He sang the airs of olden times
In soft, low tones to sacred rhymes,
Devotional, but quaint;
His fingers touched the viol's strings,
And at their gentle vibratings
The glory of an angel's wings
Hung o'er that aged saint!

His thin, white locks, like silver threads
On which the sun its radiance sheds,
Or like the moonlit snow,
Seemed with a lustre half divine
Around his saintly brow to shine,
Till every scar, or time-worn line,
Was gilded with its glow.

His sightless balls to heaven upraised,
As with the spirit's eyes he gazed

Gil Brenton has sent o'er the fame,
He's woo'd a wife an' brought her hame.

Full sevenscore o' ships came her wi',
The lady by the greenwood tree.

There was twal' an' twal' wi' beer an' wine,
An' twal' an' twal' wi' muskadine;

An' twall an' twall wi' bouted flowr
An' twall an' twall wi' paramour;

An' twall an' twall wi' baken bread,
An' twall an' twall wi' the goud sae red.

Sweet Willy was a widow's son,
An' at her stirrup-foot he did run.

An' she was dress'd i' the finest pa',
But ay she loot the tears down fa'.

Her turret hung above a glassy lake,
And in all ages changeless thus had stood;
About its foot, dark laurels and a brake
Of gleaming bay eternal zephyrs wooed.
Up by the battlements there climbed a vine
Gemmed with great roses that the eye of morn
Looked on the birth of, but there came no time
That saw them die or one bright petal shorn.

Centuries that on the world breathed but decay
Wheeled their slow flight, and from their heavy wings
Smote on its walls a light that paled the day,
A light such as illumined diamond flings.

Love reigns! All life is good! The Earth
Is decked in summer hue,
Song birds are caroling beneath
A canopy of blue;
But suddenly the clouds roll up,
And rush to meet the sun,
The sky in fury, lowers over,
The leaves are on the run,
The angry clouds blot out the day
And heavy drops fall fast;
A blinding flash, the thunders crash,
The North-wind blows his blast;
The happy birds, in utter rout,
Now flee with cries of fear,
The sweet day flies, before our eyes,
In a drizzle cold and drear.

And thus with life! One hour the heart

Poignantly , the Gothic arch
Pleads toward Heaven to find the One;
Paganly, some elm or larch
Opens wide to air and sun.
Ego-ridden, save thy soul!
Lover, merge thee in the whole!

O LITTLE loop of water, with the green
Of girdling grasses round your lustered sheen,
Where are the boats the children used to ride
Upon the bosom of your dimpled tide?
Those boats they loved, and launched with large-eyed zest
On Orient faring or for Polar quest?

Where are the boats,—and where the children, too?
Have they, as such explorers often do,
Sunk with their ships? Or do they haply find
The new is like the old they left behind:
Their deep-sea conquests and their valiant claims
To far-found earth are naught but childish games?

Across the prairie where I dwell,
Stretches away, from swell to swell,
A road that might a story tell.

The track is wide and deeply cut
By wheels of heavy wagons, but
The rank grass grows in seam and rut.

'Tis the old trail of “Forty-Nine;”—
Thus history, in graven line,

Has stamped this prairie home of mine.

The years have passed with snow and rain,
And mighty frosts upheaved—in vain—
For still this track shows clear and plain.

Tracing it where it winds away,
There comes to me at twilight gray,
A vision of another day.

Verse of my own! why ask so poor a thing,
When I might gather from the garden-ways
Of sunny memory fragrant offering
Of deathless blooms and white unwithering sprays?
Shakespeare had given me an English rose,
And honeysuckle Spenser sweet as dew,
Or I had brought you from that dreamy close
Keats' passion-blossom, or the mystic blue
Star-flower of Shelley's song, or shaken gold
From lilies of the Blessèd Damozel,
Or stolen fire from out the scarlet fold
Of Swinburne's poppies—yet it seemeth well,
Though all this flowery largess waitèd thee,

Fair Annie an Sweet Willie
Sat a' day on yon hill;
Whan day was gane an night was comd,
They hadna said their fill.

Willie spak but ae wrang word,
An Annie took it ill:
‘I 'll never marry a fair woman
Against my friends's will.’

Annie spak but ae wrang word,
An Willy lookit down:
‘If I binna gude eneugh for yer wife,
I 'm our-gude for yer loun.’

Willie 's turnd his horse's head about,
He 's turnd it to the broom,
An he 's away to his father's bower,
I the ae light o the moon.

Whan he cam to his father's bower,

Face in the tomb, that lies so still,
May I draw near,
And watch you sleep and love you,
Without word or tear?

You smile, your eyelids flicker;
Shall I tell
How the world goes that lost you?
Shall I tell?

Ah, love, lift not your eyelids;
'Tis the same
Old story that we laughed at,
Still the same.

We knew it, you and I,
We knew it all:
Still is the small the great,
The great the small;

Still the cold lie quenches
The flaming truth,
And still embattled age
Wars against youth.