The Fireside Encyclopaedia of Poetry: Comprising the Best Poems of the Most ...

O fool! to imagine that aught could subdue A love so well founded, a passion so true! Oh, what had my youth with ambition to do?

Why left I Amynta? Why broke I my Vow?

Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheephook restore,

And I'll wander from love and Amynta

no more.

Alas! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine; Poor shepherd, Amynta can never be

thine:

Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain,

The moments neglected return not again. Oh, what had my youth with ambition to do?

Why left I Amynta? Why broke I my Vow?

Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheephook restore,

And I'll wander from love and Amynta

no more.

SIR GILBERT ELLIOT.

THE LORD OF BURLEIGH.

IN her ear he whispers gayly,

"If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily, And I think thou lov'st me well." She replies, in accents fainter,

"There is none I love like thee."
He is but a landscape-painter,
And a village maiden she.
He to lips, that fondly falter,

Presses his without reproof:
Leads her to the village altar,
And they leave her father's roof.
I can make no marriage present;
Little can I give my wife.
Love will make our cottage pleasant,
And I love thee more than life."
They by parks and lodges going

See the lordly castles stand; Summer woods, about them blowing, Made a murmur in the land. From deep thought himself he rouses, Says to her that loves him well, "Let us see these handsome houses

Where the wealthy nobles dwell."

So she goes, by him attended,
Hears him lovingly converse,
Sees whatever fair and splendid

Lay betwixt his home and hers: Parks with oak and chestnut shady,

Parks and order'd gardens great, Ancient homes of lord and lady,

Built for pleasure and for state. All he shows her makes him dearer : Evermore she seems to gaze

On that cottage growing nearer,
Where they twain will spend their days.
Oh but she will love him truly!

He shall have a cheerful home;
She will order all things duly,
When beneath his roof they come.
Thus her heart rejoices greatly,
Till a gateway she discerns
With armorial bearings stately,

And beneath the gate she turns;
Sees a mansion more majestic

Than all those she saw before:
Many a gallant gay domestic

Bows before him at the door.
And they speak in gentle murmur,
When they answer to his call,
While he treads with footstep firmer,
Leading on from hall to hall.
And, while now she wonders blindly,
Nor the meaning can divine,
Proudly turns he round and kindly,
"All of this is mine and thine."
Here he lives in state and bounty,
Lord of Burleigh, fair and free,
Not a lord in all the county

Is so great a lord as he.
All at once the color flushes

Her sweet face from brow to chin: As it were with shame she blushes, And her spirit changed within. Then her countenance all over

Pale again as death did prove; But he clasp'd her like a lover,

And he cheer'd her soul with love. So she strove against her weakness, Tho' at times her spirit sank: Shaped her heart with woman's meekness To all duties of her rank: And a gentle consort made he,

And her gentle mind was such That she grew a noble lady,

And the people loved her much.

But a trouble weigh'd upon her,

And perplex'd her, night and morn, With the burden of an honor

Unto which she was not born. Faint she grew, and ever fainter,

As she murmur'd, "Oh, that he Were once more that landscape-painter Which did win my heart from me!" So she droop'd and droop'd before him, Fading slowly from his side: Three fair children first she bore him, Then before her time she died. Weeping, weeping late and early, Walking up and pacing down, Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. And he came to look upon her,

And he look'd at her and said, "Bring the dress and put it on her,

That she wore when she was wed."
Then her people, softly treading,
Bore to earth her body, drest
In the dress that she was wed in,
That her spirit might have rest.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

MY ONLY JO AND DEARIE, 0. THY cheek is o' the rose's hue,

My only jo and dearie, O; Thy neck is like the siller dew

Upon the banks sae briery, O; Thy teeth are o' the ivory,

Oh, sweet's the twinkle o' thine ee!
Nae joy, nae pleasure, blinks on me,
My only jo and dearie, O.

The birdie sings upon the thorn
Its sang o' joy, fu' cheerie, O,
Rejoicing in the summer morn,

Nae care to make it eerie, O;
But little kens the sangster sweet
Aught o' the cares I hae to meet,
That gar my restless bosom beat,

My only jo and dearie, O.

Whan we were bairnies on yon brae, And youth was blinking bonny, O, Aft we wad daff the lee-lang day,

Our joys fu' sweet and mony, O; Aft I wad chase thee o'er the lee, And round about the thorny tree, Or pu' the wild-flowers a' for thee, My only jo and dearie, O.

I hae a wish I canna tine

'Mang a' the cares that grieve me, O; I wish thou wert for ever mine,

And never mair to leave me, 0: Then I wad daut thee night and day, Nor ither warldly care wad hae, Till life's warm stream forgot to play, My only jo and dearie, O.

RICHARD GALL.

LUCY'S FLITTIN'.

"TWAS when the wan leaf frae the birk tree was fa'in,

And Martinmas dowie had wound up the year,

That Lucy rowed up her wee kist wi' her a' in't,

And left her auld maister and neibours

sae dear:

For Lucy had served i' the glen a' the

simmer;

She cam there afore the bloom cam on the pea;

An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her,

Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her ee.

She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stannin';

Richt sair was his kind heart her flittin'

to see.

"Fare ye weel, Lucy!" quo' Jamie, and ran in;

The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae her ee.

As down the burnside she gaed slow wi' her flittin',

"Fare ye weel, Lucy!" was ilka bird's

sang;

She heard the craw sayin't, high on the tree sittin',

And the robin was chirpin't the brown leaves amang.

"Oh, what is't that pits my puir heart in a flutter?

And what gars the tears come sae fast to my ee?

If I wasna ettled to be ony better,

Then what gars me wish ony better to

be?

I'm just like a lammie that loses its

mither;

Nae mither or friend the puir lammie

can see;

I fear I hae tint my puir heart a'thegither, Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my ee.

"Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae rowed up the ribbon,

The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie gae

me;

Yestreen, when he gae me't, and saw I was sabbin',

I'll never forget the wae blink o' his ee. Though now he said naething but Fare ye weel, Lucy!'

It made me I neither could speak, hear,

nor see:

He couldna say mair but just, 'Fare ye

weel, Lucy!'

Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee."

The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when it's droukit;

The hare likes the brake and the braird

on the lea;

When my passion seeks
Pleasance in love-sighs,

She, looking thro' and thro' me
Thoroughly to undo me,

Smiling, never speaks:

So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple, From beneath her gather'd wimple

Glancing with black-beaded eyes, Till the lightning laughters dimple The baby-roses in her cheeks; Then away she flies.

Prythee weep, May Lilian!

Gayety without eclipse Wearieth me, May Lilian: Thro' my very heart it thrilleth When from crimson-threaded lips Silver-treble laughter trilleth :

Prythee weep, May Lilian.

Praying all I can,

If prayers will not hush thee,
Airy Lilian,

Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee,
Fairy Lilian.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

LOVE AND DEATH.

But Lucy likes Jamie;-she turn'd and GLORIES, pleasures, pomps, delights, and

Little white cottages, all in a row,
Gardens, where bachelors'-buttons grow,
Swallows' nests in roof and wall,
And up above the still blue sky,

Where the woolly-white clouds go sailing
by,-

I seem to be able to see it all!

For now, in summer, I take my chair,
And sit outside in the sun, and hear
The distant murmur of street and square,
And the swallows and sparrows chirping

near;

And Fanny, who lives just over the way,
Comes running many a time each day,

With her little hand's-touch so warm
and kind;

Hath not the dear little hand a tongue,

When it stirs on my palm for the love of
me?

Do I not know she is pretty and young?
Hath not my soul an eye to see?
'Tis pleasure to make one's bosom stir,
To wonder how things appear to her,

That I only hear as they pass around; And as long as we sit in the music and light,

She is happy to keep God's sight,

And I am happy to keep God's sound.

Why, I know her face, though I am blind

I made it of music long ago:

And I smile and talk, with the sun on my Strange large eyes, and dark hair twined

cheek,

And the little live hand seems to stir and

speak,

For Fanny is dumb and I am blind.

Fanny is sweet thirteen, and she

Round the pensive light of a brow of

snow;

And when I sit by my little one,

And hold her hand, and talk in the sun, And hear the music that haunts the place,

Has fine black ringlets, and dark eyes I know she is raising her eyes to me,

clear,

And I am older by summers three,

Why should we hold one another so
dear?

Because she cannot utter a word,
Nor hear the music of bee or bird,
The water-cart's splash, or the milkman's
call.

Because I have never seen the sky,
Nor the little singers that hum and fly,—
Yet know she is gazing upon them all.

For the sun is shining, the swallows fly,

And guessing how gentle my voice must

be,

And seeing the music upon my face.

Though, if ever Lord God should grant me a prayer

(I know the fancy is only vain),

I should pray: Just once, when the weather is fair,

To see little Fanny and Langley Lane; Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray to hear

The bees and the blue-flies murmur low, The voice of the friend that she holds so And I hear the water-cart go by,

Ah! life is pleasant in Langley Lane! There is always something sweet to hear!

And the little soft fingers flutter in Chirping of birds, or patter of rain;

mine.

And Fanny, my little one, always near;

And though I am weak, and cannot live | Yet I thought-but it might not be so

long,

And Fanny, my darling, is far from strong, And though we can never married be,— What then?-since we hold one another so dear,

For the sake of the pleasure one cannot hear,

And the pleasure that only one can see?

ROBERT BUCHANAN.

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

IN FOUR PARTS.
I. ABSENCE.

YE shepherds so cheerful and gay, Whose flocks never carelessly roam; Should Corydon's happen to stray,

Oh call the poor wanderers home. Allow me to muse and to sigh,

Nor talk of the change that ye find; None once was so watchful as I:

I have left my dear Phillis behind.

Now I know what it is, to have strove With the torture of doubt and desire; What it is, to admire and to love,

And to leave her we love and admire. Ah lead forth my flock in the morn, And the damps of each ev'ning repel; Alas! I am faint and forlorn :

I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell.

Since Phillis vouchsafed me a look,

I never once dreamt of my vine; May I lose both my pipe and my crook, If I knew of a kid that was mine. I prized every hour that went by, Beyond all that had pleased me before; But now they are past, and I sigh; And I grieve that I prized them no more.

But why do I languish in vain?

Why wander thus pensively here?
Oh, why did I come from the plain,
Where I fed on the smiles of my dear?
They tell me my favorite maid,

The pride of that valley, is flown;
Alas! where with her I have stray'd,
I could wander with pleasure, alone.
When forced the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt at my heart!

'Twas with pain that she saw me depart. She gazed, as I slowly withdrew;

My path I could hardly discern ; So sweetly she bade me adieu,

I thought that she bade me return.

The pilgrim that journeys all day
To visit some far-distant shrine,
If he bear but a relic away,

Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Thus widely removed from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
Soft hope is the relic I bear,

And my solace wherever I go.

II. HOPE.

My banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
My grottos are shaded with trees,

And my hills are white-over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss,

Such health do my fountains bestowMy fountains all border'd with moss, Where the harebells and violets grow.

Not a pine in my grove is there seen,

But with tendrils of woodbine is bound: Not a beech's more beautiful green,

But a sweetbrier entwines it around. Not my fields, in the prime of the year, More charms than my cattle unfold: Not a brook that is limpid and clear,

But it glitters with fishes of gold.

One would think she might like to retire To the bow'r I have labor'd to rear; Not a shrub that I heard her admire,

But I hasted and planted it there. Oh how sudden the jessamine strove With the lilac to render it gay! Already it calls for my love,

To prune the wild branches away.

From the plains, from the woodlands and

groves,

What strains of wild melody flow? How the nightingales warble their loves From the thickets of roses that blow! And when her bright form shall appear, Each bird shall harmoniously join In a concert so soft and so clear, As she may not be fond to resign.

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