O, go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded TO A COLD BEAUTY. Lady! wouldst thou heiress be To Winter's cold and cruel part? Thou dost still lock up thy heart : Scorn and cold neglect are made For winter gloom and winter wind; When the little buds unclose, Red, and white, and pied, and blue, And that virgin flower, the rose, Opes her heart to hold the dew, Wilt thou lock thy bosom up With no jewel in its cup? Let not cold December sit Thus in Love's peculiar throne ! Brooklets are not prison'd now, But crystal frosts are all agone; And that which hangs upon the spray, It is no snow, but flower of May. LOVE'S CONSTANCY. Still glides the gentle streamlet on, But those green shadows do not change. Serene, or ruffled by the storm, On present waves, as on the past, The mirror'd grove retains its form, The self-same trees their semblance cast. The hue each fleeting globule wears, That drop bequeaths it to the next: One picture still the surface bears To illustrate the murmur'd text. So, Love! however time may flow, RUTH. She stood breast high amid the corn, On her cheek an autumn flush In the midst of brown was born, Round her eyes her tresses fell,- And her hat with shady brim Sure, I said, heaven did not mean THE TIME OF ROSES. It was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast: It was the Time of Roses, We pluck'd them as we pass'd. That churlish season never frown'd O no! the world was newly crown'd 'Twas twilight, and I bade you go; But still you held me fast: It was the Time of Roses, We pluck'd them as we pass'd. What else could peer thy glowing cheek, That tears began to stud? And when I ask'd the like of Love, You snatch'd a damask bud, And oped it to the dainty core, It was the Time of Roses : We pluck'd them as we pass'd. CHARLES WELLS. 1800-1879. SONG. Kiss no more the Vintages, Thou hot-lipp'd Sun! From the dark tun! Above my bed hang dull nightshade, With maiden flowers from dewy bowers Away! away to the green sward! My young heart breaks : Break the earth, and lay me deep! Angels! pity, and hear this ditty Come, thou iron-crowned Death! Into my stretched arms, Bridegroom to my maiden breast; End my sad alarms! Lead on, lead on, thou Love of Bone! Over the heath wild; And 'neath the grass secure fast Thy melancholy child! SIR HENRY TAYLOR. 1800 SONG. The morning broke, and Spring was there, And lusty Summer near her birth ; The birds awoke and waked the air, The flowers awoke and waked the earth. "Up!" quoth he: "what joy for me, Lightly o'er the plain he stepp'd, Lightly brush'd he through the wood, And snared a little bird that slept And had not waken'd when she should. Lightly through the wood he brush'd WILLIAM BARNES. 1801 NOT FAR TO GO. As upland fields were sun-burn'd brown, |