With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,

And waking me to weep

Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years Wept he as bitter tears!

"Merciful God!" such was his latest prayer,

"These may she never share!" Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold

Than daisies in the mold,

Where children spell athwart the churchyard gate His name and life's brief date.

Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er ye be,

And O, pray, too, for me!

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

THY BRAES WERE BONNY.

THY braes were bonny, Yarrow stream, When first on them I met my lover; Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream, When now thy waves his body cover.

Forever now, O Yarrow stream!

Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; For never on thy banks shall I

Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow.

He promised me a milk-white steed,
To bear me to his father's bowers;

He promised me a little page,

To 'squire me to his father's towers; He promised me a wedding-ring,

The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow; Now he is wedded to his grave,

Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow!

Sweet were his words when last we met;
My passion I as freely told him :
Clasped in his arms, I little thought

That I should nevermore behold him!
Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost;
It vanished with a shriek of sorrow;
Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,
And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow.

His mother from the window looked
With all the longing of a mother;
His little sister weeping walked

The greenwood path to meet her brother. They sought him east, they sought him west, They sought him all the forest thorough; They only saw the cloud of night,

They only heard the roar of Yarrow!

No longer from thy window look,

Thou hast no son, thou tender mother! No longer walk, thou lovely maid ; Alas, thou hast no more a brother!

No longer seek him east or west,

And search no more the forest thorough; For, wandering in the night so dark, He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow.

The tear shall never leave my cheek,
No other youth shall be my marrow;
I'll seek thy body in the stream,

And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.
JOHN LOGAN.

MARY'S DREAM.

THE moon had climbed the highest hill
Which rises o'er the source of Dee,
And from the eastern summit shed

Her silver light on tower and tree,
When Mary laid her down to sleep,

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, When, soft and slow, a voice was heard Say, "Mary, weep no more for me!" She from her pillow gently raised

Her head, to ask who there might be,
And saw young Sandy shivering stand,
With visage pale, and hollow e'e.
"O Mary dear, cold is my clay;

It lies beneath a stormy sea.
Far, far from thee I sleep in death;
So, Mary, weep no more for me!

"Three stormy nights and stormy days
We tossed upon the raging main ;
And long we strove our bark to save,
But all our striving was in vain.
Even then, when horror chilled my blood,
My heart was filled with love for thee:
The storm is past, and I at rest;

So, Mary, weep no more for me!

“O maiden dear, thyself prepare;

We soon shall meet upon that shore,
Where love is free from doubt and care,

And thou and I shall part no more!"
Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled,
No more of Sandy could she see;
But soft the passing spirit said,

"Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!" JOHN LOWE.

TOO LATE.

COULD ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas,
In the old likeness that I knew,

I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.
Never a scornful word should grieve ye,

I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do;

Sweet as your smile on me shone ever,

Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

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, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?

I never was worthy of you, Douglas ;
Not half worthy the like of you :

Now all men beside seem to me like shadows, –
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.

Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares as they go.
My love is dead, etc.

See the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true-love's shroud,
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud.
My love is dead, etc.

Here, upon my true-love's grave
Shall the barren flowers be laid,
Nor one holy saint to save

All the coldness of a maid.
My love is dead, etc.

With my hands I'll bind the briers
Round his holy corse to gre;
Elfin-fairy, light your fires;
Here my body still shall be.
My love is dead, etc.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my heart's blood all away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day.
My love is dead, etc.

Water-witches, crowned with reytes,
Bear me to your lethal tide.
I die! I come! my true-love waits.
Thus the damsel spake, and died.

THOMAS CHATTERTON.

The mountains now are mute: the heifers pass Slow-wandering by, nor browse the tender grass.

Sicilian Muses, pour the dirge of woe:
For thee, O Bion! in the grave laid low,
Apollo weeps dark palls the sylvan's shroud;
Fauns ask thy wonted song, and wail aloud :
Each fountain-nymph disconsolate appears,
And all her waters turn to trickling tears :-
Mute Echo pines the silent rocks around,
And mourns those lips that waked their sweetest
sound.

Sicilian Muses, pour the dirge of woe:
But retribution sure will deal the blow:
I, in this trance of grief, still drop the tear,
And mourn forever o'er thy livid bier :-
O that, as Orpheus, in the days of yore,
Ulysses, or Alcides, passed before,

I could descend to Pluto's house of night,
And mark if thou wouldst Pluto's ear delight,
And listen to the song: O then rehearse
Some sweet Sicilian strain, bucolic verse,
To soothe the maid of Enna's vale, who sang
These Doric songs, while Etna's upland rang.
Not unrewarded should thy ditties prove:
As the sweet harper, Orpheus, erst could move
Her breast to yield his dear departed wife,
Treading the backward road from death to life,
So should he melt to Bion's Dorian strain,
And send him joyous to his hills again.
O, could my touch command the stops like thee,
I too would seek the dead, and sing thee free!

From the Greek of MOSCHUS,
by CHARLES ABRAHAM ELTON.

LYCIDAS.

[In memory of a young clerical friend of the poet's, drowned A. D. 1637.]

YET once more, O ye laurels, and once more,
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,

I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude;
And, with forced fingers rude,
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due :
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.
Begin, then, sisters of the sacred well
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse: