When new desires had conquered thee, And changed the object of thy will, It had been lethargy in me,

Not constancy, to love thee still.

Yea, it had been a sin to go
And prostitute affection so,

Since we are taught no prayers to say
To such as must to others pray.

Yet do thou glory in thy choice,
Thy choice of his good fortune boast;
I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice,
To see him gain what I have lost ;
The height of my disdain shall be,
To laugh at him, to blush for thee;

To love thee still, but go no more
A begging to a beggar's door.

SIR ROBERT AYTON.

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.

'T is believed that this harp which I wake now for thee

Was a siren of old who sung under the sea; And who often at eve through the bright billow

roved

To meet on the green shorea youth whom she loved.

But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep, And in tears all the night her gold ringlets to steep,

Till Heaven looked with pity on true love so warm, And changed to this soft harp the sea-maiden's form!

Still her bosom rose fair - still her cheek smiled the same

While her sea-beauties gracefully curled round the frame;

And her hair, shedding tear-drops from all its bright rings,

Fell over her white arm, to make the gold strings !

Hence it came that this soft harp so long hath been known

To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone ; Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay To be love when I'm near thee and grief when away!

THOMAS MOORE ("Irish Melodies").

WHERE SHALL THE LOVER REST?

WHERE shall the lover rest
Whom the fates sever
From his true maiden's breast
Parted forever?

THE MOTHER'S LAST SONG.

SLEEP! - The ghostly winds are blowing!
No moon abroad, no star is glowing;
The river is deep, and the tide is flowing
To the land where you and I are going!

We are going afar,
Beyond moon or star,

To the land where the sinless angels are!

I lost my heart to your heartless sire
('T was melted away by his looks of fire),
Forgot my God, and my father's ire,
All for the sake of a man's desire;

But now we 'll go
Where the waters flow,

And make us a bed where none shall know.

The world is cruel, the world is untrue; Our foes are many, our friends are few; No work, no bread, however we sue ! What is there left for me to do,

But fly, - fly

From the cruel sky,

And hide in the deepest deeps, - and die?

BARRY CORNWALL.

WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY.

O, WALY, waly up the bank,
And waly, waly down the brae,
And waly, waly yon burn side,
Where I and my love wont to gae.

I leaned my back unto an aik,

I thought it was a trusty tree;
But first it bowed, and syne it brak
Sae my true love did lightly me!

O, waly, waly, but love be bonny,
A little time while it is new;
But when 't is auld it waxeth cauld,
And fades away like the morning dew.
O, wherefore should I busk my head?
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true love has me forsook,
And says he 'll never love me mair.

Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed;
The sheets shall ne'er be fyled by me;
Saint Anton's well shall be my drink,
Since my true love has forsaken me.
Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves off the tree ?
O gentle death, when wilt thou come?
For of my life I'm weary.

'T is not the frost that freezes fell,
Nor blawing snaw's inclemency;
'T is not sic cauld that makes me cry,
But my love's heart grown cauld to me.

When we came in by Glasgow town,
We were a comely sight to see;
My love was clad in the black velvet,
And I my sell in cramasie.

But had I wist, before I kissed,

That love had been sae ill to win,
I'd locked my heart in a case of gold,
And pinned it with a silver pin.

0, O, if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse's knee,
And I my sell were dead and gane,
And the green grass growin' over me!

ANONYMOUS,

LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT.

A SCOTTISH SONG.

BALOW, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe;
If thou 'st be silent, I 'se be glad,
Thy maining maks my heart ful sad.
Balow, my boy, thy mither's joy!
Thy father breides me great annoy.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.

When he began to court my luve,
And with his sugred words to muve,
His faynings fals, and flattering cheire,
To me that time did not appeire :
But now I see, most cruell hee,
Cares neither for my babe nor mee.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.

Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile,
And when thou wakest sweitly smile :
But smile not, as thy father did,
To cozen maids; nay, God forbid !
But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire,
Thy fatheris hart and face to beire.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.

I cannae chuse, but ever will
Be luving to thy father stil:
Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde,
My luve with him maun stil abyde:
In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae,
Mine hart can neir depart him frae.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.

But doe not, doe not, prettie mine,
To faynings fals thine hart incline;
Be loyal to thy luver trew,
And nevir change hir for a new;
If gude or faire, of hir have care,
For women's banning's wonderous sair.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.

Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane,
Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine;
My babe and I'll together live,
He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve;
My babe and I right saft will ly,
And quite forget man's cruelty.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.

Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth
That ever kist a woman's mouth !

I wish all maids be warned by mee,
Nevir to trust man's curtesy ;
For if we doe but chance to bow,
They 'll use us than they care not how.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.

ANONYMOUS.

MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE.

My heid is like to rend, Willie,
My heart is like to break;
I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie,
I'm dyin' for your sake !

O, lay your cheek to mine, Willie,
Your hand on my briest-bane,
O, say ye'll think on me, Willie,
When I am deid and gane !

It's vain to comfort me, Willie,
Sair grief maun ha'e its will;
But let me rest upon your briest
To sab and greet my fill.
Let me sit on your knee, Willie,
Let me shed by your hair,
And look into the face, Willie,

I never sall see mair!

I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,
For the last time in my life, -
A puir heart-broken thing, Willie,
A mither, yet nae wife.

Ay, press your hand upon my heart,
And press it mair and mair,
Or it will burst the silken twine,
Sae strang is its despair.

O, wae 's me for the hour, Willie,
When we thegither met,

O, wae 's me for the time, Willie,
That our first tryst was set!
O, wae's me for the loanin' green
Where we were wont to gae, -
And wae's me for the destinie
That gart me luve thee sae !

O, dinna mind my words, Willie,
I downa seek to blame;

But O, it's hard to live, Willie,
And dree a warld's shame!

Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek,
And hailin' ower your chin :
Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,
For sorrow, and for sin ?

I'm weary o' this warld, Willie,

And sick wi' a' I see,

I canna live as I ha'e lived,

Or be as I should be.

But fauld unto your heart, Willie,
The heart that still is thine,

And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek
Ye said was red langsyne.

A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie,
A sair stoun' through my heart;

O, haud me up and let me kiss
Thy brow ere we twa pairt.
Anither, and anither yet! -

RESIGNATION.

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, Clothed with celestial grace;

But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,

But has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying,

And mournings for the dead;

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions Not from the ground arise,

But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; Amid these earthly damps

What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers

May be heaven's distant lamps.

There is no Death! What seems so is transition: This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb of the life elysian,

Whose portal we call Death.

She is not dead, - the child of our affection, But gone unto that school

From eyes that drew half their light from him,

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, By guardian angels led,

Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, She lives whom we call dead.

Day after day we think what she is doing In those bright realms of air;

Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives,
Thinking that our remembrance, though un-
spoken,

May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her; For when with raptures wild

In our embraces we again enfold her,

She will not be a child :

In his spring, - on this spring day.

Passes away,

All the pride of boy-life begun,

All the hope of life yet to run;

Who dares to question when One saith "Nay." Murmur not, - only pray.

Enters to-day

Another body in churchyard sod, Another soul on the life in God. His Christ was buried - and lives alway: Trust Him, and go your way.

DINAH MARIA MULOCK.

UNVEIL THY BOSOM, FAITHFUL TOMB
UNVEIL thy bosom, faithful tomb;
Take this new treasure to thy trust,
And give these sacred relics room
To slumber in the silent dust.

176

Nor pain, nor grief, nor anxious fear, Invade thy bounds; no mortal woes Can reach the peaceful sleeper here, While angels watch the soft repose.

So Jesus slept; God's dying Son

LINES

TO THE MEMORY OF "ANNIE," WHO DIED AT MILAN, JUNE 6, 1860.

"Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? whom seekest thou? She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid

Break from his throne, illustrious morn;
Attend, O earth, his sovereign word;
Restore thy trust; a glorious form
Shall then arise to meet the Lord.

DR. ISAAC WATTS.

GRIEF FOR THE DEAD.

O HEARTS that never cease to yearn!
O brimming tears that ne'er are dried!
The dead, though they depart, return
As though they had not died !

The living are the only dead;

The dead live, nevermore to die;
And often, when we mourn them fled,
They never were so nigh !

And though they lie beneath the waves,
Or sleep within the churchyard dim,
(Ah! through how many different graves
God's children go to him!)

Yet every grave gives up its dead
Ere it is overgrown with grass ;
Then why should hopeless tears be shed,
Or need we cry, "Alas"?

Or why should Memory, veiled with gloom,
And like a sorrowing mourner craped,
Sit weeping o'er an empty tomb,
Whose captives have escaped ?

'T is but a mound, and will be mossed
Whene'er the summer grass appears;
The loved, though wept, are never lost;
We only lose

our tears!

Nay, Hope may whisper with the dead By bending forward where they are; But Memory, with a backward tread, Communes with them afar.

The joys we lose are but forecast,
And we shall find them all once more;
We look behind us for the Past,
But lo! 't is all before!

ANONYMOUS.

In the fair gardens of celestial peace
Walketh a gardener in meekness clad;

Fair are the flowers that wreathe his dewy locks,
And his mysterious eyes are sweet and sad.

Fair are the silent foldings of his robes, Falling with saintly calmness to his feet; And when he walks, each floweret to his will With living pulse of sweet accord doth beat.

Every green leaf thrills to its tender heart,
In the mild summer radiance of his eye;
No fear of storm, or cold, or bitter frost,
Shadows the flowerets when their sun is nigh.

And all our pleasant haunts of earthly love Are nurseries to those gardens of the air; And his far-darting eye, with starry beam, Watching the growing of his treasures there.

We call them ours, o'erwept with selfish tears, O'erwatched with restless longings night and day;

Forgetful of the high, mysterious right

He holds to bear our cherished plants away.

But when some sunny spot in those bright fields
Needs the fair presence of an added flower,
Down sweeps a starry angel in the night :
At morn the rose has vanished from our bower.

Where stood our tree, our flower, there is a grave!
Blank, silent, vacant; but in worlds above,
Like a new star outblossomed in the skies,
The angels hail an added flower of love.

Dear friend, no more upon that lonely mound, Strewed with the red and yellow autumn leaf, Drop thou the tear, but raise the fainting eye Beyond the autumn mists of earthly grief.

Thy garden rosebud bore within its breast Those mysteries of color, warm and bright, That the bleak climate of this lower sphere Could never waken into form and light.

Yes, the sweet Gardener hath borne her hence, Nor must thou ask to take her thence away; Thou shalt behold her, in some coming hour, Full-blossomed in his fields of cloudless day.

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.