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Too deep for swift telling ; and yet, my one

lover, I've conn'd thee an answer, it waits thee

to-night. By the sycamore pass'd he, and thro' the

white clover, Then all the sweet speech I had fashion'd

took flight :

But I'll love him more, more
Than e'er wife loved before,
Be the days dark or bright.

Jean Ingelow.

Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my

path, Ilk stream foaming down its ain green

narrow strath; For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, While o'er us, unheeded, fee the sweet hours

o' love.

She is not the fairest, altho’she is fair ;
O’nice education but sma' is her share ;
Her parentage humble as humble can be ;
But I loe the dear lassie because she loes

me. To beauty what man but maun yield him a

prize, In her armour of glances, and blushes, and

sighs ? And when wit and refinement hae polished

her darts, They dazzle 'our een as they flee to our

hearts.

Love'S MEETING-PLACE. How many a magic Love doth quite Perform in one short summer night

Wherein is scarcely space for dreams, While, on each side the world, it seems The days nigh join with amber hands, Over the dimly gleaming lands,

Where under thin-veild shifting sky

Gleams inany a flower with white eye
Unclosed !-On moonlight paven path
How many a meeting-place Love hath-
Where dreams, or yearning thoughts that

thrill,
Parted in vain, may find their will,
And come together as they range,
And fall into sweet interchange

Like waves with waves, whereof some sign

Felt at the trembling ripple-line Of either brimming heart, doth bring A rich unwonted comforting!

Arthur W. E. O'Shaughnessy.

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond

sparkling e'e, Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ; And the heart-beating love, as I'm clasp'd in

her arms, Oh, these are my lassie's all - conquering charms !

Robert Burns.

LOYERS' TRYSTING-PLACE. Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and

wide, That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the

Clyde, Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the

heather to feed, And the shepherd tends the flock as he

pipes on his reed. Not Gowrie's rich valleys, nor Forth's sunny

shores, To me hae the charms o' yon wild mossy

moors ; For there by a lanely, sequester'd clear

stream, Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my

MEETING OF LOVERS. Of all the things a man may have Before he cometh to the grave,

Of all the joys that he may win This is the richest : to possess One yearned-for hour in loneliness, Beside one's love, in some fair clime, In some fair purple autumn time; For quite shall be forgotten then The pains and labours among men, The bitter things of thought and fear ; The bitter ends of hope ; and, near, Quite at one's side, yea, on one's heart, Yea, touching, with no more to part, The yearning hands or looks that meet, Shall seem the often dreamed-of sweet Much more than all the glowing things To which the fondest memory clings

Much more than any rapturous past : And this-the fairest moment, sure, In each man's life-it shall endure Some noon; while creeping twilight dims Slowly some flower's purple rims,

dream.

Or some green distance suffers change Fading before us : then this strange And precious rapture-it shall pass, And never come again, alas! Nay, for there shall be bliss and bliss, And love and love, and kiss and kiss, And many a pleasant touch of hands, And place for love in many lands, And communings of heart with heart, Much to be gained, much to impart,All these ; but surely, never more Doth any time at all restore That faded purple of delight, And the same sweet and the same sight, As when one's love in that fair place Blush'd with strange crimson, face to face, With every inward passionate thought, Into real living blisses wrought, And the heart, through some mystery, Seem'd filling earths and heavens to beYea, things and spaces dimly knownWith endless feelings of its own.

She must have reach'd this shrub ere she

turn'd, As back with that murmur the wicket

swung ; For she laid the poor snail my chance foot

spurn'd, To feed and forget it the leaves among. Down this side of the gravel-walk She went while her robe's edge brush'd the

box : And here she paused in her gracious talk

To point me a moth on the milk-white flox. Rose, ranged in a valiant row,

I will never think that she pass'd you by! She loves you, noble roses, I know,

But yonder, see where the rock-plants lie !

This flower she stopp'd at, finger on lip,

Stoop'd over, in doubt as settling its claim; Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip,

Its soft meandering Spanish name. What a name ! was it love or praise ?

Speech half-asleep, or song half-awake? I must learn Spanish one of these days,

If only for that slow sweet name's sake.

Hereafter, surely I may say,
That, many an hour in night or day,
Those lovers knew some precious part
Of all the joy that heart with heart
Can so beget. Often they came,
And found that silken place the same,
In purple growing glooms at eve;
And sat while pleasure would deceive
Their thoughts with many a changing dream
Wrought of each momentary gleam
Of the unearthly twilight blue,
That seem'd to make the world anew,
Like some enameli'd picture fair
With jewell'd stars and leaves : now there,
And now, in wanderings amid
The pleasant flower-paths, half-hid
Beneath safe shadows of the trees,
They dream'd some dream enough to please
All silently ; or, one by one,
In their own soft and murmurous tone,
Spoke all the spells that Love hath set
In wild sweet words, that ever fret
The lips of lovers, till his gold
And honied secret be all told.

Arthur W. E. O'Shaughnessy.

Roses, if I live and do well,

I may bring her one of these days To fix you fast with as fine a spell,

Fit you each with his Spanish phrase; But do not detain me now; for she lingers

There like sunshine over the ground, And ever I see her soft white fingers

Searching after the bud she found. Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow

not, Stay as you are and be loved for ever! Bud, if I kiss you, 'tis that you blow not ;

Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never ! For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle,

Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn and down they nestle

Is not the dear mark still to be seen?

THE GARDEN WHERE WE MET. Here's the garden she walk'd across,

Arm in my arm, such a short while since : Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss Hinders the hinges and makes them

wince ;

Where I find her not, beauties vanish;

Whither I follow her, beauties flee; Is there no method to tell her in Spanish June's twice June since she breathed it

with me? Come, bud, show me the least of her traces,

Treasure my lady's lightest foot-fall;
Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces,
Roses, you are not fair after all.

Robert Browning.

THE MEETING.
On the mountain, in the woodland,
In the shaded secret dell,

I have seen thee, I have met thee!
In the soft ambrosial hours of night,
In darkness silent sweet
I beheld thee, I was with thee;
I was thine, and thou wert mine !

Arthur Hugh Clough.

Again we met. The whisp'ring leaves

Glanced nigh in night and shadow; The reapers piled their yellow sheaves,

The bees humm'd o'er the meadow;
The royal sun rose up in state,

Our marriage day adorning ;
The bells rang out; wide stood the gate,
And neither of us was too late
To go to church that morning.

Anon.

IN THE OLD GARDEN.

THE PEACEFUL ARBOUR. THRO' pastures and thro' fields where corn HERE's the place to seat us, love ! grew strong,

A perfect arbour! Look above, By cottage nests that could not harbour How the delicate sprays, like hair, wrong ;

Bend them to the breaths of air !
Across the bridge where laugh'd the stream ; Listen, too! It is a rill,
along

Telling us its gentle will.
The road to where her gabled mansion stood, Who that knows what luxury is
Old, tall, and spacious, in a massy wood.

Could go by a place like this?

Anacreon." We loiter'd toward the porch ; but paused

Translated by Leigh Hunt. meanwhile Where Psyche holds a dial to beguile The hours of sunshine by her golden smile;

BY THE AGED ELMS. And holds it like a goblet brimm'd with wine,

WHERE aged elms cast a refreshing shade, Nigh clad in trails of tangled eglantine.

And well-trimm'd pines their shaking tops

display'd ; In the deep peacefulness which shone around

| Where Daphne 'midst the cypress crown'd My soul was soothed : no darksome vision

her head, frown'd

Near these a circling river gently flows, Before my sight while cast upon the ground

And rolls the pebbles as it murmuring goes. Where Psyche's and my Lady's shadows lay,

| A place design'd for love ; the nightingale, Twin graces on the flower-edged gravel-way.

And other birds, its soft delights can tell,

Who on each bush salute the coming day, I then but yearn'd for Titian's glorious power,

And in their orgies sing its hours away. That I by toiling one devoted hour

Petronius Arbiter. Might check the march of Time, and leave a

dower Of rich delight, that beauty I could see,

WAITING TO MEET HER I AM TO LOVE.
For broadening generations yet to be.
Thomas Woolner.

WHERE waitest thou,
Lady I am to love? thou comest not ;
Thou knowest of my sad and lonely lot ;

I look'd for thee ere now !
TWO WAYS OF MEETING.
I MET her in the quiet lane

It is the May,
One Sabbath morning early ;

And each sweet sister soul hath found its

brother, The sun was bright, altho' the rain Still glitter'd on the barley.

Only we two seek fondly each the other, The lark was singing to his mate,

And seeking, still delay.
The wild bells chimed their warning,

Where art thou, sweet?
We paused awhile outside the gate, I long for thee, as thirsty lips for streams !
We linger'd till it was too late

Oh, gentle promised angel of my dreams, To go to church that morning.

Why do we never meet?

Thou art as I

IN THE OVER-ARCHING GROVES. Thy soul doth wait for mine, as mine for thee; | At morn, as if beneath a galaxy We cannot live apart, must meeting be

Of over-arching groves in blossoms white, Never before we die?

Where all was od'rous scent and harmony,

And gladness to the heart, nerve, ear, and Dear soul, not so !

sight : That Time doth keep for us some happy years,

There, if, O gentle love, I read aright That God hath portion'd out our smiles and

The utterance that seal'd thy sacred bond, tears,

'Twas listening to these accents of delight, Thou knowest, and I know.

She hid upon his breast those eyes, beyond

Expression's power to paint, all languishingly Yes, we shall meet !

fond. And therefore let our searching be the stronger; Dark ways of life shall not divide us longer, “ Flower of my life, so lovely and so lone! Nor doubt, nor danger, sweet !

Whom I would rather in this desert meet,

Scorning and scorn'd by Fortune's power, than Therefore I bear

own This winter-tide as bravely as I may,

Her pomp and splendours lavishd at my Patiently waiting for the bright spring-day

feet! That cometh with thee, dear.

Turn not from me thy breath, more ex

quisite 'Tis the May-light

Than odours cast on heaven's own shrine to That crimsons all the quiet college gloom ;

pleaseMay it shine softly in thy sleeping-room ; Give me thy love, than luxury more sweet, And so, dear one, good night!

And more than all the wealth that loads the Anon.

breeze, When Coromandel's ships return from Indian

seas” THE CHANCE MEETING.

Then would that home admit them happier

far WHEN ripend time and chasten'd will

Than grandeur's most magnificent saloonHave stretch'd and tuned for love's

While, here and there, a solitary star accords

Flush'd in the dark’ning firmament of June;The five-string'd lyre of life, until

Never did the Hymenean moon It vibrates with the wind of words ;

A Paradise of hearts more sacred sway! And ‘Woman,' 'Lady,' 'She,' and 'Her'

O Love! in such a wilderness as this, Are names for perfect good and fair,

Where transport and security entwine, And unknown maidens, talk'd of, stir

Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss, His thoughts with reverential care ;

And here thou art a god indeed divine ; He meets, by heavenly chance express,

Here shall no forms abridge, no hours conHis destined wife : some hidden hand Unveils to him that loveliness

The views, the walks, that boundless joy Which others cannot understand.

inspire ! No songs of love, no summer dreams

Roll on, ye days of raptured influence, shine! Did e'er his longing fancy fire

Nor, blind with ecstasy's celestial fire, With vision like to this : she seems

Shall love behold the spark of earth-born In all things better than desire.

time expire. His merits in her presence grow,

Thomas Campbell.
To match the promise in her eyes,
And round her happy footsteps blow

OF SYMPATHY.
The authentic airs of Paradise.

My kindling heart
For love of her he cannot sleep;

At thy approach, with sympathetic love Her beauty haunts him all the night ; To meet thee springs, and with thy gen'rous It melts his heart, it makes him weep

flame For wonder, worship, and delight. Transported, longs to meet its faithful fires. Coventry Patmore.

Crisp.

fine

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