For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.

It was only to hear the yorlin sing, And pu' the cress flower round the spring

The scarlet hypp, and the hind berry, And the nut that hangs frae the hazel tree;

For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.

But lang may her minny look o'er the wa',

And lang may she seek in the greenwood shaw;

Lang the laird of Duneira blame, And lang, lang greet ere Kilmeny come hame.

When many a day had come and fled, When grief grew calm, and hope was dead,

When mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung,

When the bedesman had prayed, and the dead-bell rung, Late, late in a gloamin, when all was still,

When the fringe was red on the westlin hill,

The wood was sere, the moon in the wane,

The reek of the cot hung over the plain

Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane;

When the ingle glowed with an eiry flame,

Late, late in a gloamin, Kilmeny

66

came hame!

'Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?

Long hae we sought baith holt and den

By linn, by ford, and greenwood tree; Yet you are halesome and fair to see. Where got you that joup o' the lily sheen?

That bonny snood of the birk sae green?

And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen?

Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?"

Kilmeny looked up with a lovely grace,

But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's

face;

As still was her look, and as still was her ee,

As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea,

Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless

sea.

For Kilmeny had been she knew not where,

And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare;

Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew,

Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew;

But it seemed as the harp of the sky had rung,

And the airs of heaven played round her tongue,

When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen,

And a land where sin had never been

A land of love and a land of light, Withouten sun, or moon, or night; And lovely beings round were rife, Who erst had travelled mortal life; They clasped her waist and her hands sae fair,

They kissed her cheek and they kemed her hair;

And round came many a blooming fere,

Saying, "Bonny Kilmeny, ye're welcome here!

Oh, bonny Kilmeny, free frae stain, If ever you seek the world again That world of sin, of sorrow, and

FANTASY.

BREAK, Fantasy, from thy cave of cloud,

And spread thy purple wings,
Now all thy figures are allowed,
And various shapes of things;
Create of airy forms a stream,
It must have blood, and nought of
phlegm,

And, though it be a waking dream,
Yet let it like an odor rise

To all the senses here,

And fall like sleep upon their eyes,
Or music in their ear.

BEN JONSON.

PHOENIX AND TURTLE DOVE.

LET the bird of loudest lay,
On the sole Arabian tree,
Herald sad and trumpet be,

To whose sound chaste wings obey.

But thou shrieking harbinger,
Foul pre-currer of the fiend,
Augur of the fever's end,

To this troop come thou not near.

From this session interdict
Every fowl of tyrant wing,
Save the eagle, feathered king;
Keep the obsequy so strict.

Let the priest in surplice white
That defunctive music can,
Be the death-divining swan,
Lest the requiem lack his right.

And thou treble-dated crow,
That thy sable gender mak'st
With the breath thou giv'st and
tak'st,

'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.

So they loved, as love in twain
Had the essence but in one;
Two distincts, division none:
Number there in love was slain.

Hearts remote, yet not asunder; Distance, and no space was seen 'Twixt the turtle and his queen: But in them it were a wonder.

So between them love did shine, That the turtle saw his right

Flaming in the Phoenix' sight: Either was the other's mine.

Property was thus appalled, That the self was not the same; Single nature's double name Neither two nor one was called.

Reason, in itself confounded,
Saw division grow together;
To themselves yet either-neither,
Simple was so well compounded:

That it cried, How true a twain Seemeth this concordant one! Love hath reason, reason none, If what parts can so remain.

Whereupon it made this threne To the Phoenix and the dove, Co-supremes and stars of love; As chorus to their tragic scene.

THRENOS.

BEAUTY, truth, and rarity,
Grace in all simplicity,
Here enclosed in cinders lie.

Death is now the Phoenix' nest;
And the turtle's loyal breast
To eternity doth rest,

Leaving no posterity:—
'Twas not their infirmity,
It was married chastity.

Truth may seem, but cannot be; Beauty brag, but 'tis not she; Truth and beauty buried be.

To this urn let those repair
That are either true or fair;
For these dead birds sigh a prayer.
SHAKSPEARE.

COMPLIMENT TO QUEEN ELIZABETH.

My gentle Puck, come hither, thou

remember'st

Since once I sat upon a promontory, And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back,

Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath,

That the rude sea grew civil at her

song;

And certain stars shot madly from their spheres,

To hear the sea-maid's music.

That very time, I saw, but thou couldst not,

Flying between the cold moon and the earth,

Cupid all armed: a certain aim he took

At a fair vestal, throned by the west;

And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow,

As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts:

But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft

Quenched in the chaste beams of the watery moon,

And the imperial votaress passed on, In maiden meditation, fancy-free. Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell;

It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound,

And maidens call it Love-in-idle

Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,

Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are: Sometimes she gallops o'er a courtier's nose,

And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;

And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail,

Tickling a parson's nose as he lies asleep,

Then dreams he of another benefice:

Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,

And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,

Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,

Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon

Drums in his ear, at which he starts, and wakes,

And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,

And sleeps again. This is that very Mab

That plaits the manes of horses in the night,

And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs,

Which once untangled, much misfortune bodes.

SHAKSPEARE: Romeo and Juliet.