Love, flooding all the creeks of my dry soul.
From which the warm tide ebbed when I was born,
Following the moon of destiny, doth roll
His slow rich wave along the shore forlorn,
To make the ocean—God—and me, one whole.

So, shuddering in its ecstasy, it lies,
And, freed from mire and tangle of the ebb,
Reflects the waxing and the waning skies,
And bears upon its panting breast the web
Of night and her innumerable eyes.

Nor can conceive at all that it was blind,
But trembling with the sharp approach of love,

A MODERNIZED VERSION

I don't think I feel much older; I 'm aware I 'm rather gray,
But so are many young folks; I meet 'em every day
I confess I 'm more particular in what I eat and drink,
But one's taste improves with culture; that is all it means, I think.

Can you read as once you used to? Well, the printing is so bad,
No young folks' eyes can read it like the books that once we had.
Are you quite as quick of hearing? Please to say that once again.
Don't I use plain words, your Reverence? Yes, I often use a cane,

Who died Jan. 10, 1778. Aged Twelve Years

Ah! why this sorrow, why this pensive gloom,
That sweet Eliza rests within the tomb?
Her gentle Spirit is supremely blest;
No anxious cares can agitate her breast.
Short was her passage thro' this vale of tears,
Unstain'd by guilt, or its attendant fears:
Her soul aspiring to the realms of light,
Secur'd its happiness by rapid flight.
Shall elegiac verse in mournful lay,
Or silent eloquence her worth display?
In her was sound whate'er could love engage,

MARY:

Margery, my dear,
Margery Mackintosh,

'Tis a year this week
since thou wert wedded;

Then to thine homestead
went the great folk,

Mackenzie went there,
and MacLeod,

Mackinnon went there,
and MacDonald.

MACDONALD'S LADY:

Listen, Mary,
hide not this from me:

What is yon ship
off the coastland?

MARY:

Plague on thine asking!
why should I hide it?

What is yonder but
the ship of my little one? —

Dear Tyrant, for one moment set me free,
I faint, I weary of my constant ache,
Thy presence in thine absence seems to make
A harder bondage of my heart to thee;
Let me forget thee for an hour, and see
Across the east a peaceful sunrise break,
Shot with no flames enkindled for thy sake,
Bearing no pleasant pains from thee to me,
Let me forget — that like the wave of light
That floods the watcher who hath dozed at dawn,
The memory of thy mouth and hands and eyes
May rush upon me with a new delight,

Jesus! to thy celestial light,
My dawn of hope I owe;
Once wand'ring in the shades of night,
And lost in helpless wo.

Thy gracious hand redeem'd the slave,
And set the pris'ner free;
Be all I am — and all I have,
Devoted, Lord! to thee.

Here at thy feet I wait thy will,
And live upon thy word;
Oh! give me warmer love and zeal,
To serve my dearest Lord.

Before his Lion Court,
Keen for the tourney's sport,
King Francis sat on a day.
Around were the mighty ones of the land,
And up in a balcony, close at hand,
The ladies in bright array.

And as with his finger a sign he made,
Wide opened the gates in the palisade;
A lion is seen
With stately mien.
He glares around,
But makes no sound;
He yawns disdain,
And shakes his mane,
And stretching once more,
Lies down on the floor.

Another sign is made by the King
A neighbouring portal open to fling —

Sweet songs of nightingale and lark
That greet the golden dawn,
Or twilight deepening into dark,
By mountain, grove, or lawn;
Long days, clear nights, and balmy winds,
Fresh flowers and forest leaves,
Birds, blossoms, fruits of ruddy rinds,
New hay, and barley sheaves;
All joys of nature, sounds or sights
Of forest, stream, or plain,
Ye're welcome, welcome, welcome ever,
And welcome back again.

Fair hopes, forgotten 'mid our toils;
Sweet visions dreamed of yore,
Calm thoughts effaced in life's turmoils,

Give me the man, however old and staid,
Or worn with sorrow and perplexity,
Who, when he walks in sunshine or in shade,
By woodland bowers, or bare beach of the sea,
O'er hill-top, or in valleys green with me,
Throws off his age, and gambols like a child,
And finds a boyish pleasure in the wild,
Rejuvenescent on the flowery lea:
Him shall the years press lightly as he goes;
The kindly wisdom gathered in the fields
Shall be his antidote to worldly woes;
And the o'erflowing joy that nature yields

I like, at times, to hear the steeples' chimes
With sober thoughts impressively that mingle;
But sometimes, too, I rather like — don't you? —
To hear the music of the sleigh bells' jingle.

I like full well the deep resounding swell
Of mighty symphonies with chords inwoven;
But sometimes, too, a song of Burns — don't you?
After a solemn storm-blast of Beethoven.

Good to the heels the well-worn slipper feels