That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal Mind,-
Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!

On whom those truths do rest

Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou, over whom thy Immortality
Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,
A Presence which is not to be put by;
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That Nature yet remembers

What was so fugitive!

The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not, indeed,

For that which is most worthy to be blest,

Delight and liberty, the simple creed

Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,

With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his

breast:

-Not for these I raise

The song of thanks and praise;

But for those obstinate questionings

Of sense and outward things,

Fallings from us, vanishings;
Blank misgivings of a creature

Moving about in worlds not realised,

High instincts, before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:

But for those first affections,

Those shadowy recollections,

Which, be they what they may,

Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
To perish never;

Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Nor man nor boy,

Nor all that is at enmity with joy,

Can utterly abolish or destroy!

Hence, in a season of calm weather,

Though inland far we be,

Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither;

Can in a moment travel thither

And see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young lambs bound

As to the tabor's sound!

We, in thought, will join your throng,

Ye that pipe and ye that play,

Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!

What though the radiance which was once so

bright

Be now for ever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy

Which, having been, must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;

In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and
Groves,

Forbode not any severing of our loves!

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;

I only have relinquished one delight

To live beneath your more habitual sway:

I love the brooks which down their channels fret Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born day

Is lovely yet;

The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye

That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are

won.

Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

SIR WALTER SCOTT

1771-1832

PROUD MAISIE

PROUD Maisie is in the wood,

Walking so early;

Sweet Robin sits on the bush,

Singing so rarely.

'Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me?' 'When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye.'

'Who makes the bridal bed,

Birdie, say truly?'

'The grey-headed sexton

That delves the grave duly

'The glowworm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady;

The owl from the steeple sing
Welcome, proud lady.'

A WEARY LOT IS THINE

'A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine!

To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine.

A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
A feather of the blue,

A doublet of the Lincoln green

No more of me you knew,
My Love!

No more of me you knew.

'This morn is merry June, I trow,

The rose is budding fain;

But she shall bloom in winter snow
Ere we two meet again.'

He turned his charger as he spake
Upon the river shore,

He gave the bridle-reins a shake,
Said, 'Adieu for evermore,
My Love!

And adieu for evermore.'

THE MAID OF NEIDPATH

O LOVERS' eyes are sharp to see,
And lovers' ears in hearing;

And love, in life's extremity,

Can lend an hour of cheering. Disease had been in Mary's bower

And slow decay from mourning, Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower To watch her love's returning.

All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,
Her form decayed by pining,

Till through her wasted hand, at night,
You saw the taper shining