And the soul of the rose went into my blood, As the music clashed in the hall; And long by the garden lake I stood, For I heard your rivulet fall And the best of all ways To lengthen our days Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear! From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, Now all the world is sleeping, love, Our wood, that is dearer than all; From the meadow your walks have left so sweet That whenever a March-wind sighs, He sets the jewel-print of your feet In violets blue as your eyes, To the woody hollows in which we meet, The slender acacia would not shake One long milk-bloom on the tree; As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; But the rose was awake all night for your sake, Knowing your promise to me; The lilies and roses were all awake, They sighed for the dawn and thee. Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate! The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near She is coming, my own, my sweet! Were it ever so airy a tread, ALFRED TENNYSON. THE YOUNG MAY MOON. THE young May moon is beaming, love, The glowworm's lamp is gleaming, love, How sweet to rove ; Through Morna's grove, While the drowsy world is dreaming, love! Then awake!-the heavens look bright, my dear! 'T is never too late for delight, my dear ! But the sage, his star-watch keeping, love, And I, whose star, 71 BAYARD TAYLOR. COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. FROM IRISH MELODIES." COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here; Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. Oh what was love made for, if 't is not the same Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame? I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, art. WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, O WHISTLE and I'll come to you, my lad, But warily tent, when ye come to court me, O whistle, &c. At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, O whistle, &c. Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, O whistle, &c. ROBERT BURNS. THE NYMPH'S REPLY. IF that the world and love were young, But time drives flocks from field to fold, The flowers do fade, and wanton fields Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, But could youth last, and love still breed, SIR WALTER RALEIGH. THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. COME, live with me, and be my love, A belt of straw, and ivy buds, The shepherd swains shall dance and sing CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. GO, HAPPY ROSE. Go, happy Rose ! and, interwove Say, if she's fretful, I have bands Take then my blessing thus, and go, ROBERT HERRICK. THE GROOMSMAN TO HIS MISTRESS. I. EVERY wedding, says the proverb, Makes another, soon or late; Never yet was any marriage |