A NUN.

If you become a Nun, Dear!
A Friar I will be:

In any cell you run, Dear!
Pray look behind for me !
The roses all turn pale too;
The doves all take the veil too;
The blind will see the show:

What! you become a Nun? my Dear!
I'll not believe it. No!

If

you become a Nun, Dear!

The bishop Love will be;

The Cupids, every one, Dear!

Will chant-"We trust in thee!"

The incense will go sighing;

The candles fall a-dying;

The water turn to wine :

What!

You go take the vows? my Dear!
You may, but they'll be mine.

GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET.

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass,
Catching your heart up at the feel of June,-
Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,
When even the bees lag at the summoning brass!
And you, warm little housekeeper! who class
With those who think the candles come too soon,
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass:
O sweet and tiny cousins! that belong,

One to the fields, the other to the hearth:

Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong

At your clear hearts; and both were sent on earth

To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song,

In-doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.

TO HIS WIFE,

While she was modeling the Poet's bust.

Ah, Marian mine! the face you look on now
Is not exactly like my wedding-day's:
Sunk is its cheek, deeper-retired its gaze,
Less white and smooth its temple-flatten'd brow.
Sorrow has been there with his silent plough
And strait stern hand. No matter! if it raise
Aught that affection fancies it may praise,
Or make me worthier of Apollo's bough.
Loss after all, such loss especially,
Is transfer, change, but not extinction.
Part in our children's apple-cheeks I see;
And for the rest,-while you look at me so,
Take care you do not smile it back to me,
And miss the copied furrows as you go!

TO HIS PIANO-FORTE.

No!

O Friend! whom glad or grave we seek,
Heaven-holding shrine!

I ope thee, touch thee, hear thee speak,
And peace is mine.

No fairy casket full of bliss

Outvalues thee:

Love only, waken'd with a kiss,
More sweet may be.

To thee, when our full hearts o'erflow

In griefs or joys,

Unspeakable emotions owe

A fitting voice :

Mirth flies to thee, and Love's unrest,

And Memory dear;

And Sorrow, with his tighten'd breast,

Comes for a tear.

O, since few joys of human mould

Thus wait us still,

Thrice bless'd be thine, thou gentle fold
Of peace at will!

No change, no sullenness, no cheat,
In thee we find :

Thy saddest voice is ever sweet,
Thine answer kind.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

1784-1842.

THE SUN IN FRANCE.

The sun rises bright in France,

And fair sets he :

But he has tint the blithe blink he had

In my ain countree.

O, it's nae my ain ruin

That saddens aye my ee,
But the dear Marie I left behin'
Wi' sweet bairnies three.

My lanely hearth burn'd bonnie,
And smiled my ain Marie :
I've left a' my heart behin'

In my ain countree.

The bud comes back to summer,
And the blossom to the bee;
But I'll win back- -O, never!
To my ain countree.

O I am leal to high Heaven,
Where soon I hope to be:

And there I'll meet ye a'

Frae my ain countree.

GEORGE DARLEY.

1785-1849.

WAKING SONG.

Awake thee, my Lady-Love!
Wake thee, and rise!

The sun through the bower peeps
Into thine eyes.

Behold how the early lark

Springs from the corn!

Hark, hark how the flower-bird
Winds her wee horn!

The swallow's glad shriek is heard

All through the air;

The stock-dove is murmuring

Loud as she dare.

Apollo's wing'd bugleman

Can not contain,

But peals his loud trumpet-call

Once and again.

Then wake thee, my Lady-Love!

Bird of my bower!
The sweetest and sleepiest

Bird at this hour.

SYLVIA'S SONG.

The streams that wind amid the hills
And lost in pleasure slowly roam,
While their deep joy the valley fills,—
Even these will leave their mountain home;
So may it, Love! with others be,
But I will never wend from thee.

The leaf forsakes the parent spray,

The blossom quits the stem as fast; The rose-enamour'd bird will stray And leave his eglantine at last :

So may it, Love! with others be,
But I will never wend from thee.

DIRGE.

Wail! wail ye o'er the Dead!
Wail, wail ye o'er her!
Youth's ta'en and Beauty's fled :
O then deplore her!

Strew! strew, ye Maidens! strew
Sweet flowers and fairest :

Pale rose, and pansy blue,

Lily the rarest !

Wail!

Lay, lay her gently down
On her moss pillow,

While we our foreheads crown

With the sad willow!

Wail!

Raise, raise the song of woe,

Youths to her honour ; Fresh leaves and blossoms throw,

Virgins! upon her.

Wail!

Round, round the cypress bier

Where she lies sleeping,

On every turf a tear,

Let us go, weeping!

Wail!