III.
Oh, sweet is the breath of morn! When the sun's first beams appear; Oh! sweet is the shepherd's strain, When it dies on the listening ear; And sweet the soft voice which speaks The Wanderer's welcome home; But sweeter far By yon pale mild star, With our true Love thus to roam, My dear! With our own true Love to roam!
EPIGRAM.
EHEU FUGACES.
What Horace says is, _Eheu fugaces Anni labuntur, Postume, Postume!_ Years glide away, and are lost to me, lost to me! _Now_, when the folks in the dance sport their merry toes, Taglionis and Ellslers, Duvernays and Ceritos, Sighing I murmur, "_O mihi præteritos!_"
SONG.
'Tis sweet to think the pure ethereal being, Whose mortal form reposes with the dead, Still hovers round unseen, yet not unseeing, Benignly smiling o'er the mourner's bed!
She comes in dreams, a thing of light and lightness I hear her voice, in still small accents tell Of realms of bliss, and never-fading brightness, Where those who lov'd on earth, together dwell.
Ah! yet a while, blest shade, thy flight delaying, The kindred soul with mystic converse cheer; To her rapt gaze, in visions bland displaying The unearthly glories of thy happier sphere!
Yet, yet remain! till freed like thee, delighted, She spurns the thraldom of encumbering clay; Then as on earth, in tenderest love united, Together seek the realms of endless day!
AS I LAYE A-THYNKYNGE.
THE LAST LINES OF THOMAS INGOLDSBY.
As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the spraye; There came a noble Knyghte, With his hauberke shynynge brighte, And his gallant heart was lyghte, Free and gaye; As I lay a-thynkynge, he rode upon his waye.
As I lay a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the tree! There seem'd a crimson plain, Where a gallant Knyghte laye slayne, And a steed with broken rein Ran free, As I laye a-thynkynge, most pitiful to see!
As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the boughe; A lovely Mayde came bye, And a gentil youth was nyghe, And he breathed many a syghe And a vowe; As I laye a-thynkynge, her hearte was gladsome now.
As I laye a-thynkynge, a thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the thorne; No more a youth was there, But a Maiden rent her haire, And cried in sad despaire, "That I was borne!" As I laye a-thynkynge, she perished forlorne.
As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Sweetly sang the Birde as she sat upon the briar; There came a lovely childe, And his face was meek and mild, Yet joyously he smiled On his sire; As I laye a-thynkynge, a Cherub mote admire.
As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, And sadly sang the Birde as it perch'd upon a bier; That joyous smile was gone, And the face was white and wan, As the downe upon the Swan Doth appear, As I laye a-thynkynge--oh! bitter flow'd the tear!
As I laye a-thynkynge, the golden sun was sinking, O merrie sang that Birde as it glitter'd on her breast With a thousand gorgeous dyes, While soaring to the skies, 'Mid the stars she seem'd to rise, As to her nest; As I laye a-thynkynge, her meaning was exprest:-- "Follow, follow me away, It boots not to delay,"-- 'Twas so she seem'd to saye, "HERE IS REST!" T. I.
THE END.
MORRISON AND GIBB, EDINBURGH, PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY'S STATIONERY OFFICE.
Z67051188668.
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