Would steal before the steps of Time,

And waste its bloom away, Mary! Yet still thy features wore that light,

Which fleets not with the breath; And life ne'er looked more truly bright Than in thy smile of death, Mary!

As streams that run o'er golden mines,
Yet humbly, calmly glide,

Nor seem to know the wealth that shines
Within their gentle tide, Mary!

So veiled beneath the simplest guise,
Thy radiant genius shone,

And that, which charmed all other eyes,
Seemed worthless in thy own, Mary!

If souls could always dwell above,
Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere;
Or could we keep the souls we love,

We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary!
Though many a gifted mind we meet,
Though fairest forms we see,
To live with them is far less sweet
Than to remember thee, Mary!

Sweeter 't is to gaze upon

My Nora's lid that seldom rises;

Few its looks, but every one,

Like unexpected light, surprises!

O, my Nora Creina, dear,

My gentle, bashful Nora Creina,
Beauty lies

In many eyes,

But Love in yours, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia wears a robe of gold,

But all so close the nymph hath laced it, Not a charm of beauty's mould

Presumes to stay where Nature placed it.

O, my Nora's gown for me,

That floats as wild as mountain breezes,

Leaving every beauty free

To sink or swell as Heaven pleases.

Yes, my Nora Creina dear,

My simple, graceful Nora Creina,
Nature's dress

Is loveliness,

The dress you wear, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia hath a wit refined,

But, when its points are gleaming round us,

Who can tell if they 're designed

To dazzle merely, or to wound us?

Pillowed on my Nora's heart

In safer slumbers Love reposes;

Bed of peace! whose roughest part
Is but the crumpling of the roses.
O, my Nora Creina, dear,
My mild, my artless Nora Creina!

Wit, though bright,

Hath no such light,

As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

1771-1832.

["Albyn's Anthology." 1816.]

NORA'S VOW.

HEAR What Highland Nora said,
"The Earlie's son I will not wed,
Should all the race of nature die,
And none be left but he and I.
For all the gold, for all the gear,
And all the lands both far and near,
That ever valour lost or won,

I would not wed the Earlie's son."

"A maiden's vows," old Callum spoke,
"Are lightly made, and lightly broke;
The heather on the mountain's height
Begins to bloom in purple light;
The frost-wind soon shall sweep away
That lustre deep from glen and brae;
Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,
May blithely wed the Earlie's son."

"The swan," she said, "the lake's clear breast May barter for the eagle's nest;

The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn, Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn;

Our kilted clans, when blood is high,
Before their foes may turn and fly;
But I, were all these marvels done,
Would never wed the Earlie's son.

Still in the water-lily's shade

Her wonted nest the wild-swan made;
Ben-Cruaichan stands fast as ever,

Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river;

To shun the clash of foeman's steel,

No highland brogue has turned the heel;
But Nora's heart is lost and won,

She's wedded to the Earlie's son !

["The Betrothed." 1825.]

SONG.

Woman's faith, and woman's trust,
Write the characters in dust;

Stamp them on the running stream,
Print them on the moon's pale beam,

And each evanescent letter,

Shall be clearer, firmer, better,

And more permanent, I ween,

Than the things those letters mean.

I have strained the spider's thread 'Gainst the promise of a maid;

I have weighed a grain of sand

'Gainst her plight of heart and hand;

I told my true love of the token,

How her faith proved light, and her word was broken;

Again her word and truth she plight,

And I believed them again ere night.

LEIGH HUNT.

1784-1859.

TO MY WIFE-ON MODELLING MY BUST.

Aн, Marian mine, the face you look on now
Is not exactly like my wedding day's:
Sunk is its cheek, deeper-retired its gaze,
Less white and smooth it's temple-flattened brow.
Sorrow has been there with his silent plough,
And straight, stern hand. No matter, if it raise
Aught that affection fancies, it may praise,
Or make me worthier of Apollo's bough.
Loss, after all, such loss especially,
Is transfer, change, but not extinction, no;
Part in our children's apple cheeks I see;
And, for the rest, while you look at me so,
Take care you do not smile it back to me,
And miss the copied furrows as you go.

JENNY kissed me when we met,

Jumping from the chair she sat in;

Time, you thief, who love to get

Sweets into your list, put that in:

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,

Say that health and wealth have missed me,

Say I'm growing old, but add,

Jenny kissed me.