My love is o' comely height and straight,
And comely in all her ways and gait,
She shows in her face the rose's hue,
And the lids on her eyes are white on blue.
When Elemley club-men walk'd in May,
And folk came in clusters every way,
As soon as the sun dried up the dew,
And clouds in the sky were white on blue,
She came by the down with tripping walk,
By daisies and shining banks of chalk,
And brooks with the crowfoot flow'rs to strew
The sky-tinted water, white on blue;

She nodded her head as play'd the band,
She tapp'd with her foot as she did stand,
She danc'd in a recl, and wore all new
A skirt with a jacket, white and blue.

I singled her out from thin and stout,
From slender and stout I chose her out,
And what in the evening could I do
But give her my breast-knot white and blue?

A nest where the young folk are bred Up, to take on the work of the dead. F. And here, when the boys had begun At their sisters with bantering fun, How brisk was ach tongue Home's a nest.

C.

F.

C.

Of the girls, who could very soon find How to pay off their brothers in kind, Whether older or young,—and now each Has his own day of life, and his door, Whic his words and his doings no more To the others may reach.

Home's a nest,

F. And he swings a good blade by a hand That has hit a few blows for his land. And the merry-soul'd Ann ;-oh! a dear, She is wedded, and taken to turn

F. Though his head is as thoughtless, a lout,
As the ball he would hit so about,
In the games that they play'd,-and he's near¡
But my Willie is gone from my door,
And too far to come back any more,
Any more to come here.

You then for me made up your mind
To leave your rights of home behind.
Your width of table-rim, and space
Of fireside floor, your sitting-place,
And all your claim to share the best,
Of all the house, with all the rest,
To guide for me, my house, and all
My home, though small my home may be.
Come, hood your head; the wind is keen.
Come this side-here: I'll be your screen.

The clothes your mother put you on
Are quite outworn and wholly gone,
And now you wear, from crown to shoe,
What my true love has bought you new,
That now, in comely shape, is shown,
My own will's gift, to deck my own;
And oh! of all I have to share,
For your true share a half is small.

Come, hood your head; wrap up, now do.
Walk close to me: I'll shelter you.

And now, when we go out to spend
A frosty night with some old friend,
And ringing clocks may tell,.at last,
The evening hours have fled too fast,
No forked roads, to left and right,
Will sunder us, for night or light;
But all my woe's for you to feel,
And all my weal's for you to know.

Come hood your head. You can't see out?
I'll lead you right, you need not doubt.

THE FIRESIDE CHAIRS.

HUSBAND TO WIFE.

THE daylight gains upon the night,
And birds are out in later flight:
"Tis cold enough to spread our hands,
Once now and then, to glowing brands.
So now we two are here alone
To make a quiet hour our own,
We'll take, with face to face, once more
Our places on the warm hearth floor,
Where you shall have the window view
Outside, and I can look on you.

When first I brought you home, my bride,
In yellow glow of summer tide,

I wanted you to take a chair

On that side of the fire-out there

And have the ground and sky in sight,
With face against the window light;
While I, back here, should have my brow
In shade, and sit where I am now;
That you might see the land outside,
And I might look on you, my bride.
And there the gliding waters spread,
By waving elm-trees over head,
Below the hill that slopes above
The path, along the high-treed grove,
Where sighing winds once whisper'd down
Our whisper'd words; and there's the crowr
Of Duncliffe hill, where widening shades
Of timber fall on sloping glades:
So you enjoy the green and blue
Without, and I will look on you.

And there we pull'd, within the copse,
With nutting-crooks the hazel tops,
That now arise, unleaved and black,
Too thin to keep the wind-blast back;
And there's the church, and spreading lime
Where we did meet at evening time,
In clusters, on the beaten green,
In glee to see and to be seen;
All old sights, welcomer than new,
And look'd on, as I look'd on you.

MY FORE-ELDERS.

WHEN from the child that still is led
By hand, a father's hand is gone-
Or when a few-year'd mother, dead,
Has left her children, growing on-
When men have left their children staid,
And they again have boy and maid—
Oh! can they know, as years may roll,
Their children's children, soul by soul.
If this, with souls in Heav'n, can be,
Do my fore-elders know of me?

My elders' elders, man and wife,
Where borne full early to the tomb,
With children, still in childhood life,
To play with butterfly or bloom.
And did they see the seasons mould
Their faces on, from young to old;
As years might bring them, turn by turn
A time to laugh or time to mourn.
If this with souls in Heav'n can be,
Do my fore-elders know of me?

How fain I now would walk the floor
Within their mossy porch's bow,
Or linger by their church's docr,
Or road that bore them to and fro,
Gr nook where once they built their mow
Or gateway open to their plough—
Though now, indeed, no gate is swung,
That their live hands had ever hung-
If I could know that they would see
Their child's late child, and know of me!

WRITTEN AT CAUDEBEC IN NOR

MANDY.

WHEN life is crazy in my limbs,
And hope is gone astray,
And in my soul's December fade
The love-thoughts of its May,
One spot of earth is left to me
Will warm my heart again:
'Tis Caudebec and Mailleraie

On the pleasant banks of Seine. The dark wood's crownal on the hill, The river curving bright,

The graceful barks that rest, or play,
Pure creatures of delight,-
Oh, these are shows by nature given
To warm old hearts again,

At Caudebec and Mailleraie

On the pleasant banks of Seine. The Tuscan's land, I loved it well, And the Switzer's clime of snow, And many a bliss me there befell I never more can know: But for quiet joy of nature's own To warm the heart again, Give me Caudebec and Mailleraie

On the pleasant banks of Seine.

--

A FAREWELL TO GLENARBAC.*

WHEN grief is felt along the blood,

And checks the breath with sighs unsought, "Tis then that Memory's power is wooed

To soothe by ancient forms of thought.
It is not much, yet in that day

Will seem a gladsome wakening;
And such to me, in joy's decay,
The memory of the Roebuck Glen.

Nor less, when fancies have their bent,

And eager passion sweeps the mind;
"Twill bless to catch a calm content
From happy moment far behind.
Oh, it is of a heavenly brood

That chast'ning recollection!
And such to me, in joyous mood,
The memory of the Roebuck Glen.
I grieve to quit this lime-tree walk,

The Clyde, the Leven's milder blue
To lose, yon craigs that nest the hawk
Will soar no longer in my view,
Yet of themselves small power to move

Have they their light's a borrowed thing
Won from her eyes, for whom I love
The memory of the Roebuck Glen.

*The Glen of the Roebuck.

Oh, dear to nature, not in vain

The mountain winds have breathed on thee! Mild virtues of a noble strain,

And beauty making pure and free,
Pass to thee from the silent hills:
And hence, where'er thy sojourning,
Thine eye with gentle weeping fills
At memory of the Roebuck Glen.

Thou speedest to the sunny shore,

Where first thy presence on me shone; Alas! I know not whether more

These eyes shall claim thee as their own But should a kindly star prevail, And should we meet far hence again, How sweet in other lands to hail

The memory of the Roebuck Glen.

Oh, when the thought comes o'er my heart
Of happy meetings yet to be,
The very feeling that thou art

Is deep as that of life to me;
Yet should sad instinct in my breast
Speak true, and darker chance obtain,
Bless with one tear my final rest,
One memory from the Roebuck Glen.

A SCENE IN SUMMER.

ALFRED, I would that you behold me now,
Sitting beneath a mossy ivied wall

On a quaint bench, which to that structura

old

Winds an accordant curve. Above my head
Dilates immeasurable a wild of leaves
Seeming received into the blue expanse
That vaults this summer noon before me lies
A lawn of English verdure, smooth and bright,
Mottled with fainter hues of early hay,
Whose fragrance, blended with the rose perfume
From that white flowering bush, invites my

sense

To a delicious madness-and faint thoughts
Of childish years are borne into my brain
By unforgotten ardors waking now.
Beyond, a gentle slope leads into shade
Of mighty trees, to bend whose eminent crown
Is the prime labor of the pettish winds,
That now in lighter mood are twirling leaves
Over my feet, or hurrying butterflies.

And the gay humming things that summer

loves,

Thro' the warm air, or altering the bound Where yon elm-s iadows in majestic line Divide don inion with the abundant light.

My old accustomed corner here is,
The table still is in the rook;
Ah! vanished many a busy year is,
This well-known chair since last I ook.
When first I saw ye, Cari luoghi,

I'd scarce a beard upon my face,
And now a grizzled, grim old fogy,
I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.

Where are you, old companions trusty
Of early days, here met to dine?
Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty--

I'll pledge them in the good old wine.
The kind old voices and old faces

My memory can quick retrace; Around the board they take their places, And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. There's JACK has made a wondrous marriage There's laughing Tom is laughing yet; There's brave AUGUSTUS drives his carriage There's poor old FRED in the Gazette; On JAMES's head the grass is growing:

Good Lord! The world has wagged apac8 Since here we set the Claret flowing,

And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.

CHRISTMAS is here;
Winds whistle shrill,
Icy and chill,

Little care we,
Little we fear
Weather without,
Sheltered about
The Mahogany Tree.