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THE GOLDEN WEDDING

O LOVE, whose patient pilgrim feet
Life's longest path have trod;
Whose ministry hath symbolled sweet
The dearer love of God;

The sacred myrtle wreathes again

Thine altar, as of old;

And what was green with summer then,
Is mellowed now to gold.

Not now, as then, the future's face
Is flushed with fancy's light;
But memory, with a milder grace,
Shall rule the feast to-night.
Blest was the sun of joy that shone,

Nor less the blinding shower;

The bud of fifty years agone

Is love's perfected flower.

O memory, ope thy mystic door;
O dream of youth, return;

And let the light that gleamed of yore

Beside this altar burn.

The past is plain; 'twas love designed
E'en sorrow's iron chain;

And mercy's shining, thread has twined
With the dark warp of pain.

So be it still. O Thou who hast
That younger bridal blest,

Till the May-morn of love has passed
To evening's golden west;
Come to this later Cana, Lord,
And, at thy touch divine,
The water of that carlier board
To-night shall turn to wine.

David Gray [1837–1888]

Moggy and Me

1227

MOGGY AND ME

Он wha are sae happy as me an' my Moggy?
Oh wha are sae happy as Moggy an' me?
We're baith turnin' auld, an' our walth is soon tauld,
But contentment bides aye in our cottage sae wee.
She toils a' the day when I'm out wi' the hirsel,

An' chants to the bairns while I sing on the brae;
An' aye her blithe smile welcomes me frae my toil,
When down the glen I come weary an' wae.

Aboon our auld heads we've a nice little biggin,
That keeps out the cauld when the simmer's awa;
We've twa webs o' linen o' Moggy's ain spinnin',

As thick as silk velvet and white as the snaw;
We've kye in the byre, an' yauds in the stable,

A grumphie sae fat that she hardly can stand; An' something, I guess, in yon auld painted press To cheer up the speerits an' steady the hand.

'Tis true we hae had mony sorrows an' crosses, Our pouches oft toom, an' our hearts fu' o' care; But wi' a' our crosses, our sorrows an' losses,

Contentment, thank heaven! has aye been our share. I've an auld roostit sword that was left by my father, Whilk aye has been drawn when my king had a fae; We hae friends ane or twa that aft gie us a ca',

To laugh when we're happy or grieve when we're wae.

Our duke may hae gowd mair than schoolmen can reckon, An' flunkies to watch ilka glance o' his c'e,

His lady aye braw sittin' prim in her ha’;

But are they sae happy as Moggy an' me?

A' ye wha ne'er fand the straight road to be happy,
Wha are nae content wi' the lot that ye dree,

Come down to the dwellin' o' whilk I've been tellin',
You'll learn it by lookin' at Moggy an' me.

James Hogg [1770-1835]

"O, LAY THY HAND IN MINE, DEAR!"

O, LAY thy hand in mine, dear!

We're growing old;

But Time hath brought no sign, dear,

That hearts grow cold.

'Tis long, long since our new love

Made life divine;

But age enricheth true love,

Like noble wine.

And lay thy cheek to mine, dear,

And take thy rest;

Mine arms around thee twine, dear,

And make thy nest.

A many cares are pressing

On this dear head;

But Sorrow's hands in blessing

Are surely laid.

O, lean thy life on mine, dear!

"Twill shelter thee.

Thou wert a winsome vine, dear,

On my young tree:

And so, till boughs are leafless,

And songbirds flown,

We'll twine, then lay us, griefless,

Together down.

Gerald Massey [1828-1907]

THE EXEQUY

ACCEPT, thou shrine of my dead saint,

Instead of dirges this complaint;

And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse,

Receive a strew of weeping verse

From thy grieved friend, whom thou might'st see

Quite melted into tears for thee.

The Exequy

Dear loss! since thy untimely fate,
My task hath been to meditate

On thee, on thee: thou art the book,
The library whereon I look,

Though almost blind. For thee (loved clay)
I languish out, not live, the day,

Using no other exercise

But which I practise with mine eyes:
By which wet glasses I find out
How lazily time creeps about
To one that mourns: this, only this,
My exercise and business is:
So I compute the weary hours
With sighs dissolvèd into showers.

Nor wonder if my time go thus
Backward and most preposterous;
Thou hast benighted me; thy set
This eve of blackness did beget,
Who wast my day (though overcast
Before thou hadst thy noontide passed):
And I remember must in tears

Thou scarce hadst seen so many years
As day tells hours. By ty clear sun
My love and fortune first lid run;
But thou wilt never more appear
Folded within my hemisphere,
Since both thy light and motion,
Like a fled star, is fallen and gone,
And 'twixt me and my soul's dear wish
The earth now interposed is,

Which such a strange eclipse doth make
As ne'er was read in almanac.

I could allow thee for a time
To darken me and my sad clime;
Were it a month, a year, or ten,
I would thy exile live till then,
And all that space my mirth adjourn,
So thou wouldst promise to return,

1229.

And putting off thy ashy shroud

At length disperse this sorrow's cloud.
But woe is me! the longest date
Too narrow is to calculate

These empty hopes: never shall I
Be so much blest as to descry

A glimpse of thee, till that day come
Which shall the earth to cinders doom,
And a fierce fever must calcine
The body of this world-like thine,
(My little world!) That fit of fire
Once off, our bodies shall aspire
To our souls' bliss: then we shall rise
And view ourselves with clearer eyes
In that calm region where no night
Can hide us from each other's sight.

Meantime thou hast her, earth: much good
May my harm do thee! Since it stood
With Heaven's will I might not call

Her longer mine, I give thee all
My short-lived right and interest
In her whom living I loved best:
With a most free and bounteous grief
I give thee what I could not keep.
Be kind to her, and prithee look
Thou write into thy Doomsday book
Each parcel of this rarity

Which in thy casket shrined doth lie,
See that thou make thy reckoning straight,
And yield her back again by weight;
For thou must audit on thy trust
Each grain and atom of this dust,
As thou wilt answer Him that lent-
Not gave-thee my dear monument.
So close the ground, and 'bout her shade
Black curtains draw: my bride is laid.

Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed Never to be disquieted!

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