་

Her tears fell with the dews at even;

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats,

When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement-curtain by, And glanced athwart the blooming flats. She only said, "The night is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"

Upon the middle of the night,

Waking she heard the night-fowl crow; The cock sung out an hour ere light:

From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her, without hope of change,

In sleep she seems to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the grey-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.

She only said, "The day is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
And I would that I were dead!"

About a stone-cast from the wall

A sluice with blackened waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small,

The clustered marish-mosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway,

All silver green with gnarled bark, For leagues no other tree did dark The level waste, the rounding gray.

She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"

And ever when the moon was low,

And the shrill winds were up and away, In the white curtain, to and fro,

She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low,

And wild winds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fell

Upon her bed, across her brow.

She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said. "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"

All day within the dreamy house,

The doors upon their hinges creaked,
The blue fly sung i' the pane; the mouse
Behind the moldering wainscot shrieked,
Or from the crevice peered about.
Old faces glimmered through the doors,
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old vioces called her from without.

She only said, “My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,

The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof

The poplar made, did all confound Her sense; but most she loathed the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his western bower. Then, said she, "I am very dreary, He will not come," she said; She wept, "I am aweary, aweary, O God, that I were dead!"

-Alfred Tennyson.

Ε

WE gather'd round the festive board,

The crackling fagot blazed,

But few would taste the wine that pour'd,
Or join the song we raised.

For there was now a glass unfill'd,—
A favor'd place to spare;

All eyes were dull, all hearts were chill'd-
The loved one was not there.

No happy laugh was heard to ring,
No form would lead the dance;

A smothered sorrow seem'd to fling
A gloom in every glance.

The grave had closed upon a brow,
The honest, bright and fair;

We miss'd our mate, we mourn'd the blow,-
The loved one was not there.

ARE thee well, and if forever,

Even though unforgiving, never

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While the placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again:

Would that breast, by thee g'anced over,
Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou wouldst at last discover

'T was not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee-
Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe.

Though my many faults deface me,

Could no other arm be found

Than the one which once embraced me, To inflict a cureless wound?

Yet, O, yet thyself deceive not:

Love may sink by slow decay ; But by sudden wrench, believe not Hearts can thus be torn away:

Still thy own its life retaineth

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth Is that we no more may meet.

These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead;

Both shall live, but every morrow Wake us from a widowed bed.

And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say Father!"
Though his care she must forego!
When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lips to thine are pressed,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee-
Think of him thy love has blessed!

Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou nevermore mayst see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a heart yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know ;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
Whither, yet with thee they go.

Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a word could bow,
Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,
Even my soul forsakes me now;
But 't is done; all words are idle-
Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will

Fare thee well!-thus disunited,
Torn from every nearer tie,
Seared in heart and lone, and blighted,
More than this I scarce can die.
-Lord Byron.

A

DIEU, adieu! our dream of love

Was far too sweet to linger long; Such hopes may bloom in bowers above, But here they mock the fond and young.

We met in hope, we part in tears!

Yet O! t'is sadly sweet to know

That life in all its future years,

Can reach us with no heavier biow!

The hour has come, the spell is past;
Far. far from thee, my only love,
Youth's earliest hope, and manhood's last,
My darkened spirit turns to rove.
Adieu, adieu! O, dull and dread

Sinks on the ear that parting knell!
Hope and the dreams of love lie dead-
To them and thee, farewell, farewell!
-1homas K. Hervey.

M

AXWELTON braes are bonnie

Where early fa's the dew,

And it's there that Annie Laurie
Gie'd me her promise true,-
Gie'd me her promise true,
Which ne'er forgot will be;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay me doune and dee.

Her brow is like the snaw-drift;
Her throat is like the swan :
Her face it is the fairest
That e'er the sun shone on,-

That e'r the sun shone on;
And dark blue is her e'e;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay me doune and dee.

Like dew on the gowan lying

Is the fa' o' her fairy feet;

And like the winds in summer sighing, Her voice is low and sweet,—

Her voice is low and sweet;

And she's a' the world to me;

And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay me doune and dee.

W

'HAT shall I do with all the days and hours
That must be counted ere I see thy face?
How shall I charm the interval that lowers
Between this time and that sweet time of grace?
Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,—
Weary with longing? Shall I flee away
Into past days, and with some fond pretense
Cheat myself to forget the present day?

Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin
Of casting from me God's great gift of time?
Shall I, these mists of memory locked within,
Leave and forget life's purposes sublime?

O, how or by what means may I contrive

To bring the hour that brings thee back more near? How may I teach my drooping hopes to live Until that blessed time, and thou art here?

I'll tell thee; for thy sake I will lay hold
Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee,
In worthy deeds, each moment that is told
While thou, beloved one! art far from me.
For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try

All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains;
For thy dear sake, I will walk patiently
Through these long hours, nor call their minutest pains.

I will this dreary blank of absence make

A noble task-time; and will therein strive

To follow excellence, and to o'ertake
More good than I have won since yet I live.

So may this doomed time build up in me
A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine;
So may my love and longing hallowed be,
And thy dear thoughts an influence divine.
-Frances Anne Kemble.

I

WISH we were hame to our ain folk,

Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk, Where the simple are weal, and the gentle are leal, And the hames are the hames o' our ain folk. We've been wi' the gay, and the gude where we've come, We're courtly wi' many, we're couthy wi' some; But something's still wanting we never can find Sin' the day that we left our auld neebors behind.

But what are the Mailins, or what are they worth,
If they be not enjoyed in the land o' our birth!
Then I wish we were hame to our ain folk,
Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk,
But deep are the howes and high are the knowes
That keep us awa' frae our ain folk.

The seat by the door where our auld faithers sat,
To tell a' the news, their views and a' that,
While down by the kailyard the burnie rowed clear,
'Twas mair to my liking than aught that is here.

Then I wish we were hame to our ain folk,
Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk,
Where the wild thistles wave o'er th' abode of the brave
And the graves are the graves o' our ain folk.
But happy, gey lucky, we'll trudge on our way,
Till our arm waxes weak and our haffets grow gray.
And, tho' in this world our ain still we miss,
We'll meet them at last in a world of bliss.

And then we'll be hame to our ain folk,
Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk,
Where far 'yont the moon in the heavens aboon
The hames are the hames o' our ain folk.

-Anonymous.