Grig ih, Farran & Company.
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,I F M*L.,
L The Baldmu Lbrary
m7^ n _
The original Verses are by
E. Nisbet and Caris Brooke.
Thanks are due to Eirikr Magnisson Esq., for permission
to use the translations from Runeberg.
The Illustrations are by
Mary E. Butler, Giacomelli, H. Bannermann, H Whatley,
Robert Ellice Mack, W. G. Addison, A. M Clausen,
G. H. Thompson, A. Wilde Parsons, Julius Luz, and George Clausen;
and the book is produced and printed
by Ernest Nister of Nuremberg.
All rights reserved.
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i uu. OlesbiL.
and Fkoberl- 8i ,... mack
HE evening comes, the fields are still,
The tinkle of the thirsty rill,
Unheard all day, ascends again;
Deserted is the half-mown plain,
Silent the swaths! the ringing wain,
The mowers' cry, the dogs' alarms,
All housed within the sleeping farms
SThe business of the day is done,
The last-left haymaker is gone.
And from the thyme upon the height,
And from the elder-blossom white
And pale dog-roses
in the hedge,
And from the mint-plant
in the sedge,
In puffs of balm the night-air blows
The perfume which the day foregoes.
And on the pure horizon far,
See, pulsing with-The first-born star,
The liquid sky above the hill
The evening comes, the fields are still.
T is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale's high note is heard,
It is the hour when lover's vows
Seem sweet in every whisper'd word;
And gentle winds, and waters near
Make music to the lonely ear.
-HERE be you going, you Devon maid?
And what have ye there in the basket?
Ye tight little fairy, just fresh from the dairy,
Will ye give me some cream if I ask it?
I love your hills and I love your dales,
And I love your flocks a bleating;
But oh, on the heather to lie together,
S With both our hearts a-beatingl
I'll put your basket all safe in a nook;
Your shawl I'll hang on a willow,
And we will sigh in the daisy's eye,
And kiss on a grass-green pillow.
'' s.l'-~1L~ ,I
'lu :' r
GE pauses on his toilsome way
STo let youth pluck her flowers of play;
, Flowers are not always, but one may
Cut thorns and thistles any day!
Would Fate but hold her hand one hour,
Then might we pluck love's perfect flower-
Yet full security might miss
The perfume of one hour like this.
For all our joys are snatched from Fate
Through years her ban makes desolate,
We wrest our love from doubt and fear,
And find it so, more sweet, more dear.
S 7T HE sea is at ebb
:J and the sound of her
Is soft as the least wave's lapse
in a still, small reach.
A. C. SWINBURNE.
T HERE is a singing in the summer air,
The blue and brown moths flutter o'er the grass,
The stubble bird is creaking in the wheat,
And perch'd upon the honeysuckle hedge
Pipes the green linnet. Oh, the golden world 1
The stir of life on every blade of grass,
The motion and the joy on every bough,
The glad feast every where, for things that love
The sunshine, and for things that love the shade.
T HOUindeed, little swallow,
SA sweet yearly corner,
Art building a hollow
New nest every summer,
And straight does depart
Where no gazing can follow,
Past Memphis, down Nile!
Ah, but Love all the while
Builds his nest in my heart
Through the cold winter weeks.
E. B. BROWNING.
H A VE you seen but a bright lily grow
j Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall of the snow
Before the soil has smutched it?
Have you felt the wool of the beaver?
Or swans-down ever?
Or have smelt o' the bud of the briar?
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag o' the bee?
Oh so white Oh so softly Oh so sweet is shell
u- indeed little ,. -, .
,4 sweet yearly correr
\Ari :,in. a hollow
;. *" i e ejery satr\muer
^|> \ .~~- ^ ,- .^--x. -,....
S UR heart in all our life is like the hand of one who steers
A bark upon an ocean rife with dangers and with fears;
The joys, the hopes, like waves or wings bear up this life of ours,
Short as a song of all these things that make up all its hours.
Spread sail for it is hope to day that like a wind new-risen
Doth waft us on a golden wing towards a new horizon!
That is the sun before our sight, the beacon for us burning
Love is the light of all our night of watching and of yearning I
ARTHUR O' SHAUGHNESSY.
1e sv)eelt thnA looked,
but did not speak
A/ GAINST her ankles as she trod
The lucky buttercups did nod,
I leaned upon the gate to see:
The sweet thing looked, but did not speak;
A dimple came in either cheek,
And all my heart was gone from me.
CWEET are the lanes and the hedges-
the fields made red with the clover,
With tall field-sorrel, and daisies,
and golden butter cups glowing;
Sweet is the way through the woods
where at sundown maiden and lover
Linger by stile and by bank
where wild clematis is growing;
Fair is our world when the dew and the dawn
thrill the half opened roses,
Fair when the corn fields grow warm
with poppies in noonlight gleaming
Fair through the long afternoon,
when hedges and hay-fields lie dreaming,
Fair as in lessening light the last convolvulous closes.
Scent of geranium and musk,
that in cottage windows run riot;
Breath from the grass that is down
in the meadows each side the highway;
Slumberous hush of the churchyard
where we some day may lie quiet,
Murmering wind through the leaves
bent over the meadows by way;
Deeps of cool shadow, and gleams of light
in high elm-tops shining,
Such peace in the dim green brake
as the town save in dreams knows never!
N OTin rich glebe, or ripe green gardens only
Does summer weave her sweet resistless spells--
But in high hills and moorlands still and lonely
The vast enchantment of her presence dwells.
Wide sky, and sky-wide waste of thyme and heather,
Soft never-ceasing hum of golden bees-
If only we were there-we two together
Free from the weight of all your garden's trees
Mine is the North;-though bred by elm and meadow
Pines, torrents, rocks and moors my heart loves best;
I love the plovers wail, the cleft hill's shadow,
The heath and grass that are the sky-lark's nest-
Ah yes-you too I love-dear wistful pleader,
You most I love and rather, I must own
Would lounge with you under your garden-cedar
That greet the Moor's broad heaven on earth, alone.
ba1 ts am i e oon
.. WEET is my love so sweet,
. The leaves that, fold on fold,
S* Swathe up the odours of the rose,
Less sweetness hold.
THE FL 0WER'S LOT.
/ ONG summer's babes I saw a rose one day,
J In the beginning of its flowery lease,
With purple cheek, lapped in the bud it lay,
And dreamt but of its innocence and peace.
"Thou pretty floweret, wake, thine eye lift up,
With life's sweet lot thyself to satisfy,"
Said, fluttering over leaf and flower-cup,
The wanton, gold-besprinkled butterfly.
"See, dark and poor appears thy dwelling slight,
As reft of joy thy heart is beating there;
Here gladness liveth, gloweth day's broad light,
And here await thee love and kisses fair."
Upon the floweret's soul the speech did tell,
Soon to the flatterer she her mouth lay bare,
The butterfly then kissed her;-bade farewell
And to fresh rosebuds swiftly did repair.
Translated by Magnisson and Palmer.
MY Luve's like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June:
O my Luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
SAnd I will luve thee still, my Dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry:
Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will luve thee still, my Dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only Luve
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
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ATHER ye rosebuds Axl l,:. ic ,:
Old Time is still a-fl} I I
And this same flower
that smiles to day.
To-morrow will be dx Hn.:.
Then be not coy, but use yoir tIl,-c
And while ye may, go mar 'r.
For having lost but once your I '! Ie.
You may for ever tarry.
) OUGH winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade
When in eternal lines to time thou growest.
r r L
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