Thy father-anything to thee! Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace Joy have I had; and going hence To give new pleasure like the past, William Wordsworth 112 Y HIGHLAND MARY E banks and braes and streams around Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary. Braes: hillsides Drumlie: muddy 113 How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace But, oh! fell Death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, And closed for aye the sparkling glance But still within my bosom's core Robert Burns THO TO MARY IN HEAVEN HOU lingering star, with lessening ray, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget,— Those records dear of transports past; Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with, wild woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twined amorous round the raptured scene; Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, My Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? Robert Burns 114 SHE 'HE dwelt among the untrodden ways A maid whom there were none to praise, A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! -Fair as a star, when only one She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and oh, The difference to me! William Wordsworth 115 As SLUMBER did my spirit seal; She seemed a thing that could not feel No motion has she now, no force; Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees. William Wordsworth 116 AH ROSE AYLMER H what avails the sceptered race! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee. 117 Walter Savage Landor HELEN OF KIRCONNELL WAD I were where Helen lies; Night and day on me she cries; O that I were where Helen lies Curst be the heart that thought the thought, O think na but my heart was sair On fair Kirconnell lea. As I went down the waterside, Burd: maid Meikle: great |