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Thus every beauteous object that I view Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely
"Though battle call me from thy arms,
Let not my pretty Susan mourn; Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms,
William shall to his dear return. Love turns aside the balls that round me
fly, Lest precious tears should drop from
The boatswain gave the dreadful word,
The sails their swelling bosom spread; No longer must she stay aboard. They kissed-she sighed-he hung his
head; The lessening boat unwilling rows to land: "Adieu!" she cries, and waved her lily
For she has tint her luver, luver dear,
Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow; And I hae slain the comliest swain, That eir pu'd birks on the Braes of Yar.
row. Why rins thy stream, O Yarrow, Varrow,
reid? Why on thy braes heard the voice of sor.
row? And why yon melancholious weids
Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow? What's yonder floats on the rueful rueful
flude? What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow! O'tis he the comely swain I slew
Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow. Wash, 0 wash his wounds, his wounds in
tears, His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow; And wrap his limbs in mourning weids,
And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow. Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters
sad, Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow; And weep around in waeful wise
His hapless fate on the Braes of Yarrow. Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield,
My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, The fatal spear that pierced his breast,
His comely breast on the Braes of Yarrow. Did I not warn thee, not to, not to luve?
And warn from fight? but to my sorrow Too rashly bauld, a stronger arm Thou mett'st, and fell'st on the Braes of
THE BRAES OF YARROW.
BUSK ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, And think nae mair on the Braes of
Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride?
Where gat ye that winsome marrow? I gat her where I dare nae weil be seen,
Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride,
Weepnot, weep not, my winsome marrow; Nor let thy heart lament to leive,
Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green
grows the grass, Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
Sweet is the wave of Yarrow flowan.
Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride?
Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen
Puing the birks on the Brae of Yarrow?
Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet
flows Tweed, As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, As sweet smells on its braes the birk,
The apple frae its rock as mellow.
Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun
[row; Lang maun she weep with dule and sorAnd lang maun I nae mair weil be seen
Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
Fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy luve,
In flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter; Tho' he was fair, and weil beluved again,
Than me he never luved thee better.
Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, and luve me on the banks of Tweed,
And think nae mair on the Braes of Yar
Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon
Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after?
How can I busk a bonny bonny bride?
How can I busk a winsome marrow, How luve him upon the banks of Tweed,
That slew my love on the Braes of Yarrow?
O Yarrow fields, may never never rain
Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, For there was basely slain my luve,
My luve, as he had not been a lover.
Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down,
Olay his cold head on my pillow. Take aff, take aff these bridal weids,
And crown my careful head with willow. Pale tho'thou art, yet best, yet best beluved,
O could my warmth to life restore thee! Yet lye all night between my breists,
No youth lay ever there before thee. Pale, pale indeed, O luvely luvely youth!
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter: And lye all night between my breists;
No youth shall ever lye there after. Return, return, O mournful, mournful
bride, Return, and dry thy useless sorrow: Thy luver heeds none of thy sighs,
He lies a corps on the Braes of Yarrow.
The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,
His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewing: Ah! wretched me! I little, little kenned
He was in these to meet his ruin.
The boy took out his milk - white, milk
white steed, Unheedful of my dule and sorrow; But ere the toofall of the night
He lay a corps on the Braes of Yarrow,
Much I rejoyced that waeful waeful day,
I sang, my voice the woods returning; But lang ere night the spear was flown
That slew my luve, and left me mourning. What can my barbarous barbarous father
do, But with his cruel rage pursue me? My luver's blood is on thy spear, How canst thou, barbarous man, then
My happy sisters may be, may be proud,
With cruel and ungentle scoffin', May bid me seek on Yarrow's Braes
My luver nailed in his coffin. My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid,
And strive with threat'ning words to muve My luver's blood is on thy spear,
How canst thou ever bid me luve thee?
IF aught of oaten stop or pastoral song May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest
Like thy own solemn springs, [ear,
Thy springs, and dying gales, O nymph reserved, while now the brighthaired sun
[skirts, Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy
With braid ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed; Now airis hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat,
(wing, With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern
Or where the beetle winds
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Now teach me, maid composed,
Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve,
With bridal sheets my body cover, Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door,
Let in the expected husband lover. But who the expected husband husband is? His hands, methinks, are bathed in
Whose numbers stealing through the
darkening vale May not unseemly with its stillness suit;
As musing slow I hail Thy genial loved return !
By fairy hands their knell is rung,
For, when thy folding star arising shows His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant hours and elves
Who slept in buds the day, And manyanymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,
(still, 'And sheds the fresh’ning dew, and, lovelier
The pensive pleasures sweet,
[scene, Then let me rove some wild and heathy Or find some ruin 'midst its dreary dells,
Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious beams.
That from the mountain's side
WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE.
1734-1788. CUMNOR HALL.
THE dews of night did fall,
The moon (sweet regent of the sky) Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall,
And many an oak that grew thereby.
Now nought was heard beneath the skies
(The sounds of busy life were still), Save an unhappy lady's sighs
That issued from that lonely pile.
"Leicester," she cried, “is this thy love
That thou so oft has sworn to me, To leave me in this lonely grove,
Immured in shameful privity?
"No more thou com'st with lover's speed,
Thy once-beloved bride to see; But be she alive, or be she dead,
I fear, stern earl, 's the same to thee.
'While spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,
[Eve! And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest
While summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light; While sallow autumn fills thy lap with
leaves ; Or winter, yelling through the troublous air,
Aftrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes;
“Not such the usage I received,
When happy in my father's hall; No faithless husband then me grieved ;
No chilling fears did me appal.
“I rose up with the cheerful morn,
Nolark more blithe, no flower more gay; And, like the bird that haunts the thorn,
So merrily sung the live-long day.
“Say that my beauty is but small,
Among court ladies all despised, Why didst thou rend it from that hall,
Where, scornful earl, it well was prized ?
HOW SLEEP the brave, who sink to rest, By all their country's wishes blest ! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
“And when you first to me made suit,
How fair I was, you oft would say ! And, proud of conquest, plucked the fruit,
Then left the blossom to decay.
“Yes, now neglected and despised,
The rose is pale—the lily's dead But he that once their charms so prized,
Is sure the cause those charms are fled.
"For know, when sickening grief doth
prey, And tender love's repaid with scorn, The sweetest beauty will decay ;
What flow'ret can endure the storm?
“Nor, cruel earl, can I enjoy
The humble charms of solitude ; Your minions proud my peace destroy,
By sullen frowns, or pratings rude. "Last night, as sad I chanced to stray,
The village death-bell smote my ear, They winked aside, and seemed to say,
'Countess, prepare—thy end is near. “And now, when happy peasants sleep,
Here sit I lonely and forlorn, No one to soothe me as I weep,
Save Philomel on yonder thorn.
“At Court, I'm told, is beauty's throne,
Where every lady's passing rare: The eastern flowers, that shame the sun,
Are not so glowing-not so fair. "Then, earl, why didst thou leave those
beds; Where roses and where lilies vie, To seek a primrose, whose pale shades
Must sicken when those gauds are by?
"My spirits flag-my hopes decayStill that dread death - bell strikes my
ear, And many a boding seems to saye,
'Countess, prepare--thy end is near.
“'Mong rural beauties I was one:
Among the fields wild flowers are fair; Some country swain might me have
won, And thought my beauty passing rare. “But, Leicester (or I much am wrong),
Or 'tis not beauty fires thy vows; Rather ambition's gilded crown
Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.
Thus sore and sad that lady grieved,
In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear, Full many a heartfelt sigh she heaved,
And let fall many a bitter tear. And ere the dawn of day appeared,
In Cumnor Hall so long and drear; Full many a piercing scream was heard,
And many a cry of mortal fear. The death-bell thrice was heard to ring,
An aërial voice was heard to call, And thrice the raven flapped his wing
Around the towers of Cumnor Hall.
"Then, Leicester, why, again I plead
(The injured surely may repine), Why didst thou wed a country maid,
When some fair princess might be thine ? "Why didst thou praise my humblecharms,
And, oh! then leave them to decay? Why didst thou win me to thy arms, Then leave me to mourn the live-long
Salute me lowly as I go;
Nor think a countess can have woe.
The mastiff howled at village door,
The oaks were shattered on the green; Woe was the hour—for never more
That hapless countess e'er was seen! And in that manor now no more
Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball ; For ever since that dreary hour
Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. The village maids, with fearful glance,
Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall; Nor ever lead the merry dance
Among the groves of Cumnor Hall.
"The simple nymphs! they little know
How far more happy's their estate, To smile for joy, than sigh for woe, —
To be content, than to be great. “How far less blest am I than them,
Daily to pine and waste with care! Like the poor plant, that from its stem
Divided, feels the chilling air.
Full many a traveller oft hath sighed,
And pensive wept the countess' fall. As wandering onward they've espied
The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.
WHEN Britain first, at Heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main ; This was the charter of the land, And guardian angels sung this strain : “Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;
Britons never will be slaves!"
The nations not so blessed as thee
Must, in their turns, to tyrants fall, While thou shalt flourish great and free, The dread and envy of them all.
Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies Serves but to root thy native oak.
“For here forlorn and lost I tread,
With fainting steps and slowWhere wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go." “Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries,
“To tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom. “Here to the houseless child of want
My door is open still ;
I give it with good will. “Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell bestows;
My blessing, and repose.
To slaughter I condemn; Taught by that Power that pities me,
I learn to pity them: But from the mountain's grassy side
A guiltless feast I bringA scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,
And water from the spring. "Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;
All earth-born cares are wrong; Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long."
His gentle accents fell ;
And follows to the cell.
The lonely mansion lay;
And strangers led astray.
Required a master's care;
Received the harmless pair.
Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy generous flame; But work their woe, and thy renown.
To thee belongs the rural reign;
Thy cities shall with commerce shine: All thine shall be the subject main, And every shore it circles thine.
The Muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair: Blest isle! with matchless beauty crowned, And manly hearts to guard the fair. “Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;
Britons never will be slaves!'
And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest, The Hermit trimmed his little fire,
And cheered his pensive guest.
“TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way. To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray;
And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily pressed, and smiled; And, skilled in legendary lore,
The lingering hours beguiled.