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O GENTLE Sleep! do they belong to thee,
These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love
To sit in meekness, like the brooding dove,
A captive never wishing to be free.
This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me
A fly, that up and down himself doth shove
Upon a fretful rivulet, now above,
Now on the water vex'd with mockery.
I have no pain that calls for patience-no;
Hence I am cross and peevish as a child ;
And pleased by fits to have thee for my foe,
Yet ever willing to be reconciled :
O gentle creature ! do not use me so,
But once and deeply let me be beguiled !



Ah me, my babe, my blossom, ah, my child,
My one sweet child, whom I shall see no more!
For now will cruel Ida keep her back,
And either she will die from want of care,
Or sicken with ill usage, when they say
The child is hers,-for every little fault
The child is hers; and they will beat my girl,
Remembering her mother; O my flower
Or they will take her, they will make her hard,
And she will pass me by in after-life
With some cold reverence, worse than were she dead.
Ill mother that I was to leave her there
To lag behind, scared by the cry they made,
The horror of the shame among them all;
But I will go and sit beside the doors,



And make a wild petition night and day,
Until they hate to hear me like a wind
Wailing for ever, till they open to me,
And lay my little blossom at my feet-
My babe, my sweet Aglaia, my one child;
And I will take her up and go my way,
And satisfy my soul with kissing her.
Ah! what might that man not deserve of me,
Who gave me back my child ? “Be comforted,”
Said Cyril, “ you shall have it :" but again
She veil'd her brows, and prone she sank, and so
Like tender things that, being caught, feign death,
Spoke not, nor stirred.

Alfred Tennyson.



Two voices are there one is of the sea,
One of the mountains—each a mighty voice:
In both, from age to age, thou didst rejoice,
They were thy chosen music, Liberty !
There came a tyrant, and with holy glee
Thou fought'st against him, but hast vainly striven ;
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,
Where not a torrent murmur's heard by thee,
Of one sweet bliss thine ear hath been berett:
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left;
For, high-soul'd maid, what sorrow it would be
That mountain floods should thunder as before,
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful voice be heard by thee !



I'm wearing awa, Jean,
Like snaw when it's thaw, Jean;
I'm wearing awa, Jean,

To the land o' the leal.
There's nae sorrow there, Jean;
There's nae cauld there, Jean;
The day's aye fair, Jean,

In the land o' the leal.

Ye were aye leal and true, Jean;
Your task's ended now, Jean,
And I'll welcome you

To the land o' the leal.
Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean;
She was baith guid and fair, Jean,
And we grudged her right sair

To the land o' the leal.

Then dry that tearfu' ee, Jean;
My soul longs to be free, Jean,
And angels wait on me

To the land o' the leal.
Now fare ye well, my ain Jean,
This world's care is vain, Jean;
We'll meet, and aye

be fain
In the land o' the leal.

Lady Nairne.



It is not to be thought of that the flood
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea
Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity
Hath flow'd, “ with pomp of waters unwithstood"-




Road by which all might come and go that would,
And bear out freights of worth to foreign lands;
That this most famous stream in bogs and sands
Should perish, and to evil and to good
Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung
Armoury of the invincible knights of old :
We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
That Shakspeare spake—the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held. In everything we're sprung
Of earth's first blood, have titles manifold.

When I have borne in memory what has tamed
Great nations, how ennobling thoughts depart
When men change swords for ledgers, and desert
The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed
I had, my country am I to be blamed ?
But when I think of thee, and what thou art,
Verily, in the bottom of my heart,
Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.
But dearly must we prize thee—we who find
In thee a bulwark of the cause of men;
And I, by my affection, was beguiled.
What wonder if a poet now and then,
Among the many movements of his mind,
Felt for thee as a lover or a child ?


If Old Bacchus were the speaker,

He would tell you, with a sigh,
Of the Cyprus in this beaker

I am sipping like a fly,
Like a fly or gnat on Ida,

At the hour of goblet-pledge,
By Queen Juno brushed aside, a

Full white arm-sweep, from the edge.



Sooth, the drinking should be ampler,

When the drink is so divine ;
And some deep-mouthed Greek exampler

Would become your Cyprus wine!
Cyclops' mouth might plunge aright in,

While his one eye over-leered— Nor too large were mouth of Titan,

Drinking rivers down his beard.

Pan might dip his head so deep in,

That his ears alone pricked out, Fauns around him, pressing, leaping,

Each one pointing to his throat:
While the Naiads, like Bacchantes

Wild, with urns thrown out to waste,
Cry,—“O earth, that thou wouldst grant us

Springs to keep, of such a taste !"

But for


I am not worthy
After gods and Greeks to drink;
And my lips are pale and earthy

To go bathing from this brink.
Since you heard them speak the last time,

They have faded from their blooms,
And the laughter of my pastime

Has learnt silence at the tombs.

Ah, my friend! the antique drinkers

Crowned the cup, and crowned the brow. Can I answer the old thinkers

In the forms they thought of, now? Who will fetch from garden-closes

Some new garlands while I speak, That the forehead, crowned with roses,

May strike scarlet down the cheek ?

Do not mock me! with my mortal,
Suits no wreath again, indeed !

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