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SIR CHARLES SEDLEY.
You violets that first appear,
I little thought the rising fire
Would take my rest away.
Your charms in harmless childhood lay
Like metals in a mine;
Age from no face takes more away
Than youth concealed in thine.
But as your charms insensibly
To their perfection prest,
So love as unperceived did fly,
And centred in my breast.
My passion with your beauty grew,
While Cupid at my heart
Still as his mother favored you
Threw a new flaming dart :
Each gloried in their wanton part ;
To make a lover, he
Employed the utmost of his art;
To make a beauty, she.
A skein of silk without a knot !
WAITING FOR THE GRAPES.
BEN JONSON. That I love thee, charming maid, I a thousand
times have said,
And a thousand times more I have sworn it, WHEN IN THE CHRONICLE OF WASTED But 't is easy to be seen in the coldness of your TIME.
-- or scorn it.
Ah me! When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
Not a single grain of sense is in the whole of And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,
these pretences In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights ; For rejecting your lover's petitions ; Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best Had I windows in my bosom, O how gladly I'd Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have expressed To undo your fantastic suspicions. Even such a beauty as you master now.
Ah me! So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring ;
You repeat I 've known you long, and you hint And, for they looked but with divining eyes,
I do you wrong, They had not skill enough your worth to sing ; In beginning so late to pursue ye ; For we, which now behold these present days, But 't is folly to look glum because people did not Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
Up the stairs of your nursery to woo ye.
expose 'em !
CHILD AND MAIDEN.
Ah, Chloris ! could I now but sit
As unconcerned as when
No happiness or pain !
And praised the coming day,
In a grapery one walks without looking at the
stalks, While the bunches are green that they ’re bear
ing : All the pretty little leaves that are dangling at the
Scarce attract e'en a moment of staring.
But when time has swelled the grapes to a richer | Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, style of shapes,
Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those : And the sun has lent warmth to their blushes, Favors to none, to all she smiles extends : Then to cheer us and to gladden, to enchant us Oft she rejects, but never once offends. and to madden,
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, Is the ripe ruddy glory that rushes.
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike.
Might hide her faults, if belles had faults te 0,'t is then that mortals pant while they gaze on
hide ; Bacchus' plant,
If to her share some female errors fall, 0, 't is then, — will my simile serve ye?
Look on her face, and you ’ll forget them all. @hould a damsel fair repine, though neglected like
ALEXANDER POPE. a vine ? Both erelong shall turn heads topsy-turvy.
SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.
She was a phantom of delight
If it be true that any beauteous thing
of J. E. TAYLOR.
THE MIGHT OF ONE FAIR FACE.
The might of one fair face sublimes my love,
Forgive me if I cannot turn away
MICHAEL ANGELO (Italian). Translation
of J. E. TAYLOR.
FROM THE “RAPE OF THE LOCK."
On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore,
The year stood at its equinox,
And bluff the North was blowing, A bleat of lambs came from the flocks,
Green hardy things were growing ; I met a maid with shining locks
Where milky kine were lowing.
She wore a kerchief on her neck,
Her bare arm showed its dimple, Her apron spread without a speck,
Her air was frank and simple.
To run down by the early train,
Whirl down with shriek and whistle, And feel the bluff north blow again,
And mark the sprouting thistle
Its green and tender bristle ;
Crisp primrose-leaves and others,
And butt their patient mothers. Alas! one point in all my plan
My serious thoughts demur to : Seven years have passed for maid and man;
Seven years have passed for her too.
Not rosy or too rosy ;
Some husband keeps her cosey,
Good by, my wayside posy!
She milked into a wooden pail,
And sang a country ditty, An innocent fond lovers' tale,
That was not wise nor witty, Pathetically rustical,
Too pointless for the city.
CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTL
She kept in time without a beat,
As true as church-bell ringers, Unless she tapped time with her feet,
Or squeezed it with her fingers ; Her clear, unstudied notes were sweet
As many a practised singer's.
SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.
AT THE CHURCH GATE.
Such is her beauty as no arts
Have enriched with borrowed grace. Her high birth no pride imparts,
For she blushes in her place. Folly boasts a glorious blood, She is noblest being good. Cautious, she knew never yet
What a wanton courtship meant; Nor speaks loud to boast her wit,
In her silence eloquent. Of herself survey she takes, But 'tween men no difference makes. She obeys with speedy will
Her grave parents' wise commands; And so innocent, that ill
She nor acts, nor understands.
Where oft virt'le splits her mast;
Where her fame may anchor cast.
Where sin waits not on delight;
Sweetly spends a winter's night. O'er that darkness whence is thrust Prayer and sleep, oft governs lust. She her throne makes reason climb,
While wild passions captive lie ;
Her pure thoughts to heaven fly;
ALTHOUGH I enter not,
Ofttimes I hover ;
Expectant of her.
And noise and humming ;
She's coming, coming! My lady comes at last, Timid and stepping fast,
And hastening hither,
she's here, she's past !
Meekly and duly ;
With thoughts unruly.
Lingering a minute,
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
VERSES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.
ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION.
Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow,
the dove, The linnet, and thrush say “ I love, and I love!" In the winter they're silent, the wind is so strong; What it says I don't know, but it sings a loud
song. But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny
warm weather, And singing and loving-all come back together. But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green fields below him; the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he, "I love my Love, and my Love loves me.”
GO, LOVELY ROSE.
Go, lovely rose ! Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died.
Guard well thy soul, beloved ;
Truth, dwelling there,
Her image rare.
That thou art she ;
Fairer than thee.
Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired.
Then die, that she
May read in thee;
STANZA ADDED BY HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
A GIRL, who has so many wilful ways
sake him ;
A little better she would surely make him. Yet is this girl I sing in naught uncommon,
And very far from angel yet, I trów. Her faults, her sweetnesses, are purely human ; Yet she's more lovable as simple woman
Than any one diviner that I know.
Yet, though thou fade, From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise ;
And teach the maid, That goodness Time's rude hand defies, That virtue lives when beauty dies.
FAIRER THAN THEE.
Therefore I wish that she may safely keep
This womanhede, and change not, only grow; From maid to matron, youth to age, may creep, And in perennial blessedness, still reap On every hand of that which she doth sow.
DINAH MARIA MULOCK.
FAIRER than thee, beloved,
Fairer than thee !-There is one thing, beloved,
Fairer than thee.
BLACK AND BLUE EYES.
Not the glad sun, beloved,
Bright though it beams; Not the green earth, beloved,
Silver with streams ;
Not the gay birds, beloved,
Happy and free :
Fairer than thee.
Glowing with light;
Grand in her sway ;
Clearer than day.
Spotless and free,
Fairer than thee.
The brilliant black eye
May in triumph let fly All its darts without caring who feels 'em ;
But the soft eye of blue,
Though it scatter wounds too,
Dear Fanny !
“Come and worship my ray;
But the blue eye, half hid,
Says, from under its lid,
Dear Fanny !
In that lovely blue eye,
Or why should you wear
The only blue pair