'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er

What things should deck our humble bower!
'Twas sweet to pull in hope with thee
The golden fruit from Fortune's tree;
And sweeter still to choose and twine
A garland for these locks of thine,
A song-wreath which may grace my Jean,
While rivers flow and woods are green.

At times there come, as come there ought,
Grave moments of sedater thought,
When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night.
One gleam of her inconstant light;
And Hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
Shines like the rainbow through the shower,
O, then I see, while seated nigh,

A mother's heart shine in thine eye,

And proud resolve and purpose meek,

Speak of thee more than words can speak:

I think this wedded wife of mine

The best of all that's not divine.

JAMES

HOGG.

1772-1835.

GANG TO THE BRAKENS WI' ME.

I'LL sing of yon glen of red heather,

An' a dear thing that ca's it her hame, Wha's a' made o' love-life thegither,

Frae the tie o' the shoe to the kaime; Love beckons in every sweet motion, Commanding due homage to gie; But the shrine o' my dearest devotion Is the bend o' her bonny eebree.

I fleech'd an' I pray'd the dear lassie
To gang to the brakens wi' me;
But, though neither lordly nor saucy,
Her answer was, "Laith wad I be!

I neither hae father nor mither,

Sage counsel or caution to gie; An' prudence has whisper'd me never To gang to the brakens wi' thee."

Dear lassie, how can ye upbraid me,

An' try your ain love to beguile? For ye are the richest young lady

That ever gaed o'er the kirk-stile. Your smile, that is blither than ony,

The bend o' your cheerfu' eebree,

An' the sweet blinks o' love there sae bonny, Are five hunder thousand to me!

She turn'd her around, an' said, smiling,

While the tear in her blue eye shone clear, “You're welcome, kind sir, to your mailing, For, O, you hae valued it dear: Gae make out the lease, do not linger,

Let the parson indorse the decree; And then, for a wave o' your finger, I'll gang to the brakens wi' thee!"

There's joy in the bright blooming feature,
When love lurks in every young line;

There's joy in the beauties of nature,

There's joy in the dance and the wine: But there's a delight will ne'er perish,

'Mang pleasures all fleeting an' vain, And that is to love and to cherish

The fond little heart that's our ain!

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

1792-18 22.

"SHELLEY, like Byron, knew early what it was to love-almost all great poets have. It was in the summer of this year (1809) that he became acquainted with our cousin, Harriet Grove. Living in distant counties, they then met for the first time, since they had been children, at Field-place, where she was on a visit. She was born, I think, in the same year with himself.

'She was like him in lineaments-her eyes,

Her hair, her features, they said were like to his,

But softened all and tempered into beauty.'

After so long an interval, I still remember Miss Grove; and when I call to mind all the women I have ever seen, I know of none that surpassed, or that could compete with her. She was like one of Shakspeare's women-like some Madonna of Raphael. Shelley, in a fragment written many years after, seems to have had her in his mind's eye, when he writes:

They were two cousins, almost like to twins,

Except that from the catalogue of sins

Nature had razed their love, which could not be,

But in dissevering their nativity;

And so they grew together like two flowers

Upon one stem, which the same beams and showers
Lull or awaken in the purple prime.'

Young as they were, it is not likely that they had entered into a formal engagement with each other, or that their parents looked upon their attachment, if it were mentioned, as any other than an intimacy natural to such near relations, or the mere fancy of a moment; and after they parted, though they corresponded regularly, there was nothing in the circumstance that called for observation. Shelley's love, however, had taken deep root, as proved by the dedication to Queen Mab, written in the following year." MEDWIN'S LIFE OF SHELLEY.

TO HARRIET.

Whose is the love that, gleaming through the world,
Wards off the poisonous arrow of its scorn?

Whose is the warm and partial praise,
Virtue's most sweet reward?

Beneath whose looks did my reviving soul
Riper in truth and virtuous daring grow?
Whose eyes have I gazed fondly on,
And loved mankind the more?

Harriet on thine: thou wert my purer mind;
Thou wert the inspiration of my song;

Thine are those early wilding flowers,
Though garlanded by me.

Then press into thy breast this pledge of love,
And know, though time may change and years may roll,
Each floweret gathered in my heart,

It consecrates to thine.

TO MARY.

This poem-the dedication to "THE REVOLT OF ISLAM ". was written in the autumn of 1817, at Marlow, in Buckinghamshire. It is addressed to Mrs. Shelley, née Mary Godwin, the daughter of William Godwin and Mary Wolstonecroft. Shelley met her in London about the time of his separation from his first wife, Harriet Westbrooke, and believing that he had found his soul's affinity, persuaded her to elope with him to the Continent. They started from Dover on the 28th of July, 1814, and crossing over to France in a small boat, proceeded to Neufchatel in Switzerland, where they remained a few days, and then returned to England. They lived together till the suicide of Shelley's wife, in November, 1816, when they were made man and wife according to the usages of the church. Their after history-Shelley's melancholy death by drowning in the Bay of Spezia, and Mrs. Shelley's successful literary career-is too well known to need recapitulation in this place.