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For I can live without mankind,
And without mankind I'll dee."

"You shall not live without mankind.
But you shall marry me :

And among the flouirs in my garden,
I'll shape a weed for thee.

"The lilye flouir to be your smock;

It becomes your bodie best;

Your head shall be bushit wi' the gellye-flouir; The primrose in your breist.

"Your gown sall be o' the sweet-william

Your coat o' the cammovine;

Your apron o' the seel of downs

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Come smile, sweetheart o' mine!

'Your gloves shall be o' the green clover,

All glitterin to your hand;

Weil spread ower wi' the blue blawort

That grows among corn-land.

"Your stockings shall be o' the cabbage-leaf,

That is baith braid and lang;

Narrow, narrow at the kute,*

And braid, braid at the braune.*

"Your shoon shall be o' the gude rue red,

I trow it bodes nae ill;

The buckles o' the marygold

Come smile, sweetheart, your fill!"

"Young man, ye've shapit a weed for me Amang the simmer flouirs;

Now I will shape anither for thee

66

Amang the winter showirs.

The snaw so white shall be your shirt,

It becomes your body best;

The cold east wind shall wrap your heid,
And the cold rain on your breist.

"The steed that you shall ride upon
Shall be the weather snell;
Weil bridled wi' the northern wind,
And cold, sharp shouirs o' hail.

* See note on previous page.

"The hat you on your heid shall wear
Shall be o' the weather grey;

And aye when ye come into my sicht,
I'll wish ye were away."

Anonymous.

LINES.

Sweetly breathing vernal air,
That with kind warmth doth repair
Winter's ruins; from whose breast
All the gums and spice of th' East
Borrow their perfumes; whose eye
Gilds the morn and clears the sky;
Whose disshevel'd tresses shed
Pearls upon the violet-bed;

On whose brow, with calm smiles drest,
The halcyon sits and builds her nest;
Beauty, youth, and endless spring,
Dwell upon thy rosy wing!

Thou, if stormy Boreas throws

Down whole forests when he blows,
With a pregnant, flowery birth,
Canst refresh the teeming earth;
If he nip the early bud;

If he blast what's fair and good;
If he scatter our choice flowers;
If he shake our halls and bowers;
If his rude breath threaten us,
Thou canst strike great olus,
And from him the grace obtain,
To bind him in an iron chain.

THOMAS CAREW, about 1600.

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LINES

FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON OF KING ALFRED.

When the sun

Clearest shines

Serenest in the heaven,

Quickly are obscured

Over the earth

All other stars;

Because their brightness is not

Brightness at all

Compared with

The sun's light.

When mild blows

The southwestern wind

Under the clouds,

Then quickly grow

The flowers of the field,
Joyful that they may.
But the stark storm,
When it comes strong
From north and east,
It quickly takes away
The beauty of the rose.
And also the northern storm,
Constrained by necessity,

That it is strongly agitated,

Lashes the spacious sea

Against the shore.

Alas! that our earth

Aught of permanent

Work in the world

Does not ever remain !

REV. S. Fox's version, 800.

THE SUMMER MONTHS.

They come the merry summer months of beauty, love, and flowers;
They come the gladsome months that bring thick leafiness to bowers.
Up, up, my heart! and walk abroad, fling work and care aside;
Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters glide;
Or underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal trees,
See through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tranquillity.

The grass is soft; its velvet touch is grateful to the hand,

And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet and bland;
The daisy and the butter-cup are nodding courteously;

It stirs their blood with kindest love to bless and welcome thee.
And mark how with thine own thin locks, they now are silvery gray-
That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering "Be gay!"

There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon sky

But hath its own winged mariners to give it melody.

Thou see'st their glittering fans outspread, all gleaming like red gold,
And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold.
God bless them all, these little ones, who, far above this earth,
Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth.

But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound-from yonder wood it came;
The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad name.
Yes, it is he! the hermit bird, that apart from all his kind,
Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western winds.
Cuckoo! cuckoo! he sings again—his notes are void of art.
But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heart.
Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed wight like me,
To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer tree!
To suck once more in every breath, their little souls away,
And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's bright summer day;
When rushing forth, like untamed colt, the reckless truant boy-
Wandered through green woods all day long, a mighty heart of joy!
I'm sadder now-I have had cause; but O I'm proud to think
That each pure joy-fount loved of yore I yet delight to drink;
Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm unclouded sky,
Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the days gone by.
When summer's loveliness and light fall round me dark and cold,
I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse, a heart that hath waxed old.
WILLIAM MOTHERWELL, 1797-1585.

VIRTUE.

Sweet day! so calm, so bright,

The bridal of the earth and sky;
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,
For thou must die.

Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;

Thy root is ever in the grave,

And thou must die.

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