CCIX

LOVE'S DIET

TELL me, fair maid, tell me truly,
How should infant Love be fed ;
If with dew-drops, shed so newly
On the bright green clover blade;
Or, with roses plucked in July,
And with honey liquorèd?
O, no! O, no!

Let roses blow,

And dew-stars to green blade cling:
Other fare,

More light and rare,

Befits that gentlest Nursling.

Feed him with the sigh that rushes

'Twixt sweet lips, whose muteness speaks

With the eloquence that flushes

All a heart's wealth o'er soft cheeks;

Feed him with a world of blushes,

And the glance that shuns, yet seeks :
For 'tis with food,

So light and good,

That the spirit child is fed;

And with the tear

Of joyous fear,

That the small Elf's liquorèd.

W. MOTHERWELL.

CCX

TO HELENE-ON A GIFT-RING CARELESSLY

LOST

I SENT a ring-a little band

Of emerald and ruby stone,

And bade it, sparkling on thy hand,

Tell thee sweet tales of one

Whose constant memory

Was full of loveliness and thee.

A shell was graven on its gold,—

'Twas Cupid fix'd without his wings

To Helene once it would have told
More than was ever told by rings,
But now all's past and gone,

Her love is buried with that stone.

Thou shalt not see the tears that start

From eyes by thoughts like these beguil'd;

Thou shalt not know the beating heart,

Ever a victim and a child:

Yet, Helene, love-believe

The heart that never could deceive.

I'll hear thy voice of melody

In the sweet whispers of the air;
I'll see the brightness of thine eye
In the blue evening's dewy star;
In crystal streams thy purity,

And look on Heaven to look on thee.
G. DARLEY.

CCXI

THE TRYSTING HOUR

THE gowan glitters on the sward,
The lavrock's in the sky,
And Collie on my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by.

Oh, no! sad an' slow,

And lengthen'd on the ground,
The shadow of our trystin' bush
It wears sae slowly round!

My sheep-bell tinkles frae the west,
My lambs are bleating near,
But still the sound I lo'e the best,

Alack! I canna' hear.

Oh, no! sad an' slow,

The shadow lingers still,

And like a lanely ghaist I stand
And croon upon the hill.

R

I hear below the water roar,
The mill wi' clackin' din,
And Lucky scoldin' frae her door,

To ca' the bairnies in.

Oh, no! sad an' slow,

These are na' sounds for me, The shadow of our trystin' bush It creeps sae drearily!

Oh, now I see her on the way,
She's past the witch's knowe,
She's climbin' up the brownies' brae,
My heart is in a lowe!

Oh, no! 'tis no' so,

'Tis glam'rie I hae seen,

The shadow of that hawthorn bush
Will move na' more till e'en.

My book o' grace I'll try to read,
Though conn'd wi' little skill;
When Collie barks I'll raise my head,
And find her on the hill;

Oh, no! sad an' slow,

The time will ne'er be gane, The shadow of the trystin' bush

Is fix'd like ony stane.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

CCXII

SONG

THEY who may tell love's wistful tale,
Of half its cares are lighten'd;
Their bark is tacking to the gale,

The sever'd cloud is brighten'd.

Love, like the silent stream, is found
Beneath the willows lurking,

The deeper, that it hath no sound
To tell its ceaseless working.

Submit, my heart; thy lot is cast,
I feel its inward token ;

I feel this mis'ry will not last,
Yet last till thou art broken.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

CCXIII

A PICTURE

My Love o'er the water bends dreaming; It glideth and glideth away:

She sees there her own beauty, gleaming

Through shadow and ripple and spray.