The star of Love, all stars above,

Now reigns o'er earth and sky,

And high and low the influence know—

But where is County Guy?

Sir W. Scott.

HARK, HARK! THE LARK

HARK, Hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus gins arise

His steeds to water at those springs

On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;
With everything that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise,

Arise, arise.

W. Shakspere.

TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS

TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind

That from the nunnery

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,

To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;

And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore;

I could not love thee, Dear, so much,

Loved I not Honour more.

Colonel Lovelace.

YE BANKS AND BRAES O' BONNIE DOON

YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,

How can ye blume sae fair!

How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae fu' o' care!

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird

That sings upon the bough;

Thou minds me o' the happy days

When my fause Luve was true.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na o' my fate.

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon
To see the woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o' its love;
And sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Frae aff its thorny tree;

And my fause luver staw the rose,

But left the thorn wi' me.

R. Burns.

JEAN

OF a' the airts the wind can blaw
I dearly like the West,

For there the bonnie lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best:

There wild woods grow, and rivers row,
And mony a hill between;

But day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,

I see her sweet and fair:
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,

I hear her charm the air.

There's not a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green,
There's not a bonnie bird that sings

But minds me o' my Jean.

R. Burns.

WHEN WE TWO PARTED

WHEN We two parted

In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted,

To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

Colder thy kiss;

Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this!

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow;
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;

A shudder comes o'er me-
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee
Who knew thee too well:

Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met:
In silence I grieve

That thy heart could forget,

Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee?

With silence and tears.

Lord Byron.

SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT

SHE was a Phantom of delight

When first she gleam'd upon my sight;

A lovely Apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!

Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty;

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food,
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death:
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel-light.

W. Wordsworth.

ONE WORD IS TOO OFTEN PROFANED

ONE word is too often profaned

For me to profane it,

One feeling too falsely disdain'd

For thee to disdain it.

One hope is too like despair

For prudence to smother,
And pity from thee more dear
Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love;
But wilt thou accept not