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She took the glass where Love's warm hands A bright impervious vapor cast,

She looks, but cannot see the sands,

Although she feels they 're falling fast. But cold hours came, and then, alas! She saw them falling frozen through, Till Love's warm light suffused the glass, And hid the loos'ning sands from view!

DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY.

DEATH AND CUPID.

AH! who but oft hath marvelled why
The gods, who rule above,
Should e'er permit the young to die,
The old to fall in love?

Ah! why should hapless human kind
Be punished out of season?
Pray listen, and perhaps you 'll find
My rhyme may give the reason.

Death, strolling out one summer's day,

Met Cupid, with his sparrows;
And, bantering in a merry way,
Proposed a change of arrows.
"Agreed!" quoth Cupid. "I foresee
The queerest game of errors;
For you the King of Hearts will be,
And I'll be King of Terrors!"

And so 't was done; -alas, the day
That multiplied their arts!
Each from the other bore away
A portion of his darts.

And that explains the reason why,

Despite the gods above,

The young are often doomed to die,
The old to fall in love!

JOHN GODFREY SAXE.

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What delight in some sweet spot
Combining love with garden plot,
At once to cultivate one's flowers
And one's epistolary powers!
Growing one's own choice words and fancies
In orange tubs, and beds of pansies;
One's sighs, and passionate declarations,
In odorous rhetoric of carnations;
Seeing how far one's stocks will reach,
Taking due care one's flowers of speech
To guard from blight as well as bathos,
And watering every day one's pathos !
A letter comes, just gathered. We
Dote on its tender brilliancy,
Inhale its delicate expressions

Of balm and pea, and its confessions
Made with as sweet a maiden's blush
As ever morn bedewed on bush :
('T is in reply to one of ours,
Made of the most convincing flowers.)

Then, after we have kissed its wit,
And heart, in water putting it
(To keep its remarks fresh), go round
Our little eloquent plot of ground,
And with enchanted hands compose
Our answer, all of lily and rose,
Of tuberose and of violet,
And little darling (mignonette);
Of look at me and call me to you
(Words, that while they greet, go through you);
Of thoughts, of flames, forget-me-not,
Bridewort, in short, the whole blest lot
Of vouchers for a lifelong kiss,
And literally, breathing bliss!

LEIGH HUNT.

THE BIRTH OF PORTRAITURE.

As once a Grecian maiden wove

Her garland mid the summer bowers, There stood a youth, with eyes of love,

To watch her while she wreathed the flowers. The youth was skilled in painting's art, But ne'er had studied woman's brow, Nor knew what magic hues the heart Can shed o'er Nature's charm, till now.

CHORUS.

Blest be Love, to whom we owe All that's fair and bright below.

His hand had pictured many a rose,

And sketched the rays that lit the brook; But what were these, or what were those, To woman's blush, to woman's look? "Oh! if such magic power there be,

This, this," he cried, "is all my prayer,

To paint that living light I see,
And fix the soul that sparkles there."
His prayer as soon as breathed was heard ;
His pallet touched by Love grew warm,
And painting saw her thus transferred
From lifeless flowers to woman's form.
Still, as from tint to tint he stole,

The fair design shone out the more,
And there was now a life, a soul,

Where only colors glowed before. Then first carnation learned to speak,

And lilies into life were brought;
While mantling on the maiden's cheek,
Young roses kindled into thought:
Then hyacinths their darkest dyes
Upon the locks of beauty threw ;
And violets transformed to eyes,
Inshrined a soul within their blue.
CHORUS.

Blest be Love, to whom we owe
All that's bright and fair below;
Song was cold and painting dim,
Till song and painting learned from him.

THOMAS MOORE.

UP! QUIT THY BOWER.

UP! quit thy bower! late wears the hour,
Long have the rooks cawed round the tower;
O'er flower and tree loud hums the bee,
And the wild kid sports merrily.
The sun is bright, the sky is clear;
Wake, lady, wake! and hasten here.

Up, maiden fair! and bind thy hair,
And rouse thee in the breezy air!
The lulling stream that soothed thy dream
Is dancing in the sunny beam.
Waste not these hours, so fresh, so gay:
Leave thy soft couch, and haste away!
Up! Time will tell the morning bell
Its service-sound has chiméd well;
The aged crone keeps house alone,
The reapers to the fields are gone.
Lose not these hours, so cool, so gay:

Lo! while thou sleep'st they haste away!

JOANNA BAILLIE.

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I call thee, I await thee, and I love thee

Many may worship thee, that will I not;
If that thy spirit down to mine may move thee,
Descend and share my lot!

Though I be formed of clay,
And thou of beams

More bright than those of day
On Eden's streams,

Thine immortality cannot repay
With love more warm than mine
My love. There is a ray

In me, which, though forbidden yet to shine,
I feel was lighted at thy God's and thine.
It may be hidden long: death and decay

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FOR LOVE'S SWEET SAKE.

AWAKE! the starry midnight hour

Hangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight; In its own sweetness sleeps the flower, And the doves lie hushed in deep delight. Awake! awake!

Look forth, my love, for Love's sweet sake!

FLY TO THE DESERT, FLY WITH ME.
SONG OF NOURMAHAL IN "THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM."

"FLY to the desert, fly with me,
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But oh the choice what heart can doubt
Of tents with love or thrones without?

"Our rocks are rough, but smiling there
Th' acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less
For flowering in a wilderness.

"Our sands are bare, but down their slope The silvery-footed antelope

As gracefully and gayly springs

As o'er the marble courts of kings.

"Then come,

thy Arab maid will be

The loved and lone acacia-tree,
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loneliness.

"Oh there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart,
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it through life had sought;

"As if the very lips and eyes
Predestined to have all our sighs,
And never be forgot again,
Sparkled and spoke before as then!

"So came thy every glance and tone,
When first on me they breathed and shone ;
New, as if brought from other spheres,
Yet welcome as if loved for years!

"Then fly with me, if thou hast known
No other flame, nor falsely thrown
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn
Should ever in thy heart be worn.

"Come, if the love thou hast for me
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,
Fresh as the fountain underground,
When first 't is by the lapwing found.

"But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worshipped image from its base,
To give to me the ruined place;

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As if 't were fixed by magic there, —
And naming her, so long unnamed,
So long unseen, wildly exclaimed,
"O Nourmahal! O Nourmahal !

Hadst thou but sung this witching strain,
I could forget-forgive thee all,
And never leave those eyes again."

The mask is off, - the charm is wrought,
And Selim to his heart has caught,
In blushes, more than ever bright,
His Nourmahal, his Harem's Light!
And well do vanished frowns enhance
The charm of every brightened glance;
And dearer seems each dawning smile
For having lost its light awhile;
And, happier now for all her sighs,
As on his arm her head reposes,
She whispers him, with laughing eyes,

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Remember, love, the Feast of Roses !"

THOMAS MOORE.

COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD.

COME into the garden, Maud,

For the black bat, night, has flown! Come into the garden, Maud,

I am here at the gate alone;

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the roses blown.

For a breeze of morning moves,

And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves, On a bed of daffodil sky,

To faint in the light of the sun that she loves, To faint in its light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard

The flute, violin, bassoon;

All night has the casement jessamine stirred
To the dancers dancing in tune,
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.

I said to the lily, "There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play.”
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;

Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose, "The brief night goes

In babble and revel and wine.

O young lord-lover, what sighs are those
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,
"For ever and ever mine!

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