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Poems by James Hyslop

... With a Sketch of his Life, and Notes on his Poems, By the Rev. Peter Mearns

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 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
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 XIII. 
 XIV. 
 XV. 
 XVI. 
 XVII. 
 XVIII. 
 XIX. 
 XX. 
 XXI. 
 XXII. 
 XXIII. 
 XXIV. 
 XXV. 
XXV. Song—To You.
 XXVI. 
 XXVII. 
 XXVIII. 
 XXIX. 
 XXX. 
 XXXI. 
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 XXXIII. 
 XXXIV. 
 XXXV. 
 XXXVI. 
 XXXVII. 
 XXXVIII. 
 XXXIX. 
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 XLI. 
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 XLVIII. 
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 LXIV. 
 LXV. 
 LXVI. 
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 LXX. 
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 LXXIV. 
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150

XXV.
Song—To You.

The Woodland Queen in her bower of love,
Her gleaming tresses with wild-flowers wove,
But her breathing lips, as she sat in her bower,
Were richer far than the honey'd flower!
The waving folds of the Indian silk
Hung loose o'er her ringlets and white neck of milk;
And O! the bosom that sigh'd below
Was pure and soft as the winter snow!
A tear-drop bright in her dark eyes shone,
To think that sweet summer would soon be gone;
How blest the hand of the lover who may
From an eye so bright wipe such tears away!
How blest is he in the moonlight hour
Who may linger with her in her woodland bower,
'Midst the gleaming ringlets and silk to sigh,
And share in the tear and the smile of her eye!
My heart was a stranger to love's young dream
Till I found her alone by the fairy stream;
But she glided away through the branches green,
And left me to sigh for the Woodland Queen!