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Too deep for swift telling ; and yet, my one

lover, I've conn'd thee an answer, it waits thee

to-night. By the sycamore pass'd he, and thro' the

white clover, Then all the sweet speech I had fashion'd

took flight :

But I'll love him more, more
Than e'er wife loved before,
Be the days dark or bright.

Jean Ingelow.

Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my

path, Ilk stream foaming down its ain green

narrow strath; For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, While o'er us, unheeded, flee the sweet hours


She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair ;
O’nice education but sma' is her share ;
Her parentage humble as humble can be ;
But I loe the dear lassie because she loes



To beauty what man but maun yield him a

prize, In her armour of glances, and blushes, and

sighs ? And when wit and refinement hae polished

her darts, They dazzle our een as they flee to our


How many a magic Love doth quite
Perform in one short summer night-

Wherein is scarcely space for dreams,

While, on each side the world, it seems The days nigh join with amber hands, Over the dimly gleaming lands,

Where under thin-veil'd shifting sky

Gleams inany a flower with white eye
Unclosed !-On moonlight paven path
How many a meeting-place Love hath-
Where dreams, or yearning thoughts that

Parted in vain, may find their will,
And come together as they range,
And fall into sweet interchange

Like waves with waves, whereof some sign

Felt at the trembling ripple-line Of either brimming heart, doth bring A rich unwonted comforting!

Arthur W. E. O'Shaughnessy.

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YON wild mossy mountains sae lofty and

wide, That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the

Clyde, Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the

heather to feed, And the shepherd tends the flock as he

pipes on his reed. Not Gowrie's rich valleys, nor Forth's sunny

shores, To me hae the charms o' yon wild mossy

moors ; For there by a lanely, sequester'd clear

stream, Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my


Of all the things a man may have
Before he cometh to the grave, -

Of all the joys that he may win
This is the richest : to possess
One yearned-for hour in loneliness,
Beside one's love, in some fair clime,
In some fair purple autumn time;
For quite shall be forgotten then
The pains and labours among men,
The bitter things of thought and fear;
The bitter ends of hope; and, near,
Quite at one's side, yea, on one's heart,
Yea, touching, with no more to part,
The yearning hands or looks that meet,
Shall seem the often dreamed-of sweet
Much more than all the glowing things
To which the fondest memory clings-

Much more than any rapturous past : And this, the fairest moment, sure, In each man's life--it shall endure Some noon ; while creeping twilight dims Slowly some flower's purple rims,

Or some green distance suffers change
Fading before us : then this strange
And precious rapture—it shall pass,
And never come again, alas !
Nay, for there shall be bliss and bliss,
And love and love, and kiss and kiss,
And many a pleasant touch of hands,
And place for love in many lands,
And communings of heart with heart,
Much to be gained, much to impart, -
All these ; but surely, never more
Doth any time at all restore
That faded purple of delight,
And the same sweet and the same sight,
As when one's love in that fair place
Blush'd with strange crimson, face to face,
With every inward passionate thought,
Into real living blisses wrought,
And the heart, through some mystery,
Seem'd filling earths and heavens to be-
Yea, things and spaces dimly known-
With endless feelings of its own.

She must have reach'd this shrub ere she

turn'd, As back with that murmur the wicket

swung ; For she laid the poor snail my chance foot

spurn'd, To feed and forget it the leaves among. Down this side of the gravel-walk She went while her robe's edge brush'd the

box : And here she paused in her gracious talk

To point me a moth on the milk-white flox. Rose, ranged in a valiant row,

I will never think that she pass'd you by! She loves you, noble roses, I know,

But yonder, see where the rock-plants lie ! This flower she stopp'd at, finger on lip,

Stoop'd over, in doubt as settling its claim; Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip,

Its soft meandering Spanish name. What a name! was it love or praise ?

Speech half-asleep, or song half-awake? I must learn Spanish one of these days,

If only for that slow sweet name's sake.

Hereafter, surely I may say,
That, many an hour in night or day,
Those lovers knew some precious part
Of all the joy that heart with heart
Can so beget. Often they came,
And found that silken place the same,
In purple growing glooms at eve ;
And sat while pleasure would deceive
Their thoughts with many a changing dream
Wrought of each momentary gleam
Of the unearthly twilight blue,
That seem'd to make the world anew,
Like some enamellid picture fair
With jewell'd stars and leaves : now there,
And now, in wanderings amid
The pleasant flower-paths, half-hid
Beneath safe shadows of the trees,
They dream'd some dream enough to please
All silently ; or, one by one,
In their own soft and murmurous tone,
Spoke all the spells that Love hath set
In wild sweet words, that ever fret
The lips of lovers, till his gold
And honied secret be all told.

Arthur W. E. O'Shaughnessy.

Roses, if I live and do well,

I may bring her one of these days To fix you fast with as fine a spell,

Fit you each with his Spanish phrase; But do not detain me now; for she lingers

There like sunshine over the ground, And ever I see her soft white fingers

Searching after the bud she found. Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow

not, Stay as you are and be loved for ever! Bud, if I kiss you, 'tis that you blow not ;

Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never ! For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle,

Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn and down they nestle

Is not the dear mark still to be seen? Where I find her not, beauties vanish;

Whither I follow her, beauties flee; Is there no method to tell her in Spanish June's twice June since she breathed it

with me? Come, bud, show me the least of her traces,

Treasure my lady's lightest foot-fall ;
Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces,
Roses, you are not fair after all.

Robert Browning


Here's the garden she walk'd across,

Arm in my arm, such a short while since : Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss Hinders the hinges and makes them

wince ;

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Thou art as I--Thy soul doth wait for mine, as mine for thee; We cannot live apart, must meeting be

Never before we die ?

Dear soul, not so !
That Time doth keep for us some happy years,
That God hath portion'd out our smiles and

Thou knowest, and I know.

Yes, we shall meet !
And therefore let our searching be the stronger;
Dark ways of life shall not divide us longer,

Nor doubt, nor danger, sweet !


Therefore I bear This winter-tide as bravely as I may, Patiently waiting for the bright spring-day

That cometh with thee, dear.

'Tis the May-light That crimsons all the quiet college gloom ; May it shine softly in thy sleeping-room ; And so, dear one, good night !


IN THE OVER-ARCHING GROVES. At morn, as if beneath a galaxy

Of over-arching groves in blossoms white, Where all was odrous scent and harmony, And gladness to the heart, nerve, ear, and

sight : There, if, O gentle love, I read aright The utterance that seald thy sacred bond,

'Twas listening to these accents of delight, She hid upon his breast those eyes, beyond Expression's power to paint, all languishingly

fond. “Flower of my life, so lovely and so lone!

Whom I would rather in this desert meet, Scorning and scorn'd by Fortune's power, than Her pomp and splendours lavish'd at my

feet! Turn not from me thy breath, more ex

quisite Than odours cast on heaven's own shrine to

please Give me thy love, than luxury more sweet, And more than all the wealth that loads the

breeze, When Coromandel's ships return from Indian

seas"Then would that home admit them happier

far Than grandeur's most magnificent saloon

While, here and there, a solitary star Flush'd in the dark’ning firmament of June ;Never did the Hymenean moon A Paradise of hearts more sacred sway!

O Love! in such a wilderness as this, Where transport and security entwine,

Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss, And here thou art a god indeed divine ; Here shall no forms abridge, no hours con

fine The views, the walks, that boundless joy

inspire ! Roll on, ye days of raptured influence, shine! Nor, blind with ecstasy's celestial fire, Shall love behold the spark of earth-born time expire.

Thomas Campbell. OF SYMPATHY.

My kindling heart At thy approach, with sympathetic love To meet thee springs, and with thy gen'rous

flame Transported, longs to meet its faithful fires.




When ripen'd time and chasten’d will

Have stretch'd and tuned for love's

accords The five-string'd lyre of life, until

It vibrates with the wind of words ; And ‘Woman,' 'Lady,' 'She,' and 'Her'

Are names for perfect good and fair, And unknown maidens, talk'd of, stir

His thoughts with reverential care ; He meets, by heavenly chance express,

His destined wife : some hidden hand Unveils to him that loveliness

Which others cannot understand. No songs of love, no summer dreams

Did e'er his longing fancy fire With vision like to this : she seems

In all things better than desire. His merits in her presence grow,

To match the promise in her eyes, And round her happy footsteps blow

The authentic airs of Paradise.
For love of her he cannot sleep ;

Her beauty haunts him all the night ;
It melts his heart, it makes him weep
For wonder, worship, and delight.

Coventry Patmore.

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