No motion has she now, no force; W. Wordsworth CLXXXI LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry!' 'Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle This dark and stormy water?' 'O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this, Lord Ullin's daughter. 'And fast before her father's men 'His horsemen hard behind us ride- Out spoke the hardy Highland wight 'And by my word! the bonny bird So though the waves are raging white By this the storm grew loud apace, But still as wilder blew the wind 'O haste thee, haste!' the lady cries, The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her, When, O! too strong for human hand The tempest gather'd o'er her. And still they row'd amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing : Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore, His wrath was changed to wailing. For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade His child he did discover: One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, And one was round her lover. 'Come back! come back!' he cried in grief 'Across this stormy water: And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter! - O my daughter! 'T was vain the loud waves lash'd the shore, Return or aid preventing : The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting. CLXXXII T. Campbell JOCK O' HAZELDEAN 'WHY HY weep ye by the tide, ladie? I'll wed ye to my youngest son, And ye sall be his bride: 'Now let this wilfu' grief be done, His sword in battle keen'. 'A chain of gold ye sall not lack, Nor braid to bind your hair, Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, Nor palfrey fresh and fair; And you the foremost o' them a' Shall ride our forest-queen'- The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide, The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, She's o'er the Border, and awa' Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. Sir W. Scott CLXXXIII FREEDOM AND LOVE H of a kiss at love's beginning, Of a When two mutual hearts are sighing Yet remember, 'midst your wooing, Love he comes, and Love he tarries, The wandering airs they faint Like sweet thoughts in a dream; As I must die on thine O beloved as thou art ! O lift me from the grass! On my lips and eyelids pale. O! press it close to thine again Where it will break at last. P. B. Shelley CLXXIII HE walks in beauty, like the night SHEF Of cloudless climes and starry skies, And all that's best of dark and bright Meets in her aspect and her eyes, Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less Where thoughts serenely sweet express |