RINGAN AND MAY. That he and the lark were both to blame; But for all the sturt and strife I made; Alas! I fear it will be lang Or I forget that wee burd's sang! REGINALD HEBER. 1783-1826. ARTHUR AND GANORA. 'TWAS merry in the streets of Carduel, The moss-grown abbey shook and bannered wall; And, robed in fur, in purple, and in pall, Still as they passed, from many a scaffold high, And maidens, leaning from the balcony, Bent their white necks the stranger bride to view, Whom that same morn, or e'er the sparkling dew Had from his city's herb-strewn pavement fled, A village maid, who rank nor splendour knew, To Mary's isle the conqueror's hand had led, To deck her monarch's throne, to bless her monarch's bed. Who then was joyful but the Logrian king? ARTHUR AND GANORA. Girds with his silver ring the island green Of saints and heroes; not that paynim gore Clung to his blade, and, first in danger seen, In many a forward fight his golden shield had been. Nor warrior fame it was, nor kingly state That swelled his heart, though in that thoughtful eye And brow that might not, even in mirth, abate Its regal care and wonted majesty, Unlike to love, a something seemed to lie; Yet love's ascendant planet ruled the hour. And as he gazed with lover's ecstasy, And blended pride upon that beauteous flower, For many a melting eye of deepest blue, And many a form of goodliest mould were there, And ivory necks and lips of coral hue, And many an auburn braid of glossy hair. But i might all those gorgeous dames compare With her in flowers and bridal white arrayed: Was none so stately form nor face so fair As hers, whose eyes, as mournful or afraid, Were big with heavy tears, the trembling village maid. How fared it with the young Ganora's heart? Ah! lost for ever now! yet sweet to trace The silver-studded horn, green garb, and beardless face. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 1784-1842. THE MARINER'S SONG. A WET sheet and a flowing sea, And fills the white and rustling sail, Away the good ship flies, and leaves "O! for a soft and gentle wind!" But give to me the snoring breeze, There's tempest in yon hornèd moon, And hark! the music, mariners, The wind is piping loud; The wind is piping loud, my boys, While the hollow oak our palace is, BERNARD BARTON. 1784-1849. THE DEAD. NUMBER the grains of sand out-spread Or count the bright stars over-head, Count all the tribes on earth that creep, Or that expand the wing in air; Number the hosts that, in the deep, Existence and its pleasures share; Count the green leaves that in the breath Ay! number these, and myriads more, Ask'st thou "Who or what be they?" And with anointed eye survey The silent empire of the tomb. |