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A maiden with whose gathering blush

The very roses dare not vie.
The daisies, which her footsteps crush,

The very daisies love and die.

Her lips half-conscious of a smile ;

Her eyes all beaming with delight; A white rose in her hair the while,

Like frosted moon against the night.

No lovelier roses bloom than these ;

No woodland song more sweet than here ; Yet song and roses fail to please,

When love has told me, she is near.

In vain on Alpine snows I stand,

By Danube's osiered stream recline. I change the sky; I change the land;

Change cannot change this love of mine.

2

Forgetful of the city's mart,

Of feudal tower, of vine-clad hill, I only feel an aching heart,

While Love triumphant mocks my will.

I tread in memory by her side

The swelling uplands of the park, The road, green-swarded, up the ride

To fields, dominion of the lark.

With bated breath, and faltering speech, I

pause enchanted when she speaks. Gone from my view are hall and beech ;

But laughing eyes and dimpled cheeks.

I remember how she came

Out from the school beneath the trees, Fresh as the moon, when all aflame,

The rose-tints bathe the sky—the seas.

We pass once more the garden wall,

Plantations of the larch and fir,
Beneath the arch and by the hall,

By trees with autumn winds astir.

The bells are ringing in the tower,

We pause a moment at the door.
Within is many a carved flower,

And coloured sunbeams stain the floor.

There is the rectory, there the ground

All hooped for croquêt where we played ;
There stand the elms long ages crowned,

As guardians of the village glade.

All yellow-red the chesnut stands,

The bridge and willow span the stream ;
I feel once more the clasp of hands-

A parting look-and all a dream.

The beechen woods, the old brick hall,

The river widening to a lake,
I love them one, I love them all,

I love them for a maiden's sake,

31. LOVE SICKNESS.

AN OIRISH MALADY.

E leart's with me Flora; how great is the pleasure

I'd soon teek a thrip, if I'd money an' leisure,

To London's great city to see my ould fleem.

That dee down at Richmond ! I'll never forget it,

Ah! thin me affecshuns wer youthfle and green ; Our gyarmints wer' certainly thoroughly wetted,

But she was the fairest I ever had seen.

Such throifles as reen an' wet clothes he who woise is

Neglects when the part of a shuthor he'd play,
He well knows that Kyoopid all gyarments dispoises,

And Vanus looks fairest just out o' the say.

Though the damp rather dims a young leedy's complexshun,

And rooins a best three-an’-tinpenny glov,
Can umbrellas ibscure the broight glance ov affecshun,

Or showers o' reen damp the ardour ov lov ?

The “Star and the Gyarther,' that hall o' symphozlıia,

A refyidge afforded us all from the reen;
We ate our fawgrah as it had been ambrozhia,

An' quaffed the broight necthar ov sparklin' champeen.

The next time we meet, be it sunshine or torrence,

The question I'll pop while iscortin' her home; Next winther, she tould me, she's goin' to Florence,

Who knows but she'd, maybe, go over to Rome !

32. A VALENTINE OF THE ELIZABETHAN AGE.

IN AN OLD ALBUM DATED 1583.

W

THEN Slumber first uncloudes my brain,

And thoughte is free,
And Sense refreshed renews her reigne,-

I thinke of Thee.

When nexte in prayer to God above

I bende my knee,
Then when I pray for those I love,-

I pray for Thee.

And when the duties of the day

Demande of mce
To rise and journey on life's way,

I work for Thee.

Or if perchance I sing some lay,

Whate'er it bee;
All that the idle verses say,

They say of Thee.

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For if an eye whose liquid lighte

Gleams like the sea,
They sing, or tresses browne and brighte,-

They sing of Thee.

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And if a wearie mood, or sad,

Possesses mee,
One thought can all times make mee glad,--

The thoughte of Thee.

And when once more upon my bed,

Full wearily,
In sweet repose I lay my head,

I dream of Thee.

2

In short, one only wish I have,

To live for Thee ;
Or gladly if one pang 'twould save,-

I'd die for Thee.

33. AMY'S SECRET.

3

THE

a

'HE window looked

, On the rosy bloom of a rippling bay; Within we moved in an amber glow,

And purple even our shadows lay.

I lean'd by the curtain's folds and read

Wine-coloured words in a page of light ;- Did the sunset only dazzle my eyes ?

Did its brightness only confuse my sight?

I had been home from the East a month,

And you know what passes for beauty there, And I read to listening English girls,

English beauties, and few so fair.

They were two cousins, Amy and Maud,

(Seen in my dreams, oh! many a night;) Maud with her dark eyes dreamy and full,

And fairy Amy rosy and bright.

Both so sweet and tender and true,

From a boy they had been belov'd by me, And I often had thought, . Does either love?

Am I more to either than friend may be?'

!

I read my Journal. That was their will:

Page after page of my Indian life;
Dull enough, slow enough, Heaven knows,

With little of peril and less of strise.

Page after page of the daily round,

Monotony stamp'd on every leaf,Hunting a tiger, meeting a Thug,

Having a raid with a robber chief :

So ran the record, until at last,

News of the Mutiny broke the spell,
And our regiment marched on the rebel foes,

And my Journal told what there befel.

3

And here, as I read, my wandering eyes

At the listening faces stole a glance,At Amy, pale and with parted lips,

At Maud as she dream'd on this new romancc.

Then on I sped to the closing scene,

Where a Sepoy dagger was at my heart, And I saw it gleam, and plunge, and then

but Amy rose with a sudden start.

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