COVENTRY PATMORE

When the one darling of our widowhead,

The nursling Grief,

Is dead,

And no dews blur our eyes

To see the peach-bloom come in evening skies,

Perchance we may,

Where now this night is day,

And even through faith of still averted feet,

Making full circle of our banishment,

Amazed meet;

The bitter journey to the bourne so sweet

Seasoning the termless feast of our content

With tears of recognition never dry.

��SYDNEY DOBELL 76?. The Ballad of Keith of Ravelston

HPHE murmur of the mourning ghost

• That keeps the shadowy kine,

< O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line ! *

Ravelston, Ravelston,

The merry path that leads Down the golden morning hill,

And thro' the silver meads ;

Ravelston, Ravelston,

The stile beneath the tree, The maid that kept her mother's kine,

The song that sang she !

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