349

SAMUEL ROGERS

[1763-1855]

A WISH

MINE be a cot beside the hill;

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook, that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivy'd porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.

The village-church among the trees,
Where first our marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heaven.

350

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

SLEEP on, and dream of Heaven awhile-
Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes,
Thy rosy lips still wear a smile

And move, and breathe delicious sighs!

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks
And mantle o'er her neck of snow:
Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks
What most I wish-and fear to know!

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps!
Her fair hands folded on her breast:
-And now, how like a saint she sleeps!
A seraph in the realms of rest!

Sleep on secure! Above controul
Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee:
And may the secret of thy soul
Remain within its sanctuary!

351

WILLIAM BLAKE

[1757-1827]

THE TIGER

TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?

Did He who made the lamb make thee?

'Busk ye then, busk, my bonnie, bonnie bride!
Busk, ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow!
Busk ye, and lo'e me on the banks of Tweed,
And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow!'

'How can I busk, a bonnie, bonnie bride? How can I busk, a winsome marrow? How lo'e him on the banks of Tweed

That slew my love on the braes of Yarrow!

'O Yarrow fields, may never, never rain Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover! For there was basely slain my love

My love as he had not been a lover.

'The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,
His purple vest-'twas my ain sewing:

Ah, wretched me! I little, little knew
He was in these to meet his ruin!

'The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed, Unheedful of my dule and sorrow;

But ere the to-fall of the night

He lay a corpse on the braes of Yarrow.

'Much I rejoiced, that woeful, woeful day;
I sang, my voice the woods returning;
But lang ere night the spear was flown
That slew my love and left me mourning.

'What can my barbarous, barbarous father do, But with his cruel rage pursue me?

My lover's blood is on thy spear;

How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me?

My happy sisters may be, may be proud-
With cruel and ungentle scoffin'

May bid me seek, on Yarrow's braes,

My lover nailed in his coffin.

'My brother Douglas may upbraid,

And strive with threat'ning words to move me:

My lover's blood is on thy spear,

How canst thou ever bid me love thee?

'Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love! With bridal sheets my body cover! Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door;

Let in the expected husband lover!

'But who the expected husband, husband is? His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter. Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon,

Comes in his pale shroud bleeding after?

'Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down;
O lay his cold head on my pillow:
Take aff, take aff these bridal weeds,
And crown my careful head with willow.

'Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best beloved!
Oh! could my warmth to life restore thee,
Ye'd lie all night between my breasts!
No youth lay ever there before thee.

'Pale, pale indeed! O lovely, lovely youth!
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter;
And lie all night between my breasts!
No youth shall ever lie there after.'

'Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride!
Return, and dry thy useless sorrow!

Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs-
He lies a corpse on the braes of Yarrow.'

342

HECTOR MACNEIL

[1746-1818]

I LO'ED NE'ER A LADDIE BUT ANE

I LO❜ED ne'er a laddie but ane,
He lo'es na a lassie but me;
He's willing to mak' me his ain,
And his ain I am willing to be.
He coft' me a rokelay' o' blue,

And a pair o' mittens o' green;
He vowed that he'd ever be true,
And I plighted my troth yestreen.

Let ithers brag weel o' their gear,
Their land and their lordly degree;
I carena for aught but my dear,

For he's ilka thing lordly to me.
His words are sae sugared, sae sweet,
His sense drives ilk' fear far awa’;
I listen, puir fool, and I greet,

Yet how sweet are the tears as they fa'!

'Dear lassie,' he cries wi' a jeer,

'Ne'er heed what the auld anes will say:
Though we've little to brag o', ne'er fear,
What's gowd to a heart that is wae?
Our laird has baith honours and wealth,
Yet see how he's dwining wi' care;
Now we, though we've naething but health,
Are cantie and leal' evermair.

'O Menie, the heart that is true

Has something mair costly than gear;
Ilk e'en it has naething to rue,

1 Bought.

Ilk morn it has naething to fear.

A short cloak. Possessions.
Cheerful. Loyal.

• Each.

•Pining.