PRESENCE IN ABSENCE. Our two souls, therefore, which are one, A breach, but an expansion, If they be two, they are two so And though it in the centre sit, 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 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. THE BANKS O' DOON. YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, Thou 'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, 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; Wi' lightsome heart I pou'd a rose, ROBERT BURNS. AULD ROBIN GRAY. 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, I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin. LADY ANNE BARNARD. THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. FROM "MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM," ACT 1. SC. 1. FOR aught that ever I could read, The course of true love never did run smooth: 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! They build a wall between us twain, Your life's proud aim, your art's high truth, I used to dream in all these years But that is past. If you should stray ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN (Florence Percy). LINDA TO HAFED. FROM "THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS." "How sweetly," said the trembling maid, Were wafted off to seas unknown, 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! To glad me with its soft black eye, ---- 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. 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, 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, She sits, a child, by the open door, 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, It all comes back to her, dreaming there The hum of the wheel, and the summer weather, And now it is she herself that is spinning. With the bloom of youth on cheek and lip, 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, It all comes back on her heart once more. In the autumn dusk the hearth gleams brightly, 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! But once with angry words they part: Plying her task, she turns to gaze 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 : 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, 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, That sets on a world of withered leaves ! Yet faithfulness in the humblest part |