I wrote of fragrant meadow-sweet of earth
And mourned to think that last year's bloom had perished:
So vanish all long love-thoughts that we've cherished,
I deemed—yea, passion crumbles at its birth.
I wandered through the woods,—the flowers were there,
So soft, so tender—but they all belonged
To that new season: all the flowers that thronged
The woods of old had passed outside God's care.

So thought I—and the thought was sad and cold;
For I had loved those blossoms, and had striven,
Mixing with fern their creamy plumes of old,

Flow in upon my soul, O wind of morn!
Touch me with ancient tenderness and faith,
Thou perfumed waft from fields of blooming corn!
Woo me, lure me from this poisoned shore of Death.

I hear far voices, sweet as flutes, somewhere,
Calling me into the darkness, and I know
Their soft insidious languor on the air
Comes from the land of burial, damp and low.

Blow on me, O thou current of sweet youth!
Come back dear days of boyhood and bright dreams:
Arise again, thou white, clear bloom of truth;
Babble once more, O careless morning streams!

Let all the brothers solemnly rejoice;
Thereunto let the whole church add its voice.
This day the glorious Dionysius,
With his companions, Eleutherius
And Rusticus, superb in martyrdom,
And crowned therewith, attained to heaven, their home.
In Athens once the saint surpassed in wit,
Where he was called the Areopagite,
Amongst his fellows reckoned first of all;
Yet spurned he, at the bidding of Saint Paul,
The summit of his power, and wisdom's pride,
And all the glory of the world beside;
by whom informed, baptised and godly grown,

‘I would like to bathe in milk,’
Said little Agnes, fresh and fair,
With her taper fingers smooth as silk,
Her cherry cheeks, and nut-brown hair—
‘In a bath of ivory, filled to the brim,
I would love to lie and swim,
And float like a strawberry plucked at dawn
In the lily-white waves of milk new drawn.’

‘And I,’ said Rose, with her eyes divine,
‘Would love to bathe in the ruddy wine,
Trailing my long and coal-black locks
In purple claret and amber hocks;
And I would have a fountain play
So that the wine might fall in spray,

For how long known this boundless wash of light,
This smell of purity, this gleaming waste,
This wind? This brown, strewn wrack how old a sight,
These pebbles round to touch and salt to taste.

See, the slow marbled heave, the liquid arch,
Before the waves' procession to the land
Flowers in foam; the ripples' onward march,
Their last caresses on the pure hard sand.

For how long known these bleaching corks, new-made
Smooth and enchanted from the lapping sea?
Since first I laboured with a wooden spade
Against this background of Eternity.

Among the Mirtles, as I walkt,
Love and my sighs thus intertalkt:
Tell me, said I, in deep distresse,
Where I may find my Shepardesse.
Thou foole, said Love, know'st thou not this?
In every thing that's sweet, she is.
In yond' Carnation goe and seek,
There thou shalt find her lip and cheek:
In that ennamel'd Pansie by,
There thou shalt have her curious eye:
In bloome of Peach, and Roses bud,
There waves the Streamer of her blood.
'Tis true, said I, and thereupon
I went to pluck them one by one,
To make of parts an union;

A amiling look she had, a figure slight,
With cheerful air, and step both quick and light;
A strange and foreign look the maiden bore,
That suited the quaint Belgian dress she wore;
Yet the blue, fearless eyes in her fair face,
And her soft voice, told her of English race;
And ever, as she flitted to and fro,
She sang, (or murmured, rather,) soft and low,
Snatches of song, as if she did not know
That she was singing, but the happy load
Of dream and thought thus from her heart o'erflowed:
And while on household cares she passed along,

Mount Yoshino—
looking at pines awhile
to rest your eyes

Young Willie stands in his stable door,
And combing down his steed;
And looking through his white fingers,
His nose began to bleed;
And looking through his white fingers,
His nose began to bleed.

Gie corn to my horse, mother,
And meat unto my man,
For I'm awa to Maggie's bowers;
I'll win or she lie doon.

Oh bide this nicht wi' me, Willie,
Oh bide this nicht wi' me;
The besten cock o' a' the reest
At your supper shall be.

A' your cocks an' a' your reests
I value nae a prin;
But I'll awa to Maggie's bowers,

With elegies, sad songs, and murning layes,
Quhill Craig his Kala wald to pitie move,
Poore braine-sicke man! he spends his dearest dayes;
Such sillie rime can not make women love.
Morice, quho sight of neuer saw a booke,
With a rude stanza this faire virgine tooke.