100. HYMN TO VENUS.

VENUS! beauty of the skies,

To whom a thousand temples rise,
Gaily false in gentle smiles
Full of love-perplexing wiles!
Oh, goddess! from my heart remove
The wasting cares and pains of love.

If ever thou hast kindly heard
A song in soft distress preferr'd,
Propitious to my tuneful vow,
Oh, gentle goddess, hear me now;
Descend, thou bright immortal guest,
In all thy radiant charms confest.

Thou once didst leave almighty Jove,
And all the golden roofs above,
The car thy wanton sparrows drew,
Hovering in air they lightly flew;
As to my bower they wing'd their way,
I saw their quiv'ring pinions play.

The birds dismist (while you remain),
Bore back their swifty car again;
Then you, with looks divinely mild,
In every heavenly feature smil'd?
And ask'd what new complaints I made,
And why I called you to my aid.

Sappho.

101.

HE NEVER SAID HE LOVED ME.

HE never said he loved me,

Nor hymned my beauty's praise;

Yet there was something more than words
In his full, ardent gaze:

He never gave his passion voice;
Yet on his flushing cheek

I read a tale more tender far

Than softest tones could speak!

He never said he loved me;

Yet when none else were nigh,
How could I hear, and doubt the truth?
His low unbidden sigh,

The throbs of his tumultuous heart,
That faint sweet breath above;
What for me could syllable so well
The tale of hope and love?

He never said he loved me;
He silent worship vowed,

The deep devotion of his soul

He never breathed aloud;
Though if he raised his voice in song,
As swelled each tenderer tone,
It seemed as if designed to reach
My ear and heart alone!

He never said he loved me;

Yet the conviction came,

Like some great truth that stirs the soul
Ere yet it knows its name:

Some angel-whisper of a faith

That long defied our ken,

And made us almost feel that life
Had scarce begun till then!

And have I said I love him?
Alas for maiden pride,
That feeling he hath ne'er revealed,
I have not learned to hide!
And yet clairvoyant Love informs
His votaries' hearts so well,

That long before 'tis time to speak

There's nothing left to tell.

Alaric A. Watts.

BY

102. THE BACHELOR'S DILEMMA.

Y all the sweet saints in the Missal of Love,
They are both so intensely, bewitchingly fair,
That, let Folly look solemn, and Wisdom reprove,

I can't make up my mind which to choose of the pair.

There is Fanny, whose eye is as blue and as bright
As the depths of spring skies in their noontide array;
Whose every soft feature is gleaming in light,

Like the ripple of waves on a sunshiny day;

Whose form, like the willow, so slender and lithe,

Has a thousand wild motions of lightness and grace;
Whose innocent heart, ever buoyant and blithe,

Is the home of the sweetness that breathes from her face.

There is Helen, more stately of gesture and mien,
Whose beauty a world of dark ringlets enshrouds;

With a black regal eye, and the step of a queen,

And a brow like the moon breaking forth from the clouds:

With a bosom whose chords are so tenderly strung,
That a word, nay a look, will awaken its sighs;
With a face, like the heart-searching tones of her tongue,
Full of music that charms both the simple and wise.

In my moments of mirth, and glitter, and glee,
When my soul takes the hue that is brightest of any,
From her sister's enchantment my spirit is free,

And the bumper I quaff is a bumper to Fanny.

But when shadows come o'er me of sickness or grief,
And my heart with a host of wild fancies is swelling,
From the blaze of her brightness I turn for relief

To the pensive and peace-breathing beauty of Helen.

And when sorrow and joy are so blended together

That to weep I'm unwilling, to smile am as loth; When the beam may be kicked by the weight of a feather, I would fain keep it even-by wedding them both.

'But since I must fix or on black eyes or blue,

Quickly make up my mind 'twixt a Grace and a Muse; Pr'ythee, Venus, instruct me that course to pursue Which even Paris himself had been puzzled to choose.'

Thus murmured a Bard, predetermined to marry,

But so equally charmed by a Muse and a Grace, That though one of his suits might be doomed to miscarry, He'd another he straight could prefer in its place.

So trusting that Fortune would favour the brave,

He asked each in her turn, but they both said him nay; Lively Fanny declared he was somewhat too grave, And Saint Helen pronounced him a little too gay.

A. A. Watts.

103. I WILL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE.

I

WILL never love thee more,

Though I loved thee once so well:

Why, a prodigal the store

Of my bosom's inmost cell,

Should I waste on one who ne'er
Won a truthful heart before?
Let who will thy favour share,
I will never love thee more!

I will never love thee more!
Wherefore to an idol bow,

Why a deity adore,

Heartless, hollow, cold as thou?

Fools the facile smiles may win,
That 'twas mine to win of yore;
Worship misapplied is sin,

I will never love thee more!

I will never love thee more,

Though I loved thee once so well;
Love's illusive hour is o'er,

Take then, take my last farewell!
Should thy practised wiles again

Touch some truthful bosom's love,
Be the thought not stirred in vain,
Why I ne'er can love thee more.

A. A. Watts.

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104. A MAIDEN'S SOLILOQUY.

'LL not believe I am not loved,

I'LL

Although his words are few;

The deepest streams have ever proved
As cold and silent too.

He never said my form was fair,

My cheek might shame the rose;
And yet the smile that others share
O'er him a shadow throws.

Wit's arrows pass him harmless by,
A Cymon's self might move;
Each shaft directed by a sigh,—
The eloquence of love.

And when I sing the stirring songs
That charm all other ears,

His trembling voice his purpose wrongs,
He cannot praise for tears.