“O Thou! with whom the night is day
And one the near and far away,
Look out on yon gray waste, and say
  Where lingers he. 
Alive, perchance, on some lone beach
Or thirsty isle beyond the reach
Of man, he hears the mocking speech
  Of wind and sea.

“O dread and cruel deep, reveal
The secret which thy waves conceal,
And, ye wild sea-birds, hither wheel
  And tell your tale. 
Let winds that tossed his raven hair
A message from my lost one bear,—­
Some thought of me, a last fond prayer
  Or dying wail!

“Come, with your dreariest truth shut out
The fears that haunt me round about;
O God!  I cannot bear this doubt
  That stifles breath. 
The worst is better than the dread;
Give me but leave to mourn my dead
Asleep in trust and hope, instead
  Of life in death!”

It might have been the evening breeze
That whispered in the garden trees,
It might have been the sound of seas
  That rose and fell;
But, with her heart, if not her ear,
The old loved voice she seemed to hear: 
“I wait to meet thee:  be of cheer,
  For all is well!”

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

I LOVE MY JEAN.

Of a’ the airts[3] the wind can blaw,
  I dearly like the west;
For there the bonnie lassie lives,
  The lassie I lo’e best. 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row,
  And monie a hill’s between;
But day and night my fancy’s flight
  Is ever wi’ my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,
  I see her sweet and fair;
I hear her in the tunefu’ birds,
  I hear her charm the air;
There’s not a bonnie flower that springs
  By fountain, shaw, or green;
There’s not a bonnie bird that sings,
  But minds me of my Jean.

ROBERT BURNS.

  [3] The points of the compass.

JEANIE MORRISON.

I’ve wandered east, I’ve wandered west,
  Through mony a weary way;
But never, never can forget
  The luve o’ life’s young day! 
The fire that’s blawn on Beltane e’en
  May weel be black gin Yule;
But blacker fa’ awaits the heart
  Where first fond luve grows cule.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
  The thochts o’ bygane years
Still fling their shadows ower my path,
  And blind my een wi’ tears: 
They blind my een wi’ saut, saut tears,
  And sair and sick I pine,
As memory idly summons up
  The blithe blinks o’ langsyne.

’Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel,
  ’Twas then we twa did part;
Sweet time—­sad time! twa bairns at scule,
  Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 
’Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,
  To leir ilk ither lear;
And tones and looks and smiles were shed,
  Remembered evermair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,
  When sitting on that bink,
Cheek touchin’ cheek, loof locked in loof,
  What our wee heads could think. 
When baith bent doun ower ae braid page,
  Wi’ ae buik on our knee,
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but
  My lesson was in thee.