In all this world, as thinketh me,
Is none so pleasant to my e'e,
That I am glad so oft to see,

As my sweet sweeting.
When I behold my sweeting sweet,
Her face, her hands, her minion feet,
They seem to me there is none so mete,

As my sweet sweeting.

I would not long detain
Thy soul from bliss, nor keep thee here in pain ;

Nor should thy fellow-saints e'er know

Of thy escape below :
Before thou’rt missed, thou shouldst return again.
Sure, heaven must needs thy love,
As well as other qualities, improve :

Come, then ! and recreate my sight

With rays of thy pure light;
'T will cheer my eyes more than the lamps above.
But if Fate's so severe
As to confine thee to thy blissful sphere,

(And by thy absence I shall know

Whether thy state be so,)
Live happy, and be mindful of me there.

JOHN NORRIS.

Here's the garden she walked across,

Arm in my arm, such a short while since: A GOLDEN GIRL. .

Hark! now I push its wicket, the moss

Hinders the hinges, and makes them wince. Lucy is a golden girl ;

She must have reached this shrub ere she tumed, But a man, a man, should woo her!

As back with that murmur the wicket swung;
They who seek her shrink aback,
When they should, like storms, pursue her. For she laid the poor snail my chance foot spurned,

To feed and forget it the leaves among.
All her smiles are hid in light;
All her hair is lost in splendor ;

Down this side of the gravel walk
But she hath the eyes of Night

She went while her robe's edge brushed the box; And a heart that's over-tender.

And here she paused in her gracious talk

To point me a inoth on the milk-white phlox. Yet the foolish suitors fly

Roses, ranged in valiant row, (Is 't excess of dread or duty ?)

I will never think that she passed you by! From the starlight of her eye,

She loves you, noble roses, I know; Leaving to neglect her beauty!

But yonder see where the rock-plants lie ! Men by fifty seasons taught

This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, Leave her to a young beginner,

Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim; Who, without a second thought,

Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, Whispers, woos, and straight must win her. Its soft meandering Spanish name.

What a name! was it love or praise ? Lucy is a golden girl !

Speech half asleep, or song half awake? Toast her in a goblet brimming !

I must learn Spanish one of these days, May the man that wins her wear

Only for that slow sweet name's sake. On his heart the Rose of Women!

Roses, if I live and do well,

I may bring her one of these days,

To fix you fast with as fine a spell, –
MY SWEET SWEETING.

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

There, like sunshine over the ground;
Ay, my sweet sweeting ;

And ever I see her soft white fingers
My little pretty sweeting,

Searching after the bud she found.
My sweeting will I love wherever I go ;
She is so proper and pure,

Flower, you Spaniard ! look that you grow not, Full, steadfast, stable, and demure,

Stay as you are, and be loved forever.
There is none such, you may be sure, Bud, if I kiss you, 't is that you blow not,
As my sweet sweeting.

Mind! the shut pink mouth opens never !

BARRY CORNWALL.

FROM A MS. TEMP. HENRY VIII.

For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle, I THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE.

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

| THE sun has gane down o'er the lofty Ben Lomond, Is not the dear mark still to be seen ?

And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene,

While lanely I stray in the calm summergloamin', Where I find her not, beauties vanish;

To muse on sweet Jessie, the Flower o' DumWhither I follow her, beauties flee.

blane. Is there no method to tell her in Spanish

| How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom, June'stwice Junesince she breathed it with me?"

And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; Come, bud ! show me the least of her traces.

| Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, Treasure my lady's lightest footfall :

Is lovely young Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. Ah! you may flout and turn up your faces, Roses, you are not so fair after all !

She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie, ROBERT BROWNING.

For guileless simplicity marks her its ain; And far be the villain, divested of feeling,

Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet Flower o' ON A GIRDLE.

Dumblane.