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The cruel hungry foam,
To her grave beside the sea:
Of the shearers that I see, Ne'er a body kens me,
But still the boatmen hear her call the Though I kent them a' at Strathairly;
And this fisher-wife I pass,
Can she be the braw lass
That I kissed at the back of Strathairly?
O to call back the days that are not! My eyes were blinded, your words were few:
Do you know the truth now up in heaven,
I never was worthy of you, Douglas;
I love you, Douglas, tender and true.
Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas,
Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew; As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.
OUT upon the unknown deep,
Where the unheard oceans sound, Where the unseen islands sleep, Outward bound.
If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten | That hymn for which the whole world By daily sympathy and gentle tone.
Not by deeds that gain the world's applauses,
Not by works that win thee world
Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses,
A worthy hymn in woman's praise; The best half of creation's best,
Its heart to feel, its eye to see, The crown and complex of the rest, Its aim and its epitome.
Canst thou win and wear the immor-Yet now it is my chosen task
To sing her worth as maid and wife; And were such post to seek, I'd ask To live her laureate all my life. On wings of love uplifted free,
And by her gentleness made great, I'd teach how noble man should be, To match with such a lovely mate; Until (for who may hope too much
From her who wields the powers of love), Our lifted lives at last should touch That lofty goal to which they move: Until we find, as darkness rolls
Far off, and fleshly mists dissolve, That nuptial contrasts are the poles On which the heavenly spheres revolve.
SHE wearies with an ill unknown;
Within a lonely castle-moat;
Within the crescent's gleaming arms, The present shows her heedless eyes"
A future dim with vague alarms: She sees, and yet she scarcely sees; For, life-in-life not yet begun, Too many are life's mysteries
For thought to fix t'ward any one.
She's told that maidens are by youths
She's sorry that she cannot care.
Who's this that meets her on her way? Comes he as enemy, or friend;
Or both? Her bosom seems to say
He cannot pass, and there an end. Whom does he love? Does he confer
His heart on worth that answers his?
LETITIA E. LANDON.
Perhaps he's come to worship her:
Advancing stepless, quick, and still,
Then terrifies with dreadful strides:
He fights with all the forms of peace; He comes about her like a mist,
With subtle, swift, unseen increase; And then, unlooked for, strikes amain Some stroke that frightens her to death; And grows all harmlessness again,
Ere she can cry, or get her breath. At times she stops, and stands at bay; But he, in all more strong than she, Subdues her with his pale dismay, Or more admired audacity.
All people speak of him with praise: How wise his talk; how sweet his tone; What manly worship in his gaze!
It nearly makes her heart his own. With what an air he speaks her name: His manner always recollects
Her sex and still the woman's claim
Ah, whither shall a maiden flee,
When a bold youth so swift pursues, And siege of tenderest courtesy,
With hope perseverant, still renews! Why fly so fast? Her flattered breast
Thanks him who finds her fair and good;
She makes it more, with bashful art,
The gallant credit he accords
To all the signs of good in her, Redeems itself; his praiseful words What they attribute still confer. Her heart is thrice as rich in bliss, She's three times gentler than before: He gains a right to call her his,
Now she through him is so much more! Ah, might he, when by doubts aggrieved, Behold his tokens next her breast,
At all his words and sighs perceived
Against its blithe upheaval pressed. But still she flies: should she be won,
It must not be believed or thought She yields: she's chased to death, undone, Surprised, and violently caught.
He meets, by heavenly chance express,
Which others cannot understand.
To match the promise in her eyes, And round her happy footsteps blow The authentic airs of Paradise.
The least is well, yet nothing's light
Her virtue all virtue so endears,
LETITIA E. LANDON.
LIKE some vision olden
Of far other time,
O lonely shepherd-boy,
Or art thou complaining
Of thy lowly lot,
And thine own disdaining,
Dost ask what thou hast not? Of the future dreaming,
Weary of the past,