Alas! alas! fair Ines! she went away with song,
With music waiting on her steps, and shoutings of the throng;
But some were sad, and felt no mirth, but only Music’s wrong,
In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell to her you’ve loved so long.

Farewell, farewell, fair Ines! that vessel never bore
So fair a lady on its deck, nor danced so light before—­
Alas for pleasure on the sea, and sorrow on the shore! 
The smile that blest one lover’s heart has broken many more!

THOMAS HOOD.

THE BANKS O’ DOON.

Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon,
  How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? 
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
  And I sae weary, fu’ o’ care?

Thou’lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,
  That wantons through the flowering thorn;
Thou minds me o’ departed joys,
  Departed—­never to return.

Thou’lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird,
  That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
  And wistna o’ my fate.

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,
  To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And ilka bird sang o’ its luve,
  And, fondly, sae did I o’ mine.

Wi’ lightsome heart I pou’d a rose,
  Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree;
And my fause luver stole my rose,
  But ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.

ROBERT BURNS.

SONNET.

     FROM “ASTROPHEL AND STELLA.”

With how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb’st the skies,
How silently, and with how wan a face! 
What may it be, that even in heavenly place
That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries? 
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel’st a lover’s case;
I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. 
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deemed there but want of wit? 
Are beauties there as proud as here they be? 
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? 
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

AGATHA.

She wanders in the April woods,
  That glisten with the fallen shower;
She leans her face against the buds,
  She stops, she stoops, she plucks a flower. 
  She feels the ferment of the hour: 
She broodeth when the ringdove broods;
  The sun and flying clouds have power
Upon her cheek and changing moods. 
  She cannot think she is alone,
    As over her senses warmly steal
  Floods of unrest she fears to own
    And almost dreads to feel.