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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.

I.

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!

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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.

V.

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?

STANZAS.

The lady of his love, oh, 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 art—

Mourned 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

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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 !

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