JOHN DYER. Proudly towering in the skies; And beyond the purple grove, On which a dark hill, steep and high, And ancient towers crown his brow, And see the rivers how they run, Through woods and meads, in shade and sun, Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, - 55 When will the landscape tire the view! See on the mountain's southern side, A step methinks may pass the stream, O, may I with myself agree, Now, even now, my joys run high, Be full, ye courts; be great who Search for Peace with all your skill: Seek her on the marble floor. 'Tis he, the comely swain I slew Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow. Wash, O, wash his wounds, his wounds in tears, His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow, And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow. Then build, then build, ye sisters sisters sad, Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow, And weep around in waeful wise, His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow. Curse ye, curse ye his useless useless shield, My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, The fatal spear that pierced his breast, His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow. Did I not warn thee not to lo'e, And warn from fight, but to my sorrow; O'er rashly bauld a stronger arm Thou met'st, and fell on the Braes of Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass, Yellow on Yarrow bank the And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen, row?" Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep, Lang maun she weep with dule and sor row, And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen, Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. For she has tint her lover lover dear, Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow, And I hae slain the comeliest swain That e'er pu'ed birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red? Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? And why yon melancholious weeds Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow? What's yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude? What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow! gowan, hangs the apple frae the rock, Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan. Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed, As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, As sweet smells on its braes the birk, The apple frae the rock as mellow. Fair was thy love, fair fair indeed thy love, In flowery bands thou him didst fetter; Though he was fair and weil beloved again, Than me he never lo'ed thee better. Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow! Busk ye, and lo'e me on the banks of Tweed, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. "How can I busk a bonny bonny bride, How can I busk a winsome marrow, How lo'e him on the banks of Tweed, That slew my love on the Braes of Yar. row ? And crown my careful head with willow. "O Yarrow fields! may never never rain | Take aff, take aff these bridal weeds, "Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best beloved, O, could my warmth to life restore thee! Ye'd lie all night between my breasts, No youth lay ever there before thee. "Pale pale, indeed, O lovely lovely youth, Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, And lie all night between my breasts, No youth shall ever lie there after." Return, return, O mournful mournful bride, Return and dry thy useless sorrow: Thy lover heeds naught of thy sighs, He lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. ISAAC WATTS. [1674-1748.] THE HEAVENLY LAND. THERE is a land of pure delight, Where saints immortal reign; Infinite day excludes the night, And pleasures banish pain. There everlasting spring abides, And never-withering flowers; This heavenly land from ours. While Jordan rolled between. O, could we make our doubts remove, Could we but climb where Moses stood, Not Jordan's stream, nor death's cold flood, Should fright us from the shore. PHILIP DODDRIDGE, [1702-1751.] YE GOLDEN LAMPS OF HEAVEN, YE golden lamps of heaven, farewell, And thou, refulgent orb of day, In brighter flames arrayed; My soul, that springs beyond thy sphere, No more demands thy aid. Ye stars are but the shining dust The pavement of those heavenly courts There all the millions of his saints Shall in one song unite; And each the bliss of all shall view, With infinite delight. CHARLES WESLEY. [1708-1788.] JESUS, LOVER OF MY SOUL. JESUS, lover of my soul, Let me to thy bosom fly, While the nearer waters roll, While the tempest still is high: Hide me, O my Saviour, hide, Till the storm of life be past; Safe into the haven guide, O, receive my soul at last! Other refuge have I none, Hangs my helpless soul on thee; Leave, ah! leave me not alone, Still support and comfort me: All my trust on thee is stayed, All my help from thee I bring; Cover my defenceless head With the shadow of thy wing. Thou, O Christ, art all I want; More than all in thee I find: Raise the fallen, cheer the faint, Heal the sick, and lead the blind : Just and holy is thy name, I am all unrighteousness; False and full of sin I am, Thou art full of truth and grace. Plenteous grace with thee is found, AUGUSTUS M. TOPLADY. [1740-1778.] LOVE DIVINE, ALL LOVE EXCELLING. LOVE divine, all love excelling, Joy of heaven to earth come down; Fix in us thy humble dwelling, All thy faithful mercies crown; Jesus, thou art all compassion! Pure, unbounded love thou art; Visit us with thy salvation, Enter every trembling heart. Breathe, O, breathe thy loving Spirit Let us all in thee inherit, Let us find the promised rest; Come, almighty to deliver, Let us all thy life receive; Suddenly return, and never, Never more thy temples leave: Thee we would be always blessing, Serve thee as thy hosts above; Pray and praise thee without ceasing, Glory in thy precious love. Finish then thy new creation, Pure, unspotted may we be; Let us see thy great salvation Perfectly restored by thee: Changed from glory into glory, Till in heaven we take our place! Till we cast our crowns before thee, Lost in wonder, love, and praise. |