THE PRIDE OF YOUTH, Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, And maun I still on Menie doat, And bear the scorn that's in her e'e? For it's jet, jet black, and it's like a hawk, And it winna let a body be! R. Burns. THE PRIDE OF YOUTH. PROUD Maisie is in the wood, Sweet Robin sits on the bush Singing so rarely. "Tell me, thou bonny bird, "Who makes the bridal bed, "The gray-headed sexton "The glowworm o'er grave and stone The owl from the steeple sing Sir W. Scott. 157 158 O WERE MY LOVE YON LILAC FAIR, O WERE MY LOVE YON LILAC FAIR. O WERE my love yon lilac fair When wearied on my little wing: How I wad mourn, when it was torn O gin my love were yon red rose Into her bonnie breast to fa'! Oh! there beyond expression blest, R. Burns. THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 159 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. IT is the miller's daughter, And she's grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel That trembles at her ear: For hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so warm and white. And I would be the girdle About her dainty dainty waist, In sorrow and in rest: And I should know if it beat right, And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom, With her laughter or her sighs, And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasp'd at night. A. Tennyson. 160 TO HELEN. TO HELEN. HELEN, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicéan barks of yore The weary, way-worn wanderer bore On desperate seas long wont to roam, Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, E. A. Poe. SERENADE. 161 SERENADE. THERE be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee: And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: And the midnight moon is weaving So the spirit bows before thee Like the swell of Summer's ocean. Lord Byron. Modern Poets. |