Where hast thou gone, friend Chandidas? —
My thirsty eyes are never slaked,
Like rain-birds when the clouds are dry.

What did the king, the Lord of Gaur? —
His love-unlighted life is vain! —
He killed the darling of my heart.

Why didst thou go to court to sing? —
Love's pride is shattered in the dust,
Before heaven, earth, hell, beast and man.

She heard the song, the Padshah's Queen;
Her secret pain she could not hide,
But told her Lord her inmost heart,

" My soul within is all aflame

Stars, so bright about the moon on Lesbos,
How ye'll hide away your lovely fires,
Soon as at the full she greatly lighteth
Earth with her silver.

Adieu, my love, my Mary dear!
Fair rose of innocence, adieu!
The stifled sob, the burning tear,
The trembling voice, are all for you;
For I must cross the stormy main,
Already comes the parting day;
But when on Plata's distant plain,
I'll think of thee, though far away.

Each scene of youthful joys gone by,
That now in memory's chamber sleep,
Shall often rise before my eye,
And bid me think of thee and weep:
And while reclining 'neath the palm,
That rocks before the breeze's sway,
O, to my spirit what a balm,

The wind blaws saft frae south to north,
An' wafts the seedlin' frae the flower
Far ower the broad and glassy Forth,
To grow in bonny Aberdour.
Fair Aberdour, dear Aberdour!
O gin I were that seedlin' flower,
That thus the air might bear me ower
To love an' bonny Aberdour.

Gin planted in that fertile soil,
The fairest flower I'd aim to be,
That I might win my laddie's smile,
And light wi' love his sparklin' ee.
Fair Aberdour, dear Aberdour!
O gin I were that seedlin' flower,
That thus the air might bear me ower

Through a valley flows a gentle river,
Gently flows, with waters deep and clear;
In a flowery meadow, spreading near,
Silken leaves of slender poplars quiver.
There a quiet maiden singeth ever
Simple melodies of truth and love:
Pure and artless as the snowy dove,
Evil thought hath stained her bosom never.

Lovely, too, as rose but half unfolded;
Modest as that rose, when bent with dew:
Blue her eye, as heaven's own softest hue;
Lip as fresh as living ruby moulded.
Smiles she hath that tell of sunny feeling, —

Love, whose light thrills heaven and earth,
Smiles and weeps upon thy birth,
Child, whose mother's love-lit eyes
Watch thee but from Paradise.
Sweetest sight that earth can give,
Sweetest light of eyes that live,
Ours must needs, for hope withdrawn,
Hail with tears thy soft spring dawn.
Light of hope whose star hath set,
Light of love whose sun lives yet,
Holier, happier, heavenlier love
Breathes about thee, burns above,
Surely, sweet, than ours can be,
Shed from eyes we may not see,
Though thine own may see them shine

Phillida's Love-call to her Coridon and his replying Phil.

Coridon, arise, my Coridon!
Titan shineth clear. Cor.
Who is it that calleth Coridon?
Who is it that I hear? Phil.
Phillida, thy true love, calleth thee.
Arise then, arise then!
Arise and keep thy flock with me! Cor.
Phillida, my true love, is it she?
I come then, I come then,
I come and keep my flock with thee. Phil.

I

Love, loyallest and lordliest born of things,
Immortal that shouldst be, though all else end,
In plighted hearts of fearless friend with friend,
Whose hand may curb or clip thy plume-plucked wings?
Not grief's nor time's: though these be lords and kings
Crowned, and their yoke bid vassal passions bend,
They may not pierce the spirit of sense, or blend
Quick poison with the soul's live watersprings

I

Queen, for whose house my fathers fought,
With hopes that rose and fell,
Red star of boyhood's fiery thought,
Farewell.

They gave their lives, and I, my queen,
Have given you of my life,
Seeing your brave star burn high between
Men's strife.

The strife that lightened round their spears
Long since fell still: so long
Hardly may hope to last in years

Not his first love, nor last, was she who bore
His name now. Yet he would not have her guess
That it was less of love than loneliness
Had brought him tardily suppliant to her door.
Penurious years had taught him to be more
Frugal than once — content with something less
Than the consummate bliss he must confess
He counted now but myth or metaphor.

Yet, lacking love, he gave good counterfeit
In tenderness, forever vigilant lest
Gesture or glance might lead her to surmise
The counterfeit. He envied her a bit