, white my weeds shall be,

I am no widow," sang she,

"White, white, my weeds shall be,

White, white!" sang she.

Daft Jean,

The waesome wean,

She gaed na' to cottage, she gaed na' to ha',

But forth she creepit,

While a' the house weepit,

Into the snaw i' the eerie night-fa'.

At morn we found her,

The lammies stood round her,

The snaw was her pillow, her sheet was the snaw;

Pale she was lying,

Singing and dying,

A' for the laddie who fell far awa'.

"White, white," sang she,

"My love has married me,
White, white my weeds shall be,

White, white my wedding shall be,
White, white!" sang she.

SYDNEY DOBELL

XVI

EDITH AND HAROLD

I KNOW it will not ease the smart ;
I know it will increase the pain;
'Tis torture to a wounded heart;
Yet, oh! to see him once again.

Tho' other lips be pressed to his,
And other arms about him twine,
And tho' another reign in bliss

In that true heart that once was mine;

Yet, oh! I cry it in my grief,

I cry it blindly in my pain,

I know it will not bring relief,
Yet oh! to see him once again.

ARTHUR GREY BUTLER.

XVII

TO EDWARD WILLIAMS

THE serpent is shut out from paradise.

The wounded deer must seek the herb no more

In which its heart-cure lies:

The widowed dove must cease to haunt a bower Like that from which its mate with feigned sighs Fled in the April hour.

I too must seldom seek again

Near happy friends a mitigated pain.

Of hatred I am proud,-with scorn content; Indifference, that once hurt me, now is grown Itself indifferent.

But, not to speak of love, pity alone Can break a spirit already more than bent. The miserable one

Turns the mind's poison into food, Its medicine is tears,-its evil good.

C

Therefore, if now I see you seldomer,

Dear friends, dear friend! know that I only fly
Your looks, because they stir

Griefs that should sleep, and hopes that cannot die : The very comfort that they minister

I scarce can bear, yet I,

So deeply is the arrow gone,

Should quickly perish if it were withdrawn.

When I return to my cold home, you ask
Why I am not as I have ever been.

You spoil me for the task

Of acting a forced part in life's dull scene,-
Of wearing on my brow the idle mask
Of author, great or mean,

In the world's carnival. I sought
Peace thus, and but in you I found it not.

Full half an hour, to-day, I tried my lot
With various flowers, and every one still said,
"She loves me-loves me not."

And if this meant a vision long since fled—
If it meant fortune, fame, or peace of thought-
If it meant,-but I dread

To speak what you may know too well:
Still there was truth in the sad oracle.

The crane o'er seas and forests seeks her home;
No bird so wild but has its quiet nest,
Where it no more would roam;

The sleepless billows on the ocean's breast
Break like a bursting heart, and die in foam,
And thus at length find rest.

Doubtless there is a place of peace

Where my weak heart and all its throbs will cease.

I asked her, yesterday, if she believed
That I had resolution. One who had

Would ne'er have thus relieved

His heart with words,—but what his judgment bade Would do, and leave the scorner unrelieved.

These verses are too sad

To send to you, but that I know,

Happy yourself, you feel another's woe.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

XVIII

GODFRID TO OLIVE

(FROM The Human Tragedy)

ACCEPT it, Olive? Surely, yes;

This ring of emeralds, diamonds too :
As I would take,- -no need to press,—
A leaf, a crown from you!

No rudest art, no brightest ore,

Could make its value less or more.

Gone is my strength. 'Twere useless quite
To tell you that it is not hard
To have one's paradise in sight,
Withal, to be debarred.

And yet the generous glimpse you gave
Was more than once I dared to crave.

Hard! very hard, sweet! but ordained.

We know 'tis God's own world, at worst.

And we have only partly drained,

And so still partly thirst;

While others parched remain, or seize
Fiercely the cup and drain the lees.