CROWNE And in blossomed vale and grove But that time is gone and past, Can the summer always last? And the swains are wiser grown, And the heart is turned to stone, And the maiden's rose may wither; Oh, for the old true-love time, JOHN CROWNE. WISHES FOR OBSCURITY. How miserable a thing is a great Oh, wretched he who, called abroad man! Take noisy vexing greatness they that please; Lease. Give me obscure and safe and silent Acquaintance and commerce let me have none With any powerful thing but time alone: by power, To know himself can never find an hour! Strange to himself, but to all others known, Lends every one his life, but uses none; So, ere he tasted life, to death he goes, My rest let Time be fearful to offend, And creep by me as by a slumbering And himself loses ere himself he friend; knows. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD. Then foul fa' the hands that wad loose sic bands, An' the heart that wad part sic luve; But there's nae hand can loose my band, But the finger o' God abuve. Though the wee, wee cot maun be my bield, And my claithing e'er so mean, I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' luve, Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean. Her white arm wad be a pillow for me Far safter than the down; And luve wad winnow owre us his kind, kind wings, An' sweetly I'd sleep, an' soun'. Come here to me, thou lass o' my luve, Come here, and kneel wi' me! The morn is fu' o' the presence o' God, An' I canna pray without thee. The morn-wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' new flowers, The wee birds sing kindlie an' hie; Our gudeman leans owre his kaleyard dyke, And a blithe auld bodie is he. The beuk maun be taen when the carle comes hame, Wi' the holie psalmodie; And thou maun speak o' me to thy But gane was the holy breath o' heav God, And I will speak o' thee. SHE'S GANE TO DWELL IN SHE'S gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie, She's gane to dwall in heaven: Ye're owre pure, quo' the voice o' God, For dwalling out o' heaven! en, To sing the evening psalm. There's naught but dust now mine, lassie, There's naught but dust now mine; My saul's wi' thee i' the cauld grave, An' why should I stay behin'? A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. O, what'll she do in heaven, my las- A WET sheet and a flowing sea, O, what'll she do in heaven ? A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on our lee. "O for a soft and gentle wind!" I heard a fair one cry; But give to me the swelling breeze, And white waves heaving high,The white waves heaving high, my lads, The good ship tight and free; The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we. To be set free, and meet their kind in joy. Changed to celestials, thoughts that rise in each By natures new, impart themselves, though silent. Each quickening sense, each throb of holy love, Affections sanctified, and the full glow [one, Of being, which expand and gladden By union all mysterious, thrill and live In both immortal frames;-sensation all, And thought, pervading, mingling sense and thought! Ye paired, yet one! wrapt in a consciousness Twofold, yet single, this is love, this life! THE SOUL. COME, brother, turn with me from pining thought And all the inward ills that sin has wrought; Come, send abroad a love for all who live, And feel the deep content in turn they give. Kind wishes and good deeds, - they make not poor; They'll home again, full laden, to thy door; The streams of love flow back where they begin, For springs of outward joys lie deep within. Even let them flow, and make the places glad And earth seem bare, and hours, once happy, press Upon thy thoughts, and make thy loneliness More lonely for the past, thou then shalt hear The music of those waters ranning near; And thy faint spirit drink the cooling stream, And thine eye gladden with the playing beam That now upon the water dances, now Leaps up and dances in the hanging bough. Is it not lovely? Tell me, where doth dwell The power that wrought so beautiful a spell? In thine own bosom, brother? Then as thine Guard with a reverent fear this power divine. And if, indeed, 't is not the out ward state, But temper of the soul by which we rate Sadness or joy, even let thy bosom move With noble thoughts and wake thee into love; And let each feeling in thy breast be given An honest aim, which, sanctified by Heaven, And springing into act, new life imparts, Till beats thy frame as with a thousand hearts. Sin clouds the mind's clear vision from its birth, Around the self-starved soul has spread a dearth. The earth is full of life; the living Hand Touched it with life; and all its forms expand With principles of being made to suit Man's varied powers and raise him from the brute. And shall the earth of higher ends be full, |