A.
Fair Isabel sat in her bower door
Sewin' her silken seam,
When she heard a note in Elwin's wood
And she wished she there had been.

She loot the seam fa' to her side,
The needle to her tae,
And she is aff to Elwin's wood
As fast as she can gae.

But she hadna pu'd a nut, a nut,
Nor broken a branch but ane,
When by there cam' a young hind chiel,
Said, Lady, lat alane.

Oh, why pu' ye the nut, the nut,
Or why break ye the tree?
For I'm the guardian o' the wood
And ye maun lat it be.

I
Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel!
Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love's eye!
They could not in the self-same mansion dwell
Without some stir of heart, some malady;
They could not sit at meals but feel how well
It soothed each to be the other by;
They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep
But to each other dream, and nightly weep.
II

With every morn their love grew tenderer,
With every eve deeper and tenderer still;
He might not in house, field, or garden stir,
But her full shape would all his seeing fill;

Fair is the world, now autumn's wearing,
And the sluggard sun lies long abed;
Sweet are the days, now winter's nearing,
And all winds feign that the wind is dead.

Dumb is the hedge where the crabs hang yellow,
Bright as the blossoms of the spring;
Dumb is the close where the pears grow mellow,
And none but the dauntless redbreasts sing.

Fair was the spring, but amidst his greening
Grey were the days of the hidden sun;
Fair was the summer, but overweening,
So soon his o'er-sweet days were done.

Fair is the rose, yet fades with heat or cold.
Sweet are the violets, yet soon grow old.
The lily 's white, yet in one day 'tis done.
White is the snow, yet melts against the sun.
So white, so sweet was my fair mistress' face,
Yet altered quite in one short hoür's space.
So short-lived beauty a vain gloss doth borrow,
Breathing delight to-day, but none to-morrow.

Fair is each budding thing the garden shows,
From spring's frail crocus to the latest bloom
Of fading autumn. Every wind that blows
Across that glowing tract sips rare perfume
From all the tangled blossoms tossing there;—
Soft winds, they fain would linger long, nor any farther fare.

The morning-glories ripple o'er the hedge
And fleck its greenness with their tinted foam;
Sweet wilding things, up to the garden's edge
They love to wander from their meadow home,
To take what little pleasure here they may

Fair Hope with lucent light in her glad eyes,
Fleet as Diana, through the meadow speeds;
Nor dewy rose nor asphodel she heeds,
For lo! unwonted radiance in the skies
Bids her not pause. The silv'ry shimmer lies
'Mid blooming vistas, whence the pathway leads
To heights aerial. The glow recedes
As panting Hope toils on, while awed surprise
Fills her sweet glances; will the vision fade
Ere she can reach it? Nay, 'tis lovelier far,
Rarer perspectives open to her gaze;
Then hasten on, expectantly, glad maid!

Fair gull on the water's bank,
Bright-plumed breast, well-provided,
Hawk does not seize or pursue,
Water drown, nor man own you.
Nun feasting on the ocean,
Green sea's corners' coarse-voiced girl,
Thrusting wide through the lake's neck;
And then shaking a herring,
Salt water's clear white sunlight,
You're the banner of the shore.
The blessed godchild are you,
Below the bank, of Neptune:
A sorrow for you, the change
Of your life, cold your christening,
Brave white bird in rough waters,
Once a girl in a man's arms.

Fair flower of fifteen springs, that still
Art scarcely blossomed from the bud,
Yet hast such store of evil will,
A heart so full of hardihood,
Seeking to hide in friendly wise
The mischief of your mocking eyes.

If you have pity, child, give o'er,
Give back the heart you stole from me,
Pirate, setting so little store
On this your captive from Love's sea,
Holding his misery for gain,
And making pleasure of his pain.

Another, not so fair of face,
But far more pitiful than you,

Never so bare and naked was church-stone
As is my clean-stripped doublet in my grasp:
Also I wear a shirt without a clasp,
Which is a dismal thing to look upon.
Ah! had I still but the sweet coins I won
That time I sold my nag and staked the pay,
I'd not lie hid beneath the roof to-day
And eke out sonnets with this moping moan.
Daily a thousand times stark mad am I
At my dad's meanness who won't clothe me now,
For " How about the horse?" is still his cry.
Till one thing strikes me as clear anyhow —

Fair Danubie is praised for being wide;
Nilus commended for the sevenfold head;
Euphrates for the swiftness of the tide,
And for the garden whence his course is led;
The banks of Rhine with vines are overspread:
Take Loire and Po, yet all may not compare
With English Thamesis for buildings rare.