Poems by James Hyslop ... With a Sketch of his Life, and Notes on his Poems, By the Rev. Peter Mearns |
 |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLI. |
| XLII. |
| XLIII. |
| XLIV. |
| XLV. |
| XLVI. |
| XLVII. |
| XLVIII. |
| XLIX. |
| L. |
| LI. |
| LII. |
| LIII. |
| LIV. |
| LV. |
| LVI. |
| LVII. |
| LVIII. |
| LIX. |
| LX. |
| LXI. |
| LXII. |
| LXIII. |
| LXIV. |
| LXV. |
| LXVI. |
| LXVII. |
| LXVIII. |
| LXIX. |
| LXX. | LXX.
Song.—To You.
|
| LXXI. |
| LXXII. |
| LXXIII. |
| LXXIV. |
| LXXV. |
| LXXVI. |
| LXXVII. |
| LXXVIII. |
| LXXIX. |
| LXXX. |
| LXXXI. |
| LXXXII. |
 | Poems by James Hyslop |  |
221
LXX.
Song.—To You.
I love the scenery of the spring,
When snows dissolve, and genial showers
On April's sunny mornings bring
New grass and rain-drops, buds and flowers;
When Nature cleeds her greenwood bowers,
Like thee, in loveliness and youth,
And calls thee forth to pass the hours
With her in purity and truth:
I love the spring, but far more dear
The scenery of the fading year.
When snows dissolve, and genial showers
On April's sunny mornings bring
New grass and rain-drops, buds and flowers;
When Nature cleeds her greenwood bowers,
Like thee, in loveliness and youth,
And calls thee forth to pass the hours
With her in purity and truth:
I love the spring, but far more dear
The scenery of the fading year.
I love the summer-day so warm,
That makes thee seek the leafy shade,
Disclosing each unrifled charm,
Conceal'd beneath thy tartan plaid,
Giving to each soft silken braid
Adown thy neck and breast to flow
In curling wantonness, afraid
Lest summer tinge their virgin snow.
Oh! this is sweet, but far more dear
The scenery of the fading year:
That makes thee seek the leafy shade,
Disclosing each unrifled charm,
Conceal'd beneath thy tartan plaid,
Giving to each soft silken braid
Adown thy neck and breast to flow
In curling wantonness, afraid
Lest summer tinge their virgin snow.
Oh! this is sweet, but far more dear
The scenery of the fading year:
'Tis not my heart would cherish gladness,
Or lightsome levity and mirth,
When Nature wears her robes of sadness,
And flowers are withering on the earth.
I love the floweret in its birth,
And beauty in her loveliest bloom,
Far better than to wander forth
And shed a tear upon her tomb:
'Tis not decay that makes so dear
The scenery of the fading year.
Or lightsome levity and mirth,
When Nature wears her robes of sadness,
And flowers are withering on the earth.
I love the floweret in its birth,
And beauty in her loveliest bloom,
Far better than to wander forth
And shed a tear upon her tomb:
'Tis not decay that makes so dear
The scenery of the fading year.
'Tis not the twinkling stars aloft,
'Midst heaven's blue ether bright and pure;
Nor yellow moonshine, sleeping soft
And silent on the lonely moor;
Nor honey'd breath of heather flower;
Nor woodland path with brown leaves strew'd;
Nor mountain stream at twilight hour.
Sad tinkling thro' the yellow wood,
That makes so lovely and so dear
The scenery of the fading year:
'Midst heaven's blue ether bright and pure;
Nor yellow moonshine, sleeping soft
And silent on the lonely moor;
Nor honey'd breath of heather flower;
222
Nor mountain stream at twilight hour.
Sad tinkling thro' the yellow wood,
That makes so lovely and so dear
The scenery of the fading year:
It was a dark sweet laughing eye
That young love never will forget,
Soft ringlets, breasts, and lips so nigh,
When thrilling hands embracing met.
If Beauty ever wove a net
For woodland minstrel, thou art she
Thy seal of love upon me set;
I ever will thy captive be.
'Tis thou alone that mak'st so dear
The scenery of the fading year.
That young love never will forget,
Soft ringlets, breasts, and lips so nigh,
When thrilling hands embracing met.
If Beauty ever wove a net
For woodland minstrel, thou art she
Thy seal of love upon me set;
I ever will thy captive be.
'Tis thou alone that mak'st so dear
The scenery of the fading year.
| Poems by James Hyslop | |