To paint that living light I see, The fair design shone out the more, Where only colors glowed before. Then first carnation learned to speak, And lilies into life were brought; Blest be Love, to whom we owe THOMAS Moore. UP QUIT THY BOWER. UP! quit thy bower! late wears the hour, Up, maiden fair! and bind thy hair, Lo! while thou sleep'st they haste away! JOANNA BAILLIE. I call thee, I await thee, and I love thee; Many may worship thee, that will I not; If that thy spirit down to mine may move thee, Descend and share my lot! Though I be formed of clay, And thou of beams More bright than those of day Thine immortality cannot repay In me, which, though forbidden yet to shine, Our mother Eve bequeathed us, but my heart All pains, all tears, all time, all fears, and peal, All night has the casement jessamine stirred I said to the lily, "There is but one Low on the sand and loud on the stone I said to the rose, The brief night goes In babble and revel and wine. O young lord-lover, what sighs are those For one that will never be thine? But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, "For ever and ever mine!" And the soul of the rose went into my blood, As the music clashed in the hall; And long by the garden lake I stood, For I heard your rivulet fall And the best of all ways To lengthen our days Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear! From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, Now all the world is sleeping, love, Our wood, that is dearer than all; But the sage, his star-watch keeping, love, And I, whose star, More glorious far, With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the while, Her eye in the glass, as she bound her hair, glancing; "Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues, So she could n't but choose to go off to the Sweet Kate! who could view your bright eyes of deep blue, Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so mildly, Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded form, Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses throb wildly? Poor Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart, Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love; The sight leaves his eye as he cries with a sigh, "Dance light, for my heart it lies under your feet, love!" DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY. O NANCY, WILT THOU GO WITH ME? O NANCY, wilt thou go with me, No longer decked with jewels rare, Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene Where thou wert fairest of the fair? O Nancy when thou 'rt far away, Wilt thou not cast a wish behind? Say, canst thou face the parching ray, Nor shrink before the wintry wind? O, can that soft and gentle mien Extremes of hardship learn to bear, Nor sad regret each courtly scene Where thou wert fairest of the fair? O Nancy! canst thou love so true, Through perils keen with me to go, Or when thy swain mishap shall rue, To share with him the pang of woe? Say, should disease or pain befall, Wilt thou assume the nurse's care, Nor wistful those gay scenes recall Where thou wert fairest of the fair? And when at last thy love shall die, Wilt thou receive his parting breath? Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, And cheer with smiles the bed of death? And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay, Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear, Nor then regret those scenes so gay Where thou wert fairest of the fair? THOMAS PERCY, D.D. BEDOUIN LOVE SONG. FROM the Desert I come to thee, And the midnight hears my cry: And the leaves of the Judgment Look from thy window, and see And I faint in thy disdain. Of a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment My steps are nightly driven, By the fever in my breast, To hear from thy lattice breathed The word that shall give me rest. Open the door of thy heart, And open thy chamber door, And my kisses shall teach thy lips The love that shall fade no more Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment BAYARD TAYLOR. COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. FROM IRISH MELODIES." COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here; Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. Oh! what was love made for, if 't is not the same Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame? I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, art. |