for me.

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel

A shadow of regret:

Is there one link within the Past

That holds thy spirit yet?

Or is thy faith as clear and free as that which I can pledge to thee?

Does there within my dimmest dreams.

A possible future shine,

Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe,
Untouched, unshared by mine?

If so, at any pain or cost, O, tell me before all is lost.

Look deeper still. If thou canst feel,

Within thy inmost soul,

That thou has kept a portion back,

While I have staked the whole,

Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy tell me so.

wither and decay.

Lives there within thy nature hid

The demon-spirit change,

Shedding a passing glory still

On all things new and strange?

It may not be thy fault alone - but shield my heart against thy own.

Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day

And answer to my claim,

That Fate, and that to-day's mistake-
Not thou- had been to blame?

Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou wilt surely warn and save me now.

Nay, answer not-I dare not hear,
The words would come too late;
Yet I would spare thee all remorse,

So, comfort thee, my Fate,

Whatever on my heart may fall - remember, I would risk it all!

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

SAT with Doris, the shepherd maiden:

Her crook was laden with wreathed flowers; I sat and wooed her through sunlight wheeling, And shadows stealing, for hours and hours.

And she, my Doris, whose lap encloses

Wild summer roses of rare perfume,

The while I sued her, kept hushed and hearkened
Till shades had darkened from gloss to gloom.
She touched my shoulder with fearful finger:
She said, "We linger; we must not stay;
My flock's in danger, my sheep will wander:
Behold them yonder—how far they stray!"

I answered bolder, "Nay, let me hear you,
And still be near you, and still adore;
No wolf nor stranger will touch one yearling;
Ah! stay, my darling, a moment more."
She whispered, sighing: "There will be sorrow
Beyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day;
My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded,
I shall be scolded, and sent away."
Said I, replying: "If they do miss you,

They ought to kiss you, when you get home;
And well rewarded by friend and neighbor
Should be the labor from which you come."

"They might remember," she answered meekly, "That lambs are weakly, and sheep are wild; But if they love me 'tis none so fervent; I am a servant, and not a child." Then each hot ember glowed quick within me, And love did win me to swift reply:

"Ah! do but prove me, and none shall bind you Nor fray nor find you, until I die."

She blushed and started, and stood awaiting,
As if debating in dreams divine;
But I did brave them-I told her plainly

She doubted vainly; she must be mine.
So we, twin-hearted, from all the valley
Did rouse and rally the nibbling ewes,
And homeward drove them, we two together,
Through blooming heather and gleaming dews.
That simple duty fresh grace did lend her-
My Doris tender, my Doris true:
That I, her warder, did always bless her,
And often press her, to take her due.
And now in beauty she fills my dwelling
With love excelling and undefiled;
And love doth guard her, both fast and fervent,
No more a servant, nor yet a child.

ARTHUR J. MUNBY.

SAD are they who know not love,

But, far from passion's tears and smiles, Drift down a moonless sea, and pass

The silver coasts of fairy isles.

And sadder they whose longing lips
Kiss empty air, and never touch

The dear warm mouth of those they love
Waiting, wasting, suffering much!

But clear as amber, sweet as musk,
Is life to those whose lives unite;
They walk in Allah's smile by day,
And nestle in his heart by night.

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

SWALLOW, Swallow, flying, flying South,
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves,
And tell her, tell her what I tell to thee.

O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each,
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South,
And dark and true and tender is the North.

O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. O were I thou, that she might take me in, And lay me on her bosom, and her heart Would rock the snowy cradle till I died.

Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, Delaying as the tender ash delays To clothe herself, when all the woods are green? O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown; Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, But in the North long since my nest is made. O tell her, brief is life, but love is long, And brief the sun of summer in the North, And brief the moon of beauty in the South.

O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

HE was a phantom of delight

When first she gleamed upon my sight;

A lovely apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;

Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,

A spirit, yet a woman too!

Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;

A creature not too bright or good

For human nature's daily food;

For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eyes serene

The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A trav'ler between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength and skill;
A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTII.

OTHER, I cannot mind my wheel; My fingers ache, my lips are dry; Oh, if you felt the pain I feel!— But oh, who ever felt as I?

No longer could I doubt him true;
All other men may use deceit;
He always said my eyes were blue,
And often swore my lips were sweet.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

"Good day to you!" at last I said;

She turned her head to see me.
"Good day!" she said, with lifted head;
Her eyes looked soft and dreamy.

And all the while she milked and milked
The grave cow heavy-laden:

I've seen grand ladies, plumed and silked,
But not a sweeter maiden.

But not a sweeter, fresher maid
Than this in homely cotton,

Whose pleasant face and silky braid

I have not yet forgotten.

Seven springs have passed since then, as I Count with a sober sorrow;

Seven springs have come and passed me by,
And spring sets in to-morrow.

I've half a mind to shake myself
Free, just for once, from London,
To set my work upon the shelf,
And leave it done or undone;

HE skies are low, the winds are slow;
The woods are bathed in summer glory;
The mists are still, o'er field and hill;
The brooklet sings its dreamy story.

I careless rove through glen and grove;
I dream by hill and copse and river;

Or in the shade by aspen made

I watch the restless shadows quiver.

I lift my eyes to azure skies

That shed their tinted glory o'er me; While memories sweet around me fleet, As radiant as the scene before me.

And while I muse upon the hues
Of summer skies in splendor given,
Sweet thoughts arise of rare deep eyes,
Whose blue is like the blue of heaven.
Bend low, fair skies! Smile sweet, fair eyes!
From radiant skies rich hues are streaming;
But in the blue of pure eyes true

The radiance of my life is beaming.

O skies of blue! ye fade from view;
Faint grow the hues that o'er me quiver;-
But the sure light of dear eyes bright
Shines on forever and forever!

FRANCIS F. BROWNE.

ISS me softly and speak to me low,Malice has ever a vigilant ear; What if Malice were lurking near? Kiss me, dear!

Kiss me softly and speak to me low.

Kiss me softly and speak to me low,Envy, too, has a watchful ear;

What if Envy should chance to hear?
Kiss me, dear!

Kiss me softly and speak to me low.
Kiss me softly and speak to me low;
Trust me, darling, the time is near
When lovers may love with never a fear;-
Kiss me, dear!

Kiss me softly and speak to me low.

JOHN GODFREY SAXE.

Are pearls they never grew; They come not from the hollow sea, They come from heaven in dew!

Down in the Indian sea it slips,

Through green and briny whirls,

Where great shells catch it in their lips,
And kiss it into pearls!

If dew can be so beauteous made,
Oh, why not tears, my girl?

Why not your tears? Be not afraid —
I do but kiss a pearl!

RICHARD HENRY STODdard.

moors,

And the suns darken and the days grow cold; And, tell her, love will fade with fading leaves, And cease in common mould.

Fly from the winter of the world to her! Fly, happy bird! I follow in thy flight, Till thou art lost o'er yonder fringe of fir In baths of crimson light.

My love is dying far away from me.

She sits and saddens in the fading west. For her I mourn all day, and pine to be At night upon her breast.

ROBERT BULWER LYTTON.