The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, Love not! oh, warning vainly said In present hours as in years gone by; Love not! CAROLINE NORTON. TO MARY IN HEAVEN. THOU lingering star, with lessening ray, My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past, Thy image at our last embrace,— Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr, gurgling. kiss'd his pebbled shore, The flowers sprang wanton to be press'd, Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, My Mary, dear departed shade! Where is thy blissful place of rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? ROBERT BURNS. FAREWELL TO NANCY. AE fond kiss, and then we sever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee; I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy— Naething could resist my Nancy: But to see her was to love her, Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee; ROBERT BURNS. FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer But waft thy name beyond the sky. Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, Are in that word-Farewell!-Farewell! These lips are mute, these eyes are dry; I only feel-Farewell!-Farewell! LORD BYRON.. THE DYING LOVER. THE grass that is under me now When you walk this way again You may walk this way again, A FAREWELL. R. H. STOddard. My fairest child, I have no song to give you; No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray; Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you For every day. Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; Do noble things, not dream them, all day long; And so make life, death, and that vast forever One grand, sweet song. CHARLES KINGSLEY. LUCY. SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise, A violet by a mossy stone -Fair as a star, when only one |