T MIDNIGHT. HE moon shines white and silent On the mist, which, like a tide Of some enchanted ocean, O'er the wide marsh doth glide, Spreading its ghost-like billows Silently far and wide. A vague and starry magic The fireflies o'er the meadow All things look strange and mystic, And take wild shapes and motions, From childhood known so well. The snow of deepest silence On everything doth fall, So beautiful and quiet, And rest were come to all. Oh, wild and wondrous midnight, To make the charmed body Almost like spirit be, And give it some faint glimpse Of immortality! Lowell. "O, NANNY, WILT THOU GANG WI' ME?" O NANNY, wilt thou gang wi' me, Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town? Nae langer deck'd wi' jewels rare, O, Nanny, when thou'rt far awa, Wilt thou not cast a look behind? Severest hardships learn to bear, O, Nanny, canst thou love so true, Through perils keen wi' me to gae ? Wilt thou assume the nurse's care, And when at last thy love shall die, Wilt thou receive his parting breath? Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, And cheer with smiles the bed of death? And wilt thou o'er his much-loved clay Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear? Nor then regret those scenes so gay, Where thou wert fairest of the fair? Dr. Thomas Percy. THE SEMPSTRESS TO HER MIGNONETTE. I LOVE that box of mignonette; Above your choicest hot-house flowers, Thank Heaven, not yet I've learned on that 'Tis priceless as the thoughts it brings, I know my own sweet mignonette Yet on your garden's rarest blooms With more delight than mine on yours, Why do I prize my mignonette That lights my window there ?— It adds a pleasure to delight, It steals a weight from care; What happy daylight dreams it brings My long, long hours of weary work, It tells of May, my mignonette, I think the green, bright, pleasant spring Wide fields lay stretching from my sight, What talks it of, my mignonette ?— To me it babbles still Of woodland bank of primroses, Of heath and breezy hill; Through country lanes and daisied fields, Through paths with morning wet, Again I trip, as when a girl, With you, my mignonette. For this I love my mignonette, My window garden small, That country thoughts and scents and sounds Around me loves to call; For this, though low in rich men's thoughts Your worth and love be set I bless you, pleasure of the poor, My own sweet mignonette. W. C. Bennett. T THE MINSTREL BOY. HE minstrel boy to the war is gone, And his wild harp slung behind him. "Land of song!" said the warrior bard, "Though all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee!' |