The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume Iii Part 25

Love is timid, love is shy, Can you tell me, tell me why?

Love, like the lonely nightingale, Will pour her heart, when all is lone; Nor will repeat, amidst the vale, Her notes to any, but to one.

Can you tell me, tell me why Love is timid, love is shy?

RAVEN'S STREAM.

My love, come let us wander Where Raven's streams meander, And where, in simple grandeur, The daisy decks the plain.

Peace and joy our hours shall measure; Come, oh! come, my soul's best treasure!

Then how sweet, and then how cheerie, Raven's braes will be, my dearie.

The silver moon is beaming, On Clyde her light is streaming; And, while the world is dreaming, We 'll talk of love, my dear.

None, my Jean, will share this bosom, Where thine image loves to blossom; And no storm will ever sever That dear flow'r, or part us ever.

OH! OUR CHILDHOOD'S ONCE DELIGHTFUL HOURS.

AIR--_"Oh! the days are past when beauty bright."_

Oh! our childhood's once delightful hours Ne'er come again-- Their sunny glens, their blooming bowers, And primrose plain!

With other days, Ambitious rays May flash upon our mind; But give me back the morn of life, With fond thoughts twined; As it sweetly broke on bower and hill, And youth's gay mind!

Oh! our childhood's days are ne'er forgot On life's dark sea, And memory hails that sacred spot Where'er we be; It leaves all joys, And fondly sighs As youth comes on the mind, And looks upon the morn of life With fond thoughts, &c.

When age will come, with locks of gray, To quench youth's spark, And its stream runs cold along the way Where all seems dark, 'Twill smiling gaze, As memory's blaze Breaks on its wavering mind; But 'twill never bring the morn of life, With fond thoughts, &c.

COULD WE BUT LOOK BEYOND OUR SPHERE.

Could we but look beyond our sphere, And trace, along the azure sky, The myriads that were inmates here Since Abel's spirit soar'd on high-- Then might we tell of those who see Our wand'rings from eternity!

But human frailty cannot gaze On such a cloud of splendid light As heaven's sacred court displays, Of blessed spirits clothed in white, Who from the fears of death are free, And look from an eternity.

They look, but ne'er return again To tell the secrets of their home; And kindliest tears for them are vain-- For never, never shall they come, Till Time's pale light begin to flee Before a bright eternity!

Could we but gaze beyond our sphere, Within the golden porch of heaven, And see those spirits which appear Like stars upon the robe of even!

But no! unseen to us they see Our wanderings from eternity!

The crimes of men which Heaven saw, And pitied with a parent's eye, Could ne'er a kindred spirit draw In mercy from its home on high; They look, but all they know or see Is silent as eternity!

At noonday hour, or midnight deep, No bright inhabitant draws nigh; And though a parent's offspring weep, No whisper echoes from the sky; Though friends may gaze, yet all they see Is known but in eternity!

Yet we may look beyond our sphere On One who shines among the throng; And we by faith may also hear The triumphs of a glorious song; And while we gaze on Him, we see The path to this eternity!

IN THE MORNING OF LIFE.

In the morning of life, when its sweet sunny smile Shines bright on our path, we may dream we are blest; We may look on the world as a gay fairy isle, Where sorrow 's unknown, and the weary have rest!

But the brightness that shone, and the hopes we enjoy'd, Are clouded ere noon, and soon vanish away; While the dark beating tempest, on life's stormy tide, Obscures all the sweets of the morning's bright ray!

Then where are those bowers, in some gay, happy plain, Where hope ne'er deceives, and where love is aye true; Where the brightness of morning shines on but to gain A sunshine as bright and as promising too?

Oh! ask for it not in this valley of sighs, Where we smile but to weep, and we ne'er can find rest; For the world we would wish shines afar in the skies, Where sorrow 's unknown--'tis the home of the blest!

ON THE DEATH OF A PROMISING CHILD.

Oh! weep not thus, though the child thou hast loved, Still, still as the grave, in silence sleeps on; 'Midst the tears that are shed, his eye is unmoved, And the beat of that bosom for ever is gone: Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

The world to him, with its sorrows and sighs, Has fled like a dream when the morn appears; While the spirit awakes in the light of the skies, No more to revisit this valley of tears: Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

Few, few were his years; but, had they been more, The sunshine which smiled might have vanish'd away, And he might have fallen on some far friendless sh.o.r.e, Or been wreck'd amidst storms in some desolate bay: Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

Like a rosebud of promise, when fresh in the morn, Was the child of thy heart while he lingered here; But now from thy love, from thine arms he is torn, Yet to bloom in a lovelier, happier sphere: Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

How happy the pilgrim whose journey is o'er, Who, musing, looks back on its dangers and woes; Then rejoice at his rest, for sorrow no more Can start on his dreams, or disturb his repose: Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

Who would not recline on the breast of a friend, When the night-cloud has lower'd o'er a sorrowful day?

Who would not rejoice at his journey's end, When perils and toils encompa.s.s'd his way?

Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

THE DYING HOUR.

Why does the day, whose date is brief, Smile sadly o'er the western sea?

Why does the brown autumnal leaf Hang restless on its parent tree?

Why does the rose, with drooping head, Send richer fragrance from the bow'r?

Their golden time of life had fled-- It was their dying hour!

Why does the swan's melodious song Come thrilling on the gentle gale?

Why does the lamb, which stray'd along, Lie down to tell its mournful tale?