But O, how my heart was tried, Willy,
For little I thought to see
That the lad who won the lasses all
Would ever be won by me.

Adown this path we came, Willy,
'Twas just at the hour of eve;
And will he, or will he not, I thought,
My fluttering heart relieve?

So oft we paused as we saunter'd on,
'Twas fear, and hope-and fear;
But here, at the wood, as we parting stood,
'Twas rapture his vows to hear!

Of vows so soft-thy vows, Willy!
Who would not, like me, be proud;
Sweet lark, with thy soaring, echoing song,
Come down from thy rosy cloud,

Come down to thy nest, and tell thy mate-
But tell thy mate alone-

Thou hast seen a maid whose heart of love
Is as merry and light as thy own.

W. Smyth.

CCXXX.

THE FAIR THIEF.

BEFORE the urchin well could go,
She stole the whiteness of the snow;
And more,-that whiteness to adorn,
She stole the blushes of the morn:
Stole all the sweets that ether sheds
On primrose buds or violet beds.

Still, to reveal her artful wiles,
She stole the Graces' silken smiles:
She stole Aurora's balmy breath,
And pilfer'd Orient pearl for teeth;
The cherry, dipt in morning dew,
Gave moisture to her lips and hue.

These were her infant spoils, a store
To which, in time, she added more ;

174

At twelve, she stole from Cyprus' queen
Her air and love-commanding mien;
Stole Juno's dignity, and stole

From Pallas sense to charm the soul.

Apollo's wit was next her prey,
Her next the beam that lights the day;
She sung; amazed the Syrens heard;
And to assert their voice appear'd :
She play'd; the Muses from the hill
Wonder'd who thus had stole their skill.

Great Jove approved her crimes and art;
And t'other day she stole my heart.
If lovers, Cupid, are thy care,
Exert thy vengeance on this fair;
To trial bring her stolen charms,

And let her prison be thy arms.

CCXXXI.

Earl of Egremont.

LOVE WHAT IT IS.

LOVE is a circle, that doth restless move
In the same sweet eternity of love.

CCXXXII.

Robert Herrick.

NEED.

WHO begs to die for fear of human need,
Wisheth his body, not his soul, good speed.

Robert Herrick.

CCLXXXIII.

THE ADVANTAGE OF FOREKNOWLEDGE.

IF man might know

The ill he must undergo,

And shun it so,

Then it were good to know:

But if he undergo it,
Though he know it?

What boots him know it,

He must undergo it.

CCXXXIV.

Sir John Suckling.

TREASON doth never prosper--What's the reason? If it doth prosper, none dare call it treason.

CCXXXV.

Sir John Harrington.

NONE, without hope, e'er loved the brightest fair,
But love can hope when reason would despair.

CCXXXVI.

George, Lord Lyttelton.

TO MADAME DE DAMAS LEARNING ENGLISH.

THOUGH British accents your attention fire,
You cannot learn so fast as we admire.
Scholars like you but slowly can improve,

For who would teach you but the verb " I love."
Horace Walpole, Earl of Orford.

CCXXXVII.

As lamps burn silent with unconscious light,
So modest ease in beauty shines most bright,
Unaiming charms with edge resistless fall,
And she who means no mischief does it all.
Aaron Hill.

CCXXXVIII.

I LOVED thee, beautiful and kind,
And plighted an eternal vow;
So alter'd are thy face and mind,
'Twere perjury to love thee now.
Robert, Earl Nugent.

CCXXXIX.

IGNORANCE OF BOTANY.

I HARDLY know one flower that grows
On my small garden plot;
Perhaps I may have seen a Rose,

And said, Forget-me-Not.

Walter S. Landor.

CCXL.

WHERE ARE SIGHS.

UNLESS my senses are more dull,
Sighs are become less plentiful.

Where are they all? these many years

Only my own have reach'd my ears.

Walter S. Landor.

CCXLI.

ON ROBERT Burns.

HE pass'd thro' life's tempestuous night,
A brilliant, trembling, northern light;
Thro' years to come he'll shine from far,
A fix'd unsetting, polar star.

James Montgomery.

CCXLII.

My heart still hovering round about you
I thought I could not live without you :
But since we've been three months asunder,
How I lived with you is the wonder.

Unknown.

CCXLIII.

ON THE DISTINGUISHED SINGER, MISS ELLEN TREE.

On this Tree if a nightingale settles and sings,
The Tree will return her as good as she brings.

Henry Luttrell.

CCXLIV.

WRITTEN IN A LADY'S MILTON.

WITH Virtue such as yours had Eve been arm'd,
In vain the fruit had blush'd, the serpent charm'd.
Nor had our bliss by penitence been bought,
Nor had frail Adam fall'n, nor Milton wrote.
Matthew Prior.

MYRTILLA, early on the lawn,
Steals roses from the blushing dawn;
But when Myrtilla sleeps till ten,
Aurora steals them back again?

Unknown.