Lay quietly Thy kingly head
O mighty weakness from on high;
God rest Thee in Thy manger-bed—
Sing Lullo-lullo-lullaby—
O Splendour hid from every eye!—
La-lullo-lullo-lullaby!

“Ye mild and humble cattle, yield
Room for my little son to lie;
Your God and mine is here revealed—
Sing Lullo-lullo-lullaby—
Naked beneath a naked sky—
La-lullo-lullo-lullaby!

“Deal kindly with Him, moon and sun;
No bird to Him a song deny;
Ye winds and showers every one
Sing Lullo-lullo-lullaby—
For men shall cast Him out to die….

How well I remember the hour,
When first from the brow of this hill,
I gaz'd upon spire and tower,
Becalm'd in the valley so still!

The birds sweetly sang in mine ear,
Still sweeter sang hope at my heart;
How bright did the prospect appear,
What thrilling emotions impart!

Since then seven years have expired,
Seven years which I sigh but to name;
Yet I have more than all I desired
Of knowledge, of friendship, of fame.

How strange are the feelings of man!
How changefully link'd with each other!
One feeling is strong when we plan,

While that the sun with his beams hot
Scorchéd the fruits in vale and mountain,
Philon the shepherd, late forgot,
Sitting beside a crystal fountain,
In shadow of a green oak-tree
Upon his pipe this song play'd he:

Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,
Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;
Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.

So long as I was in your sight
I was your heart, your soul, and treasure;
And evermore you sobb'd and sigh'd
Burning in flames beyond all measure:
--Three days endured your love to me,

When first the unflowering Fern-forest,
Shadowed the dim lagoons of old,
A vague unconscious long unrest
Swayed the great fronds of green and gold.

Until the flexible stems grew rude,
The fronds began to branch and bower,
And lo! upon the unblossoming wood
There breaks a dawn of apple-flower.

Then on the fruitful Forest-boughs
For ages long the unquiet ape
Swung happy in his airy house
And plucked the apple and sucked the grape.

Until in him at length there stirred
The old, unchanged, remote distress,

The quick sparks on the gorse-bushes are leaping
Little jets of sunlight texture imitating flame;
Above them, exultant, the peewits are sweeping:
They have triumphed again o'er the ages, their screamings proclaim.

Rabbits, handfuls of brown earth, lie
Low-rounded on the mournful turf they have bitten down to the quick.
Are they asleep?—are they living?—Now see, when I
Lift my arms, the hill bursts and heaves under their spurting kick!

The common flaunts bravely; but below, from the rushes

In bed we laugh, in bed we cry,
And born in bed, in bed we die;
The near approach a bed may shew
Of human bliss to human woe.

Perchance that I might learn what pity is,
That I might laugh at erring men no more,
Secure in my own strength as heretofore,
My soul hath fallen from her state of bliss:
Nor know I under any flag but this
How fighting I may 'scape those perils sore,
Or how survive the rout and horrid roar
Of adverse hosts, if I thy succor miss.
O flesh! O blood! O cross! O pain extreme!
By you may those foul sins be purified,
Wherein my fathers were, and I was born!
Lo, Thou alone art good: let Thy supreme
Pity my state of evil cleanse and hide—

Over the flagon filled to the brim
She sends a bewildering glance to him.

Over the sea of pink foaming wine
He reels in the light of her beauty divine.

Deeper and deeper she dreamily dips,
In the rose-tinted wine, her rose-tinted lips.

While over the glass she airily laughs
A pledge which he eagerly catches and quaffs.

And he drinks in a madness wilder than wine,
Through her smile and her eyes' bewildering shine.

He drinks in delirium, danger, and death,
As over the crystal comes floating her breath;

Wae worth thy pow'r, thou cursed leaf!
Fell source of all my woe and grief!
For lake o' thee I've lost my lass;
For lake o' thee I scrimp my glass;
I see the children of Affliction
Unaided, thro' thy curst restriction;
I've seen th' Oppressor's cruel smile
Amid his hapless victim's spoil;
And for thy potence vainly wish'd
To crush the Villain in the dust:
For lake o' thee I leave this much-lov'd shore,
Never perhaps to greet old Scotland more!

She had a death in me, knees drawn up
and my bowl and cloth rinsed through with her.
As morning takes night, field closes the hare,
and ay would burrow into her.
Over the altar, catalpas rattle,
shadow and bother the branch.
Is this her white? Dress me.
Her rain? Wash me with that.
Her bowl? Feed me empty.
Her colding? Ay am forgot.
Then mask me the g’wen, hers skin
being mine, and body that pools
in the brine of her, rivers the silt and stone of her
wrapt in the warm of hers fell.
She were the watcher and tender of pyres