The charms of olden time,

And swear by earth and sea and sky,
And rave in prose and rhyme:

And let him tell her, when he bent
His knee in other years,

He was not half so eloquent,

He could not speak for tears!

How shall he woo her?- - Let him bow Before the shrine in prayer;

And bid the priest pronounce the vow

That hallows passion there:

And let him tell her, when she parts

From his unchidden kiss,

That memory to many hearts
Is dearer far than bliss.

Away, away! the chords are mute,
The bond is rent in twain;

You cannot wake that silent lute,

Nor clasp those links again;

Love's toil, I know, is little cost,
Love's perjury is light sin;

But souls that lose what his hath lost,—
Oh what have they to win?

LOVE AT A ROUT

WHEN Some mad bard sits down to muse
About the lilies and the dews,

The grassy vales and sloping lawns,
Fairies and Satyrs, Nymphs and Fawns,
He's apt to think, he's apt to swear,
That Cupid reigns not anywhere
Except in some sequestered village
Where peasants live on truth and tillage,
That none are fair enough for witches
But maids who frisk through dells and

ditches,

That dreams are twice as sweet as dances,

That cities never breed romances,

That Beauty always keeps a cottage,

And Purity grows pale on pottage.

Yes! those dear dreams are all divine;
And those dear dreams have all been mine.

I like the stream, the rock, the bay,

I like the smell of new-mown hay,

I like the babbling of the brooks,
I like the creaking of the crooks,
I like the peaches, and the posies,-
But chiefly, when the season closes,
And often, in the month of fun,
When every poacher cleans his gun,
And cockneys tell enormous lies,
And stocks are pretty sure to rise,
And e'en the Chancellor, they say,
Goes to a point the nearest way,
I hurry from my drowsy desk
To revel in the picturesque,

To hear beneath those ancient trees

The far-off murmur of the bees,

Or trace yon river's mazy channels With Petrarch, and a brace of spaniels, Combining foolish rhymes together, And killing sorrow, and shoe-leather.

Then, as I see some rural maid
Come dancing up the sunny glade,
Coquetting with her fond adorer

Just as her mother did before her,
"Give me," I cry, "the quiet bliss

Of souls like these, of scenes like this;
Where ladies eat and sleep in peace,
Where gallants never heard of Greece,
Where day is day, and night is night,

These are the homes, the hearts, for Love!"

But this is idle; I have been

A sojourner in many a scene,

And picked up wisdom in my way,
And cared not what I had to pay;
Smiling and weeping all the while,
As other people weep and smile;
And I have learnt that Love is not
Confined to any hour or spot;

He lights the smile and fires the frown
Alike in country and in town.

I own fair faces not more fair

In Ettrick, than in Portman Square,