That it may grow and sprout as high as heaven,
For recordation to my noble husband.

'Tis with my

North. Come, come, go in with me.
As with the tide swelled up unto his height,
That makes a still-stand, running neither way:
Fain would I go to meet the archbishop,
But many thousand reasons hold me back.
I will resolve for Scotland there am I,
Till time and vantage crave my company.

[mind

W. Shakespeare.

CCXXXIX.

TO NIGHT.

WIFTLY walk over the western wave,

Spirit of Night!

Out of the misty eastern cave,
Where, all the long and lone daylight,
Thou movest dreams of joy and fear
Which make thee terrible and dear,—
Swift be thy flight!

Wrap thy form in a mantle grey,
Star-inwrought!

Blind with thine hair the eyes of day,
Kiss her until she be wearied out,
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land,
Touching all with thine opiate wand—
Come long-sought !

When I arose and saw the dawn,
I sighed for thee;

When light rode high, and the dew was gone,

And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,

And the weary Day turned to his rest,
Lingering like an unloved guest,

I sighed for thee.

Thy brother Death came,

and cried,

Wouldst thou me?

Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
Murmured like a noon-tide bee,
Shall I nestle near thy side?
Wouldst thou me?—And I replied,
No, not thee!

Death will come when thou art dead,
Soon, too soon-

Sleep will come when thou art fled;
Of neither would I ask the boon
I ask of thee, belovéd Night—
Swift be thine approaching flight,
Come soon, soon!

P. B. Shelley.

CCXL.

AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT.

T the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping,

I fly

To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm

in thine eye;

And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of

air,

To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,

And tell me our love is remembered, even in the sky.

Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such pleasure to

hear!

When our voices commingling breathed, like one, on the

ear;

And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,

I think, oh my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls,

Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear. T. Moore.

CCXLI.

THE MARKET-WIFE'S SONG.

HE butter an' the cheese weel stowit they be,
I sit on the hen-coop the eggs on my knee,
The lang kail' jigs as we jog owre the rigs,

The gray mare's tail it wags wi' the kail,
The warm simmer sky is blue aboon a',

An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels twa.

I sit on the coop, I look straight before,
But my heart it is awa' the braid ocean owre,

I see the bluidy fiel' where my ain bonny chiel'

My wee bairn o' a' 'gaed to fight or to fa',

An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels twa.

I see the gran' toun o' the big forrin' loon,

I hear the cannon soun', I see the reek2 aboon;

It may be lang John lettin' off his gun,

It

may be the mist-your mither disna wist—

It may be the kirk, it may be the ha',

An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels twa.

An' I ken the Black Sea, ayont the rock o' dool,3
Like a muckle blot o' ink in a buik fra' the schule,
An' Jock! it gars me min' o' your buikies lang syne,
An' mindin' o' it a' the tears begin to fa',

An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels twa.

1 Kail, greens. 2 Reek, smoke. 3 Dool, sorrow, rock o' dool-Sebastopol.

Then a bull roars fra' the scaur,1 ilka rock's a bull agen, An' I hear the trump o' war, an' the carse is fu' o' men, Up an' doun the morn I ken the bugle horn,

Ilka birdie sma' is a fleein' cannon ba',

An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels twa.

Guid Heavens! the Russian host! We maun e'en gie up for lost!

Gin ye gain the battle hae ye countit a' the cost?

Ye may win a gran' name, but wad wee Jock come hame ?
Dinna fecht, dinna fecht! there's room for us a',
An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels twa.

In vain, in vain, in vain! They are marchin' near an' far!
Wi' swords an' wi' slings an' wi' instruments o' war!
Oh, day sae dark an' sair! ilka man seven feet an' mair!
I bow my head an' say, 'Gin the Lord wad smite them a'!'
An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels twa.

Then forth fra' their ban' there steps an armed man,
His tairge3 at his breast an' his claymore in his han',
His gowd pow1 glitters fine, an' his shadow fa's behin',
I think o' great Goliath as he stan's before them a',
An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels twa.

To meet the Philistine leaps a laddie fra' our line,
Oh, my heart! oh, my heart! 'tis that wee lad o' mine!
I start to my legs-an' doun fa' the eggs-

The cocks an' hens a' they cackle an' they ca',

An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels twa.

Oh, Jock, my Hielan' lad-oh, Jock, my Hielan' lad,
Never till I saw thee that moment was I glad!
Aye sooner sud5 thou dee before thy mither's ee'
Than a man o' the clan sud hae stept out but thee!

1 Scaur, bare, steep hill-side.

3 Tairge, target-shield.

2 Carse, low land near a river.

Pow, literally, poll, for head-meaning here, helmet.

5 Sud, should.

An' sae I cry to God-while the hens cackle a',

An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels twa. S. Dobell.

CCXLII.

WOAK HILL.

(IN THE Dorset dialect.)

HEN sycamore leaves wer a-spreadèn
Green-ruddy in hedges,

Bezide the red dowst o' the ridges,
A-dried at Woak Hill;

I packed up my traps, all a-sheenèn
Wi' long years o' handlèn,

On dowsty red wheels ov a waggon,
To ride to Woak Hill.

The brown thatchen rwof o' the dwellèn,
I then wer a-leäven,

Vu'st' sheltered the sleek head o' Meäry,
My bride at Woak Hill.

But now o' leäte years, her light voot-vall
'S a-lost vrom the vloorèn.3

Too soon vor my jaÿ an' my childern,
She died at Woak Hill.

But still I do think that, in soul,
She do hover about us;

To ho1 vor her motherless childern,
Her pride at Woak Hill.

Zoo-lest she should tell me hereafter

1 Woak, oak.

I stole off 'ithout her,

2 Vu'st, first.

3 Vlooren, floor. 5 Zoo, so.

Ho. Anglo-Saxon Hogian, to be careful or anxious.