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PRESENCE IN ABSENCE.

Our two souls, therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet

A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fixt foot, makes no show
To move, but doth if the other do.

And though it in the centre sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like the other foot, obliquely run.
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.
A Valediction forbidding Mourning.

DR. J. DONNE.

DISAPPOINTMENT AND ESTRANGEMENT.

SONNET.

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;

WITH how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the But saving a crown, he had naething else beside. To make the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to

skies,

How silently, and with how wan a face!

What may it be, that even in heavenly place
That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long with love acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;
I read it in thy looks, thy languished grace
To me that feel the like thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

THE BANKS O' DOON.

YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae weary, fu' o' care?

Thou 'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wantons through the flowering thorn;
Thou minds me o' departed joys,
Departed- never to return.

Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird,

That sings beside thy mate; For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wistna o' my fate.

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,

To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And ilka bird sang o' its luve,
And, fondly, sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pou'd a rose,
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree;
And my fause luver stole my rose,
But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

ROBERT BURNS.

AULD ROBIN GRAY.

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WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye a' I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;

at hame,

When a' the weary world to sleep are gane,
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,
While my gudeman lies sound by me.

I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin.
But I will do my best a gude wife aye to be,
For Auld Robin Gray, he is kind to me.

LADY ANNE BARNARD.

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.

FROM "MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM," ACT 1. SC. 1.

FOR aught that ever I could read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,

The course of true love never did run smooth:
But, either it was different in blood,
Or else misgraffèd in respect of years;
Or else it stood upon the choice of friends;
Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it,
Making it momentary as a sound,
Swift as a shadow, short as any dream;
Brief as the lightning in the collied night,
That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,
And ere a man hath power to say, · Behold!
The jaws of darkness do devour it up :
So quick bright things come to confusion.

SHAKESPEARE.

BYRON'S LATEST VERSES.

[Missolonghi, January 23, 1824. On this day I completed my thirty-sixth year.]

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it has ceased to move : Yet, though I cannot be beloved,

Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf,

The flowers and fruits of love are gone : The worm, the canker, and the grief, Are mine alone.

The fire that in my bosom preys Is like to some volcanic isle ; No torch is kindled at its blaze, A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care, The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share, But wear the chain.

But 't is not thus, and 't is not here,

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now,

Where glory decks the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field, Glory and Greece about us see; The Spartan borne upon his shield Was not more free.

Awake!not Greece, she is awake! Awake my spirit! think through whom Thy life-blood tastes its parent lake,

And then strike home!

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They build a wall between us twain,
Which may not be thrown down again,
Alas! for I, the long years through,
Have loved you better than you knew.

Your life's proud aim, your art's high truth,
Have kept the promise of your youth;
And while you won the crown, which now
Breaks into bloom upon your brow,
My soul cried strongly out to you
Across the ocean's yearning blue,
While, unremembered and afar,
I watched you, as I watch a star
Through darkness struggling into view,
And loved you better than you knew.

I used to dream in all these years
Of patient faith and silent tears,
That Love's strong hand would put aside
The barriers of place and pride,
Would reach the pathless darkness through,
And draw me softly up to you;

But that is past. If you should stray
Beside my grave, some future day,
Perchance the violets o'er my dust
Will half betray their buried trust,
And say, their blue eyes full of dew,
"She loved you better than you knew."

ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN (Florence Percy).

LINDA TO HAFED.

FROM "THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS."

"How sweetly," said the trembling maid,
Of her own gentle voice afraid,
So long had they in silence stood,
Looking upon that moonlight flood,
"How sweetly does the moonbeam smile
To-night upon yon leafy isle!
Oft in my fancy's wanderings,
I've wished that little isle had wings,
And we, within its fairy bowers,

Were wafted off to seas unknown,
Where not a pulse should beat but ours,
And we might live, love, die alone!
Far from the cruel and the cold,

Where the bright eyes of angels only Should come around us, to behold

A paradise so pure and lonely! Would this be world enough for thee?" Playful she turned, that he might see

The passing smile her cheek put on ; But when she marked how mournfully

His eyes met hers, that smile was gone; And, bursting into heartfelt tears, "Yes, yes," she cried, "my hourly fears, My dreams, have boded all too right, We part forever part - to-night!

I knew, I knew it could not last,

"T was bright, 't was heavenly, but 't is past!
O, ever thus, from childhood's hour,
I've seen my fondest hopes decay;
I never loved a tree or flower
But 't was the first to fade away.
I never nursed a dear gazelle,

To glad me with its soft black eye,
But when it came to know me well,
And love me, it was sure to die!
Now, too, the joy most like divine
Of all I ever dreamt or knew,
To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine,
O misery! must I lose that too?"

----

THOMAS MOORE.

UNREQUITED LOVE.

FROM "TWELFTH NIGHT," ACT I. SC. 4

VIOLA. Ay, but I know,

DUKE. What dost thou know?

VIOLA. Too well what love women to men

may owe:

In faith, they are as true of heart as we.
My father had a daughter loved a man,
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship.

DUKE. And what's her history?

VIOLA. A blank, my lord. She never told

her love,

But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek; she pined in thought;
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like Patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed?
We men may say more, swear more: but, indeed,
Our shows are more than will; for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.

SHAKESPEARE.

DOROTHY IN THE GARRET. IN the low-raftered garret, stooping Carefully over the creaking boards, Old Maid Dorothy goes a-groping Among its dusty and cobwebbed hoards; Seeking some bundle of patches, hid

Far under the eaves, or bunch of sage, Or satchel hung on its nail, amid

The heirlooms of a bygone age.

There is the ancient family chest,

There the ancestral cards and hatchel; Dorothy, sighing, sinks down to rest, Forgetful of patches, sage, and satchel. Ghosts of faces peer from the gloom

Of the chimney, where, with swifts and reel, And the long-disused, dismantled loom,

Stands the old-fashioned spinning-wheel.

She sees it back in the clean-swept kitchen,
A part of her girlhood's little world;
Her mother is there by the window, stitching;
Spindle buzzes, and reel is whirled
With many a click on her little stool

She sits, a child, by the open door,
Watching, and dabbling her feet in the pool
Of sunshine spilled on the gilded floor.

Her sisters are spinning all day long;

To her wakening sense the first sweet warning Of daylight come is the cheerful song

To the hum of the wheel in the early morning. Benjie, the gentle, red-cheeked boy,

On his way to school, peeps in at the gate; In neat white pinafore, pleased and coy,

She reaches a hand to her bashful mate;

And under the elms, a prattling pair,
Together they go, through glimmer and
gloom :-

It all comes back to her, dreaming there
In the low-raftered garret-room;

The hum of the wheel, and the summer weather,
The heart's first trouble, and love's beginning,
Are all in her memory linked together;

And now it is she herself that is spinning.

With the bloom of youth on cheek and lip,
Turning the spokes with the flashing pin,
Twisting the thread from the spindle-tip,
Stretching it out and winding it in,
To and fro, with a blithesome tread,
Singing she goes, and her heart is full,
And many a long-drawn golden thread
Of fancy is spun with the shining wool.

Her father sits in his favorite place,

Puffing his pipe by the chimney-side ; Through curling clouds his kindly face

Glows upon her with love and pride. Lulled by the wheel, in the old arm-chair Her mother is musing, cat in lap, With beautiful drooping head, and hair Whitening under her snow-white cap.

One by one, to the grave, to the bridal,
They have followed her sisters from the door;
Now they are old, and she is their idol : ---

It all comes back on her heart once more.

In the autumn dusk the hearth gleams brightly,
The wheel is set by the shadowy wall,
A hand at the latch, 't is lifted lightly,
And in walks Benjie, manly and tall.

His chair is placed; the old man tips

The pitcher, and brings his choicest fruit; Benjie basks in the blaze, and sips,

And tells his story, and joints his flute:

O, sweet the tunes, the talk, the laughter!
They fill the hour with a glowing tide;
But sweeter the still, deep moments after,
When she is alone by Benjie's side.

But once with angry words they part:
O, then the weary, weary days!
Ever with restless, wretched heart,

Plying her task, she turns to gaze
Far up the road; and early and late

She harks for a footstep at the door, And starts at the gust that swings the gate,

And prays for Benjie, who comes no more. Her fault? O Benjie, and could you steel

Your thoughts toward one who loved you so? Solace she seeks in the whirling wheel,

In duty and love that lighten woe; Striving with labor, not in vain,

To drive away the dull day's dreariness, Blessing the toil that blunts the pain

Of a deeper grief in the body's weariness.

Proud and petted and spoiled was she :
A word, and all her life is changed!
His wavering love too easily

In the great, gay city grows estranged: One year she sits in the old church pew ;

A rustle, a murmur, O Dorothy! hide Your face and shut from your soul the view

'T is Benjie leading a white-veiled bride!

Now father and mother have long been dead,
And the bride sleeps under a churchyard stone,
And a bent old man with grizzled head
Walks up the long dim aisle alone.
Years blur to a mist; and Dorothy

Sits doubting betwixt the ghost she seem. And the phantom of youth, more real than she, That meets her there in that haunt of dreams.

Bright young Dorothy, idolized daughter,
Sought by many a youthful adorer,
Life, like a new-risen dawn on the water,
Shining an endless vista before her!
Old Maid Dorothy, wrinkled and gray,
Groping under the farm-house eaves,
And life was a brief November day

That sets on a world of withered leaves !

Yet faithfulness in the humblest part
Is better at last than proud success,
And patience and love in a chastened heart
Are pearls more precious than happiness;
And in that morning when she shall wake
To the spring-time freshness of youth again,
All trouble will seem but a flying flake,
And lifelong sorrow a breath on the pane.
JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.

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