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He left the past year's dwelling for the new,
its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old
Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
Child of the wandering sea,
Cast from her lap, forlorn!
While on mine ear it rings,
that sings :
Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll !
Leave thy low-vaulted past !
Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
The pines were dark on Ramoth hill,
Their song was soft and low ;
Were falling like the snow.
The blossoms drifted at our feet,
It seemed of all the year.
For, more to me than birds or flowers,
My playmate left her home, And took with her the laughing spring,
The music and the bloom.
She kissed the lips of kith and kin,
She laid her hand in mine : What more could ask the bashful boy
Who fed her father's kine ?
She left us in the bloom of May:
The constant years told o'er The seasons with as sweet May morns,
But she came back no more.
I walk, with noiseless feet, the round
Of uneventful years ;
And reap the autumn ears.
She lives where all the golden year
Her summer roses blow; The dusky children of the sun
Before her come and go.
There haply with her jewelled hands
No more the homespun lap wherein
I shook the walnuts down.
The wild grapes wait us by the brook,
The brown nuts on the hill, And still the May-day flowers make sweet
The woods of Follymill.
The lilies blossom in the pond,
The bird builds in the tree,
The slow song of the sea.
I wonder if she thinks of them,
And how the old time seems,
Are sounding in her dreams !
I see her face, I hear her voice :
Does she remember mine? And what to her is now the boy
Who fed her father's kine ?
What cares she that the orioles build
And other laps with flowers ?
seat is green,
O playmate in the golden time!
The old trees o'er it lean.
The winds so sweet with birch and fern
The song of long ago.
And still the pines of Ramoth wood
Are moaning like the sea,
John Greenleaf Whittier.
Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West ! Through all the wide Border his steed is the best ; And, save his good broadsword, he weapons had
none; He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar!
He stay'd not for brake and he stopp'd not for
stone; He swam the Eske river where ford there was
none ; But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented; the gallant came late ; For a laggard in love and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his
sword, For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word, Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in
war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?”
“I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you de
nied; Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide ; And now am I come with this lost Love of mine To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far That would gladly be bride to the young Lochin
The bride kiss'd the goblet, the knight took it up, He quaff’d off the wine and he threw down the
cup; She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to
sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye :He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar; “Now tread we a measure ! said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
plume; And the bride-maidens whispered, “ 'T were better
To have match'd our fair cousin with