The Blue Poetry Book. Lang Andrew

      Look not thou on beauty’s charming, —

      Sit thou still when kings are arming, —

      Taste not when the wine-cup glistens, —

      Speak not when the people listens, —

      Stop thine ear against the singer, —

      From the red gold keep thy finger, —

      Vacant heart, and hand, and eye,

      Easy live and quiet die.

      The sun upon the lake is low,

      The wild birds hush their song;

      The hills have evening’s deepest glow,

      Yet Leonard tarries long.

      Now all whom varied toil and care

      From home and love divide,

      In the calm sunset may repair

      Each to the loved one’s side.

      The noble dame on turret high,

      Who waits her gallant knight,

      Looks to the western beam to spy

      The flash of armour bright.

      The village maid, with hand on brow

      The level ray to shade,

      Upon the footpath watches now

      For Colin’s darkening plaid.

      Now to their mates the wild swans row,

      By day they swam apart;

      And to the thicket wanders slow

      The hind beside the hart.

      The woodlark at his partner’s side

      Twitters his closing song —

      All meet whom day and care divide, —

      But Leonard tarries long!

      Orpheus with his lute made trees,

      And the mountain tops that freeze,

      Bow themselves when he did sing:

      To his music, plants and flowers

      Ever sprung; as sun and showers

      There had made a lasting spring.

      Everything that heard him play,

      Even the billows of the sea,

      Hung their heads, and then lay by.

      In sweet music is such art,

      Killing care and grief of heart

      Fall asleep, or, hearing, die.

      As I was walking all alane,

      I heard twa corbies making a mane;

      The tane unto the t’other say,

      ‘Whar sall we gang and dine the day?’

      ’In behint yon auld fail2 dyke,

      I wot there lies a new-slain knight;

      And naebody kens that he lies there

      But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.

      ’His hound is to the hunting gane,

      His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,

      His lady’s ta’en another mate,

      So we may make our dinner sweet.

      ’Ye’ll sit on his white hause bane,

      And I’ll pike out his bonny blue e’en:

      Wi’ ae lock o’ his gowden hair,

      We’ll theek our nest when it grows bare.

      ‘Mony a one for him makes mane,

      But nane sall ken whae he is gane:

      O’er his white banes, when they are bare,

      The wind sall blaw for evermair.’

      Thou wast all to me, love,

      For which my soul did pine —

      A green isle in the sea, love,

      A fountain and a shrine,

      All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,

      And all the flowers were mine.

      Ah, dream, too bright to last!

      Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise

      But to be overcast!

      A voice from out the Future cries,

      ‘On! on!’ – but o’er the Past

      (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies

      Mute, motionless, aghast!

      For, alas! alas! with me

      The light of Life is o’er!

      ‘No more – no more – no more’ —

      (Such language holds the solemn sea

      To the sands upon the shore)

      Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,

      Or the stricken eagle soar!

      And all my days are trances,

      And all my nightly dreams

      Are where thy dark eye glances,

      And where thy footstep gleams;

      In what ethereal dances,

      By what eternal streams.

      Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair.

      Now the sun is laid to sleep,

      Seated in thy silver chair,

      State in wonted manner keep:

      Hesperus entreats thy light,

      Goddess excellently bright.

      Earth, let not thy envious shade

      Dare itself to interpose;

      Cynthia’s shining orb was made

      Heav’n to clear, when day did close:

      Bless us then with wished sight,

      Goddess excellently bright.

      Lay thy bow of pearl apart

      And

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