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Chapter 116 : JESSIE, THE FLOWER O' DUNBLANE The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomon

JESSIE, THE FLOWER O' DUNBLANE

The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray, in the calm simmer gloamin', To muse on sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.

How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom, And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, Is lovely young Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.

She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie; For guileless simplicity marks her its ain; And far be the villain, divested of feeling, Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet Flower o' Dunblane.

Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening!

Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen; Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie!

The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear la.s.sie Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.

Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain, And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor, If wanting sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.

Robert Tannahill [1774-1810]

MARGARET AND DORA

Margaret's beauteous--Grecian arts Ne'er drew form completer, Yet why, in my hearts of hearts, Hold I Dora's sweeter?

Dora's eyes of heavenly blue Pa.s.s all painting's reach, Ringdoves' notes are discord to The music of her speech.

Artists! Margaret's smile receive, And on canvas show it; But for perfect wors.h.i.+p leave Dora to her poet.

Thomas Campbell [1777-1844]

DAGONET'S CANZONET

A queen lived in the South; And music was her mouth, And suns.h.i.+ne was her hair, By day, and all the night The drowsy embers there Remembered still the light; My soul, was she not fair!

But for her eyes--they made An iron man afraid; Like sky-blue pools they were, Watching the sky that knew Itself trans.m.u.ted there Light blue, or deeper blue; My soul, was she not fair!

The lifting of her hands Made laughter in the lands Where the sun is, in the South: But my soul learnt sorrow there In the secrets of her mouth, Her eyes, her hands, her hair: O soul, was she not fair!

Ernest Rhys [1859-

STANZAS FOR MUSIC

There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lulled winds seem dreaming.

And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep, Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

"FLOWERS I WOULD BRING"

Flowers I would bring if flowers could make thee fairer, And music, if the Muse were dear to thee; (For loving these would make thee love the bearer) But sweetest songs forget their melody, And loveliest flowers would but conceal the wearer:-- A rose I marked, and might have plucked; but she Blushed as she bent, imploring me to spare her, Nor spoil her beauty by such rivalry.

Alas! and with what gifts shall I pursue thee, What offerings bring, what treasures lay before thee; When earth with all her floral train doth woo thee, And all old poets and old songs adore thee; And love to thee is naught; from pa.s.sionate mood Secured by joy's complacent plenitude!

Aubrey Thomas de Vere [1814-1902]

"IT IS NOT BEAUTY I DEMAND"

It is not Beauty I demand, A crystal brow, the moon's despair, Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair:

Tell me not of your starry eyes, Your lips that seem on roses fed, Your b.r.e.a.s.t.s, where Cupid tumbling lies Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed:--

A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, A breath that softer music speaks Than summer winds a-wooing flowers,--

These are but gauds: nay, what are lips?

Coral beneath the ocean-stream, Whose brink when your adventurer sips Full oft he perisheth on them.

And what are cheeks but ensigns oft That wave hot youth to fields of blood?

Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft, Do Greece or Ilium any good?

Eyes can with baleful ardor burn; Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed; There's many a white hand holds an urn With lovers' hearts to dust consumed.

For crystal brows--there's naught within; They are but empty cells for pride; He who the Siren's hair would win Is mostly strangled in the tide.

Give me, instead of Beauty's bust, A tender heart, a loyal mind Which with temptation I could trust, Yet never linked with error find,--

One in whose gentle bosom I Could pour my secret heart of woes, Like the care-burthened honey-fly That hides his murmurs in the rose,--

My earthly Comforter! whose love So indefeasible might be That, when my spirit won above, Hers could not stay, for sympathy.

George Darley [1795-1846]

SONG

She is not fair to outward view As many maidens be, Her loveliness I never knew Until she smiled on me; Oh! then I saw her eye was bright, A well of love, a spring of light.