Page images
PDF
EPUB

HOW SHALL I WOO HER?

L'on n'aime bien qu'une seule fois : c'est la premiere. Les amours qui suivent sont moins involontaires !

La Bruyere.

How shall I woo her ?-I will stand

Beside her when she sings ; And watch that fine and fairy hand

Flit o'er the quivering strings : And I will tell her, I have heard,

Though sweet her song may be, A voice, whose every whispered word

Was more than song to me!

II.

How shall I woo her ?-I will gaze,

In sad and silent trance, On those blue eyes, whose liquid rays

Look love in every glance: And I will tell her, eyes more bright,

Though bright her own may beam,

Will fling a deeper spell to-night

Upon me in my dream.

III.

How shall I woo her ?—I will try

The charms of olden time, And swear by earth and sea and sky,

And rave in prose and rhyme ;And I will tell her when I bent.

My knee in other years, I was not half so eloquent,

I could not speak for tears !

IV.

How shall I woo her?-I will bow

Before the holy shrine ;
And pray the prayer, and vow the vow,

And press her lips to mine ;
And I will tell her, when she parts

From passion's thrilling 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 I have lost,—

What have they left to win?

STAN ZAS.

The lady of his love, oli, she was changed,
As by the sickness of the soul !

Byron.

Go thou, while in thy soul, and fill a throne
Of innocence and purity, in Heaven!

Ford,

. I know that it must be, Yea! thou art changed—all worshipped as thou artMourned as thou shalt be! Sickness of the heart

Hath done its work on thee!

Thy dim eyes tell a tale,
A pitious tale, of vigils ; and the trace
Of bitter tears is on thy beauteous face,

Beauteous, and yet so pale !

Changed love! but not alone ! I am not what they think me; though my cheek Wear but its last year's furrow, though I speak

Thus in my natural tone.

The temple of my youth
Was strong in moral purpose : once I felt
The glory of philosophy, and knelt

In the pure shrine of truth.

I went into the storm,
And mocked the billows of the tossing sea;
I said to Fate, “ What wilt thou do to me?

I have not harmed a worm !"

Vainly the heart is steeled
In Wisdom's armour ; let her burn her books !
I look upon them as the soldier looks

Upon his cloven shield.

Virtue and Virtue's rest, How have they perished! Through my onward course Repentance dogs my footsteps ! black Remorse

Is my familiar guest !

The glory and the glow
Of the world's loveliness have passed away ;
And Fate hath little to inflict, to-day,

And nothing to bestow!

« PreviousContinue »