My love was false, but I was firm From my hour of birth.

Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth!

John Fletcher [1579-1625]

A BALLAD From the "What-d'ye-call-it"

'Twas when the seas were roaring With hollow blasts of wind, A damsel lay deploring, All on a rock reclined.

Wide o'er the foaming billows She cast a wistful look; Her head was crowned with willows, That trembled o'er the brook.

"Twelve months are gone and over, And nine long tedious days; Why didst thou, venturous lover, Why didst thou trust the seas?

Cease, cease thou cruel ocean, And let my lover rest; Ah! what's thy troubled motion To that within my breast?

"The merchant robbed of pleasure, Sees tempests in despair; But what's the loss of treasure, To losing of my dear?

Should you some coast be laid on, Where gold and diamonds grow, You'd find a richer maiden, But none that loves you so.

"How can they say that nature Has nothing made in vain; Why then, beneath the water, Should hideous rocks remain?

No eyes the rocks discover That lurk beneath the deep, To wreck the wandering lover, And leave the maid to weep."

All melancholy lying, Thus wailed she for her dear; Repaid each blast with sighing, Each billow with a tear.

When, o'er the white wave stooping, His floating corpse she spied, Then, like a lily drooping, She bowed her head, and died.

John Gay [1685-1732]

THE BRAES OF YARROW

Thy braes were bonnie, Yarrow stream, When first on them I met my lover: Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream, When now thy waves his body cover!

Forever now, O Yarrow stream!

Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; For never on thy banks shall I Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow.

He promised me a milk-white steed, To bear me to his father's bowers; He promised me a little page, To squire me to his father's towers; He promised me a wedding-ring,-- The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow; Now he is wedded to his grave, Alas! his watery grave, in Yarrow.

Sweet were his words when last we met: My pa.s.sion I as freely told him: Clasped in his arms, I little thought That I should never more behold him!

Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost; It vanished with a shriek of sorrow; Thrice did the water-wraith ascend, And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow.

His mother from the window looked, With all the longing of a mother; His little sister weeping walked The greenwood path to meet her brother.

They sought him east, they sought him west, They sought him all the forest thorough; They only saw the cloud of night, They only heard the roar of Yarrow!

No longer from thy window look,-- Thou hast no son, thou tender mother!

No longer walk, thou little maid; Alas! thou hast no more a brother.

No longer seek him east or west, And search no more the forest thorough; For, wandering in the night so dark, He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow.

The tear shall never leave my cheek, No other youth shall be my marrow: I'll seek thy body in the stream, And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.

The tear did never leave her cheek, No other youth became her marrow; She found his body in the stream, And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.

John Logan [1748-1788]

THE CHURCHYARD ON THE SANDS

My love lies in the gates of foam, The last dear wreck of sh.o.r.e; The naked sea-marsh binds her home, The sand her chamber door.

The gray gull flaps the written stones, The ox-birds chase the tide; And near that narrow field of bones Great ships at anchor ride.

Black piers with crust of dripping green, One foreland, like a hand, O'er intervals of gra.s.s between Dim lonely dunes of sand.

A church of silent weathered looks, A breezy reddish tower, A yard whose mounded resting-nooks Are tinged with sorrel flower.

In peace the swallow's eggs are laid Along the belfry walls; The tempest does not reach her shade, The rain her silent halls.

But sails are sweet in summer sky, The lark throws down a lay; The long salt levels steam and dry, The cloud-heart melts away.

But patches of the sea-pink shine, The pied crows poise and come; The mallow hangs, the bind-weeds twine, Where her sweet lips are dumb.

The pa.s.sion of the wave is mute; No sound or ocean shock; No music save the trilling flute That marks the curlew flock.

But yonder when the wind is keen, And rainy air is clear, The merchant city's spires are seen, The toil of men grows near.

Along the coast-way grind the wheels Of endless carts of coal; And on the sides of giant keels The shipyard hammers roll.

The world creeps here upon the shout, And stirs my heart to pain; The mist descends and blots it out, And I am strong again.

Strong and alone, my dove, with thee; And though mine eyes be wet, There's nothing in the world to me So dear as my regret.

I would not change my sorrow sweet For others' nuptial hours; I love the daisies at thy feet More than their orange flowers.

My hand alone shall tend thy tomb From leaf-bud to leaf-fall, And wreathe around each season's bloom Till autumn ruins all.

Let snowdrops early in the year Droop o'er her silent breast; And bid the later cowslip rear The amber of its crest.

Come hither, linnets tufted-red; Drift by, O wailing tern; Set pure vale lilies at her head, At her feet lady-fern.

Grow, samphire, at the tidal brink, Wave pansies of the sh.o.r.e, To whisper how alone I think Of her for evermore.

Bring blue sea-hollies th.o.r.n.y, keen, Long lavender in flower; Gray wormwood like a h.o.a.ry queen, Stanch mullein like a tower.

O sea-wall, mounded long and low, Let iron bounds be thine; Nor let the salt wave overflow That breast I held divine.

Nor float its sea-weed to her hair, Nor dim her eyes with sands; No fluted c.o.c.kle burrow where Sleep folds her patient hands.

Though thy crest feel the wild sea's breath, Though tide-weight tear thy root, Oh, guard the treasure-house, where death Has bound my Darling mute.