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RUTH

She stood breast-high amid the corn,
Clasp'd by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush,
Deeply ripen'd; - such a blush

;
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell,
Which were blackest, none could tell,
But long lashes veil'd a light,
That had else been all too bright,

And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim;
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks:-

Sure, I said, Heav'n did not mean,
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean,
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,
Share my harvest and my home.

THOMAS HOOD A BOY'S SONG

WHERE the pools are bright and deep,
Where the gray trout lies asleep,
Up the river and over the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the blackbird sings the latest,
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,
Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
Where the hay lies thick and greenest,
There to track the homeward bee,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the hazel bank is steepest,
Where the shadow falls the deepest,
Where the clustering nuts fall free,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Why the boys should drive away
Little sweet maidens from the play,
Or love to banter and fight so well,
That's the thing I never could tell.

But this I know, I love to play
Through the meadow, among the hay,
Up the water and over the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.

JAMES HOGG

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER

A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound

Cries “Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound

To row us o'er the ferry!”

“Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,

This dark and stormy water?” "O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,

And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.

“And fast before her father's men

Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather.

“His horsemen hard behind us ride

Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride

When they have slain her lover?”

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,

“I'll go, my chief, I'm ready: It is not for your silver bright,

But for your winsome lady:

"And by my word! the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry; So though the waves are raging white

I'll row you o'er the ferry.

By this the storm grew loud apace,

The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face

Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind

And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armèd men,

Their trampling sounded nearer.

"O haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,

“Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father.”

The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her,
When, oh! too strong for human hand

The tempest gather'd o'er her.

And still they row'd amidst the roar

Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,

His wrath was changed to wailing.

For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade

His child he did discover:
One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,

And one was round her lover.

“Come back! come back!” he cried in grief

“Across this stormy water:

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter! - O my daughter!”

"T was vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,

Return or aid preventing:
The waters wild went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.

THOMAS CAMPBELL

A DESCRIPTION OF THE SPRING

And now all nature seemed in love;
The lusty sap began to move;
New juice did stir the embracing vines,
And birds had drawn their valentines;
The jealous trout that now did lie,
Rose at a well-dissembled fly:
There stood my friend with patient skill,
Attending of his trembling quill.
Already were the eaves possessed
With the swift pilgrim's daubèd nest:
The groves already did rejoice
In Philomel's triumphing voice.
The showers were short, the weather mild,
The morning fresh, the evening smiled.
Joan takes her neat-rubbed pail and now
She trips to milk the sand-red cow;
Where, for some sturdy football swain,
Joan strokes a sillabub or twain.
The fields and gardens were beset
With tulip, crocus, violet;

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