I LOVE my love in the morning,
For she, like morn, is fair—
Her blushing cheek, its crimson streak,
Its clouds, her golden hair;
Her glance, its beam, so soft and kind;
Her tears, its dewy showers!
And her voice the tender whispering wind
That stirs the early bowers.
I love my love in the morning,
I love my love at noon;
For she is bright, as the lord of light,
Yet mild as autumn's moon:
Her beauty is my bosom's sun,
Her faith my fostering shade;
And I will love my darling one,
Till even that sun shall fade.
I love my love in the morning,
I love my love at even;
Her smile's soft play is like the ray
That lights the western heaven;
I loved her when the sun was high,
I loved her when he rose ;
But, best of all when evening's sigh
Was murmuring at its close.
BY THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.
I LOOKIT east-I lookit west,
I saw the darksome coming even;
The wild bird sought its cozy nest,
The kid was to the hamlet driven;
But house nor hame aneath the heaven,
Except the skeugh of greenwood tree,
To seek a shelter it was given,
To my three little bairns and me.
I had a prayer I couldna pray,
I had a vow I couldna breathe,
For aye they led my words astray,
And aye they were connected baith
Wi' ane wha now was cauld in death.
I lookit round wi' watery ee-
Hope wasna there-but I was laith
To see my little babies dee.
Just as the breeze the aspin stirr'd,
And bore aslant the falling dew,
I thought I heard a bonny bird
Singing amid the air sea blue;
It was a lay that did renew
The hope deep sunk in misery ;
It was of one my woes that knew,
And ae kind heart that cared for me.
O, sweet as breaks the rising day,
Or sunbeam through the wavy rain,
Fell on my soul the charming lay!
Was it an angel pour'd the strain?
Whoe'er has kenn'd a mother's pain,
Bent o'er the child upon her knee,
O they will bless, and bless again,
The generous heart that cares for me!
A cot was rear'd by Mercy's hand
Amid the dreary wilderness,
It rose as if by magic wand,
A shelter to forlorn distress;
And weel I ken that Heaven will bless
The heart that issued the decree,
The widow and the fatherless
Can never pray and slighted be.
I DO NOT LOVE THEE.
I Do not love thee!-no! I do not love thee! And yet when thou art absent I am sad;
And envy even the bright blue sky above thee, Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.
I do not love thee!-yet, I know not why, Whate'er thou dost seems still well done, to me-And often in my solitude I sigh—
That those I do love are not more like thee!
I do not love thee!-yet, when thou art gone, I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear) Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear.
I do not love thee!-yet thy speaking eyes, With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue— Between me and the midnight heaven arise, Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.
I know I do not love thee! yet, alas! Others will scarcely trust my candid heart! And oft I catch them smiling as they pass, Because they see me gazing where thou art.
WOULD that the hour you call'd me thine,
Deserted girl, had been our last!
Before the star had ceased to shine
Whose influence then was o'er us cast.
Would that we had not linger'd here,
But, in the stillness of that dream,
Floated to some less troubled sphere,
Like rose-leaves down a summer stream.
Thy heart to loneliness and grief
Then had not been an early prey;
Nor had I felt my fond belief
In life's illusion fade away.
Oh! more-I had not lived to mourn
The choice I in my madness made
Of toys by folly won and worn,
Which left for banish'd peace a shade.
The world-my uncomplaining love—
The world I wooed-avenged thee well-
The golden shower I prized above
Thy young affection on me fell.
The hand of power, the voice of fame,
In later days have both been mine;
But never have I felt the same.
In heart as when you call'd me thine.
LOVE is a plant of holier birth,
Than any that takes its root on earth;
A flower from heaven, which 'tis a crime
To number with the things of time;
Hope in the bud is often blasted,
And beauty on the desert wasted;
And joy, a primrose early gay,
Care's lightest foot-fall treads away.
But love shall live and live for ever,
And chance and change shall reach it never;
Can hearts in which true love is plighted,
By want or woe be disunited?
Ah! no, like buds on one stem born,
They share between them even the thorn
Which round them dwells, but parts them not;
A lorn yet undivided lot.
Can death dissever love, or part
The loved one from the lover's heart?
No, no; he does but guard the prize
Sacred from moral injuries,
Making it purer, holier seem,
As the ice closing o'er the stream,
Keeps, while storms ravage earth and air,
All baser things from mingling there.
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