^#- <■...' .«■*■ 
 
 
 

 'oV 
 
 •«■ -.•^^^ 
 
 ■e. '»••• 
 
 ^^■^ 
 
 cv * 
 
 
 
 / .** ^*. •• 
 
 
 
 * ^^ ^. " v/ saw ♦ «j^ "^ • ^ 
 
 
 fe= 
 
 /. ^ A 
 
 
,1^ 
 
HOPE. 
 
 FROM A PAINTING BY GABRIEL MAX. 
 
 By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co., Berlin and New York, 
 
: IN i^V I 
 LADY'S I 
 name: I 
 
 : Poms 
 
 OF LOVE 
 AND : : 
 
 BEAUTY 
 
 CompileO and Arrarvged bv : : 
 
 CHPfRLCS WCLLS'^riOLILTON 
 II 
 
 ta* 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 (i. P. PlITNT^H'S 50M5 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON* ' * 1597 
 

 Copyright, 1896 
 
 BY 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 /^-36fi-/ 
 
 Ube Tknicberbocfter press, IPlew l^orft 
 
ONE LOVELY NAME. 
 
 One lovely name adorns my songy 
 And, dwelling in my heart, 
 
 For ever falters at the tongue. 
 And tre^nbles to depart. 
 
 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 
 
\ 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 One Lovely Name L,andor, Walter Savage 
 
 iii 
 
 Thy Name 
 
 . Barbe, Waitman 
 
 . XV 
 
 Ada 
 
 . Biddle, Horace P. . 
 
 3 
 
 Adeline . 
 
 . Tennyson, Alfred, Lord . 
 
 5 
 
 Adelle 
 
 . Cameron, George Frederick 
 
 8 
 
 Adriana . 
 
 . Taylor, Sir Henry . 
 
 9 
 
 Agatha 
 
 . Burleigh, William H. . 
 
 9 
 
 Agnes 
 
 . Tatlow, Joseph 
 
 12 
 
 Agnes 
 
 . Donahoe, Daniel J. 
 
 12 
 
 Alcinea . 
 
 . Ariosto .... 
 
 13 
 
 Alice . 
 
 . Wright, Blanche Bonner 
 
 14 
 
 Allegra . 
 
 . Lowell, James Russell . 
 
 15 
 
 Allie 
 
 . Morse, James Herbert . 
 
 17 
 
 Amanda . 
 
 . Thomson, James 
 
 i8 
 
 Amarantha . 
 
 Lovelace, Richard . 
 
 19 
 
 Amelia 
 
 . Garay, Aurelio . 
 
 20 
 
 Amelia 
 
 . Patmore, Coventry . 
 
 20 
 
 Amy . 
 
 . Faulkner, H. C. 
 
 21 
 
 Angelina 
 
 . De Vere, Aubrey 
 
 22 
 
 Anita 
 
 . Peck, Samuel Mintum . 
 
 23 
 
 Ann . 
 
 . Bums, Robert . 
 
 25 
 
 Anna . 
 
 . Henley, William Ernest 
 
 25 
 
 Anne . 
 
 . Reese, Lizette Woodworth 
 
 27 
 
VI 
 
 Contents 
 
 Annetta 
 
 Annie 
 
 Ariadne 
 
 Arabella 
 
 Augusta 
 
 Aurelia 
 
 Aurora 
 
 Babette 
 
 Barbara 
 
 Beatrice 
 
 Beatrice 
 
 Belinda 
 
 Bella 
 
 Belphcebe 
 
 Bessie 
 
 Bettine 
 
 BiRTHA 
 
 Blanch 
 
 C^LIA 
 
 Caroline 
 
 Castara 
 
 Catharina 
 
 Cecilia 
 
 Cecily 
 
 Celia . 
 
 Celinda 
 
 Charlotte 
 
 Chloe 
 
 Christie 
 
 Clara 
 
 Clare 
 
 Clarinda 
 
 Clarisse 
 
 Cloe . 
 
 Constance 
 
 Constance 
 
 Esling, Charles H. A. 
 Rossetti, Christina . 
 Hunt, I^eigh 
 Crabbe, George 
 Saxe, John G. . 
 Hervey, Thomas K. 
 Alexander, William 
 Scollard, Clinton 
 Cary, Alice 
 Dante .... 
 Fellowes, Caroline W. 
 Pope, Alexander 
 Akers, Elizabeth 
 Spenser, Edmund . 
 Dickinson, Charles M. 
 Klingle, George 
 Davenant, Sir William 
 Cawein, Madison 
 Bourdillon, Francis W. 
 Campbell, Thomas . 
 Habington, William 
 Cowper, William 
 Douglas, Evelyn 
 Robinson, Charles Newton 
 Jonson, Ben 
 Herbert, Edward 
 Wolcott, John . 
 Field, Eugene . 
 Massey, Gerald 
 Adams, James Meade 
 Scott, Sir Walter . 
 Scollard, Clinton 
 Stanton, Frank I,. . - 
 Prior, Matthew 
 Lytton, Robert Bulwer 
 Garnett, Richard 
 
Contents 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Cora . 
 
 . Townsend, Marj' Ashley 
 
 . 65 
 
 C0K.DELIA . 
 
 . Waddle, Nancy Mann . 
 
 . 69 
 
 CORINNA . 
 
 . Herrick, Robert 
 
 • 71 
 
 Creseide . 
 
 . Chaucer, Geoffrey . 
 
 74 
 
 Cynthia . 
 
 . Kynaston, Sir Francis . 
 
 • 75 
 
 Daisy . 
 
 . Townsend, Mary Ashley 
 
 • 76 
 
 Daisy . 
 
 . Thompson, Francis 
 
 • 77 
 
 Daphne 
 
 . Porter, May 
 
 . 80 
 
 Delia . 
 
 . Malone, Walter 
 
 . 80 
 
 Delia . 
 
 . Daniel, Samuel 
 
 . 81 
 
 Diana 
 
 . Welsh, Wilson K, . 
 
 . 82 
 
 DiANEME . 
 
 . Herrick, Robert 
 
 83 
 
 DOLLIE 
 
 . Peck, Samuel Mintum . 
 
 • 83 
 
 Dora . 
 
 . Blackie, John Stuart 
 
 85 
 
 DORINDA . 
 
 . Prior, Matthew 
 
 87 
 
 Doris 
 
 . Munby, Arthur J. . 
 
 87 
 
 Dorothy . 
 
 . Browne, M. Hedderwick 
 
 89 
 
 DULCINEA . 
 
 . I<e Gallienne, Richard . 
 
 90 
 
 Earine 
 
 . Allingham, William 
 
 91 
 
 Edith 
 
 . Tennyson, Alfred, Lord 
 
 94 
 
 Edith 
 
 . Canfield, Francesca 
 
 94 
 
 Elaine 
 
 . Tennyson, Alfred, Lord 
 
 96 
 
 Eleanora 
 
 . Matthews, James Newton 
 
 98 
 
 Eleanore 
 
 . Tennyson, Alfred, Lord 
 
 99 
 
 Electra . 
 
 . Williams, Francis Howard 
 
 105 
 
 Elfrida . 
 
 . Peckham, Mary Chase . 
 
 106 
 
 Elise . 
 
 . Gaelyn, Henry 
 
 109 
 
 Eliza . 
 
 Burns, Robert . 
 
 109 
 
 Elizabeth 
 
 . Reese, Lizette Woodworth 
 
 110 
 
 Elizabeth 
 
 . Wotton, Sir Henry . 
 
 no 
 
 Ella . 
 
 . Saunderson, Henry H. . 
 
 . Ill 
 
 Ellen 
 
 . Scott, Sir Walter 
 
 113 
 
 Ellen 
 
 . White, Robert . 
 
 114 
 
 Elsie . 
 
 . Brooks. Fred Emerson . 
 
 115 
 
 Emily 
 
 . Forrester, Ellen 
 
 117 
 
 Emma 
 
 . Burrell, Lady . . , . 
 
 118 
 
viii 
 
 Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Essie . 
 
 . Skipsey, Joseph 
 
 . 119 
 
 KSTELLE . 
 
 . Washburn, William T. . 
 
 . 120 
 
 Esther 
 
 . Blunt, William Scawen . 
 
 . 120 
 
 Ethel 
 
 . Scollard, Clinton . 
 
 . 121 
 
 Ethel 
 
 Dobson, Austin 
 
 . 122 
 
 Ethelwyn 
 
 . Mathers, Helen 
 
 . 122 
 
 Ettarre . 
 
 . Tennyson, Alfred, Lord 
 
 . 123 
 
 Eugenia . 
 
 . Palgrave, Francis Turner 
 
 . 124 
 
 Eulalie . 
 
 . Peck, Samuel Mintum . 
 
 . 125 
 
 Eva . 
 
 . Emerson, Ralph Waldo . 
 
 . 127 
 
 Evangeline 
 
 . Longfellow, Henry W. . 
 
 . 128 
 
 Evelyn 
 
 . O'Connell, Daniel . 
 
 . 129 
 
 Fanny 
 
 Smith, James . 
 
 . 130 
 
 Fanny 
 
 . Moore, Thomas 
 
 • 131 
 
 FiDESSA . 
 
 . Griffin, Bartholomew . 
 
 . 132 
 
 Fleurette 
 
 . Pool, Fanny H. R. . 
 
 . 132 
 
 Flora 
 
 Wilson, A. Stephen 
 
 • 134 
 
 Florence . 
 
 . Miller, Joaquin 
 
 • 135 
 
 Florine . 
 
 . Freiberger, Edward 
 
 . 136 
 
 Frances . 
 
 . Poe, Edgar Allan . 
 
 • 137 
 
 Genevieve 
 
 . Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 
 
 • 137 
 
 Genevieve 
 
 . Cooper, George 
 
 . 138 
 
 Genevra . 
 
 . Byron, Lord 
 
 • 139 
 
 Georgiana 
 
 . Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 
 
 . 140 
 
 Geraldine 
 
 . Clark, Simeon Tucker . 
 
 . 141 
 
 Geraldine 
 
 . lyOcker-Lampson, Fredericl 
 
 c 142 
 
 Gertrude 
 
 . Campbell, Thomas . 
 
 • T44 
 
 Gertrude 
 
 . lyOcker-Lampson, Frederic! 
 
 - 145 
 
 Gladys 
 
 . Wolcott, Dixie . 
 
 • 147 
 
 Grace 
 
 . Bell, Orelia Key 
 
 • 147 
 
 Gracia 
 
 . Wilcox, Ella Wheeler . 
 
 . 148 
 
 Gretchen 
 
 . Washburn, William T. . 
 
 • 149 
 
 Guinevere 
 
 . Tennyson, Alfred, Lord 
 
 . 150 
 
 Gw end aline 
 
 . Lover, Samuel . 
 
 • 151 
 
 Haidee 
 
 . Byron, Lord 
 
 . 152 
 
 Hannah . 
 
 . Bloomfield, Robert 
 
 • 154 
 

 Content© 
 
 ix 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Harriet . 
 
 . Shelley, Percy Bysshe . 
 
 155 
 
 Harriett 
 
 . Buchanan, Robert . 
 
 156 
 
 Hebe . 
 
 . De la Ware, Earl of 
 
 156 
 
 Helen 
 
 . Poe, Kdgar Allan 
 
 157 
 
 Helen 
 
 . Guiney, I^ouise Imogen 
 
 158 
 
 Helene 
 
 . lyang, Andrew . 
 
 159 
 
 Hermione 
 
 . Procter, Bryan Waller . 
 
 160 
 
 Hermione 
 
 . Buchanan, Robert . 
 
 161 
 
 Hester 
 
 . Reese, lyizette Woodworth 
 
 164 
 
 Hetty 
 
 . Monkhouse, Cosmo 
 
 165 
 
 Hildegarde 
 
 . Bates, Margaret Holmes 
 
 166 
 
 HiNDA 
 
 . Moore, Thomas 
 
 170 
 
 Honoria . 
 
 . Patmore, Coventry 
 
 171 
 
 lANTHE 
 
 . Ivandor, Walter Savage . 
 
 173 
 
 Ianthe 
 
 . Byron, Lord 
 
 173 
 
 Ida 
 
 . Tennyson, Alfred, Lord 
 
 175 
 
 Imogen 
 
 . Shakespeare, William . 
 
 176 
 
 IMOGENE . 
 
 . Marse, Sidney Warren . 
 
 177 
 
 IMPERIA . 
 
 . Burbidge, Thomas . 
 
 178 
 
 INA 
 
 . De Vere, Aubrey 
 
 179 
 
 Inez . 
 
 . Hood, Thomas 
 
 180 
 
 INFELICE . 
 
 . Dekker, Thomas 
 
 182 
 
 lONE . 
 
 . Mahany, Rowland B. 
 
 183 
 
 Irene 
 
 . Lowell, James Russell . 
 
 184 
 
 ISA 
 
 . Bennoch, Francis . 
 
 188 
 
 Isabel 
 
 . Tennyson, Alfred, Lord 
 
 189 
 
 Isabella . 
 
 . Rossetti, Christina . 
 
 191 
 
 Isabella . 
 
 . Harrington, John . 
 
 192 
 
 Jane . 
 
 . Hosmer, W. H. C. . 
 
 193 
 
 Janet 
 
 . Watson, Edward Willard 
 
 194 
 
 Jean . 
 
 Burns, Robert . 
 
 196 
 
 Jean , 
 
 . Roger, Peter . 
 
 197 
 
 Jennie 
 
 . Field, Eugene 
 
 198 
 
 Jenny 
 
 . Hunt, Leigh 
 
 199 
 
 Jessie 
 
 . Tannahill, Robert . 
 
 200 
 
 Joan . 
 
 . James I. of Scotland 
 
 201 
 
X 
 
 Contents 
 
 Joanna 
 
 . Wordsworth, William , 
 
 JOSEPHETA 
 
 . Vischer, Will . . . . 
 
 Josephine 
 
 . lyOveman, Robert . 
 
 Josephine 
 
 . Hays, Will S 
 
 Judith 
 
 . Aldrich, Thomas Bailey 
 
 Judith 
 
 . Riley, James Whitcomb 
 
 Julia . 
 
 . Herrick, Robert 
 
 Julia . 
 
 . Cawein, Madison 
 
 Juliet 
 
 . Shakespeare, William 
 
 Juliet 
 
 . Blunt, Wilfred S. . . . 
 
 June . 
 
 . Morrow, Douglas 
 
 Kate . 
 
 . Tennyson, Alfred, I^ord 
 
 Katharine 
 
 . Stevenson, Robert I,ouis 
 
 Katherine 
 
 . Long, Lily A 
 
 Kathleen 
 
 . Williams, Richard D'Alton . 
 
 Kathrina . 
 
 . Holland, Josiah Gilbert 
 
 Kitty . 
 
 . Fahy, Francis A. . . . 
 
 I^alage 
 
 . Horace, by Gladstone 
 
 IvALAGE 
 
 . Cawein, Madison 
 
 I^aura 
 
 , Petrarca, by Higginson . 
 
 lyAURA 
 
 . Bland, E. Nesbit 
 
 IvAURELLA 
 
 . Hej^se, by Spalding 
 
 lyAVINIA 
 
 . Thomson, James 
 
 lyEILA . 
 
 . Byron, Lord .... 
 
 lyEOLINE 
 
 . Lytton, Robert Bulwer . 
 
 TyEONORA . 
 
 . Craik, Dinah M. . . . 
 
 IvESBIA 
 
 . de Frousac, Forsyth 
 
 I/ILIA . 
 
 . Wilson, A. Stephen 
 
 IvILIAN 
 
 . Tennyson, Alfred, Lord 
 
 lylLIAN 
 
 . Morse, James Herbert . 
 
 Lilith 
 
 . McGafifey, Ernest . 
 
 IvINA . 
 
 . Goethe, Johanu Wolfgang 
 
 
 von, by Aytoun and Martin 
 
 IvISA . 
 
 . Blanden, Charles G. 
 
 I^ISETTE 
 
 . Morris, George P. . . . 
 
 lylZZIE . 
 
 . Sterry, J. Ashby 
 
 PAGE 
 203 
 
 204 
 205 
 206 
 207 
 208 
 209 
 210 
 211 
 212 
 213 
 214 
 215 
 215 
 216 
 218 
 219 
 221 
 222 
 224 
 225 
 226 
 227 
 227 
 229 
 232 
 233 
 234 
 235 
 237 
 237 
 
 238 
 239 
 239 
 240 
 
Contents 
 
 XI 
 
 r.ois . 
 
 . Matson, Cora A. 
 
 . 241 
 
 lyORA. . 
 
 . Cawein, Madison 
 
 . 242 
 
 Lorraine . 
 
 . Hillard, Francis A. 
 
 ■ 243 
 
 Lottie 
 
 . Burnett, James G. . 
 
 • 244 
 
 lyOUISA 
 
 . Wordsworth, William . 
 
 ■ 245 
 
 Louise 
 
 . Van Fredenberg, Henry A. 
 
 . 246 
 
 LUCASTA . 
 
 . Lovelace, Richard . 
 
 • 247 
 
 LUCILE 
 
 . Lytton, Robert Bulwer . 
 
 . 248 
 
 LUCRECE . 
 
 . Shakespeare, William . 
 
 • 249 
 
 Lucy . 
 
 . Thackeray, William M. 
 
 . 250 
 
 LUELLA 
 
 . Cheney, John Vance 
 
 • 251 
 
 Lulu . 
 
 . Webb, Charles Henry . 
 
 • 253 
 
 Lydia . 
 
 . Reese, Lizette Woodworth 
 
 • 254 
 
 Lynette . 
 
 . Tennyson, Alfred, Lord 
 
 • 255 
 
 Mabel 
 
 . Peck, Samuel Minturn . 
 
 • 255 
 
 Mabel 
 
 . Morse, James Herbert . 
 
 • 255 
 
 Madeline . 
 
 . Keats, Joxin 
 
 . 258 
 
 Madeline . 
 
 . Tennyson, Alfred, Lord 
 
 . 260 
 
 Madge 
 
 . Brown, F. S. . 
 
 . 262 
 
 Maggie 
 
 . Tennant, William . 
 
 263 
 
 Marcella 
 
 . De Vere, Aubrey 
 
 26s 
 
 Margaret 
 
 . Tennyson, Alfred, Lord 
 
 265 
 
 Margery . 
 
 . Cheney, John Vance 
 
 268 
 
 Marguerite 
 
 , Williams, Francis Howard 
 
 269 
 
 Marguerite 
 
 . Bisland, Margaret . 
 
 271 
 
 Marian 
 
 . Browning, Elizabeth B. 
 
 272 
 
 Marie 
 
 . Cawein, Madison 
 
 272 
 
 Marie 
 
 . Saltus, Francis S. . 
 
 273 
 
 Marion 
 
 . Moulton, Louise Chandler 
 
 274 
 
 Martha . 
 
 . Martin, K. S. . 
 
 276 
 
 Mary . 
 
 . Holmes, Oliver Wendell 
 
 277 
 
 Mary . 
 
 . Burns, Robert . 
 
 278 
 
 Mary . 
 
 . O'Reilly, John Boyle 
 
 278 
 
 Mary . 
 
 . Wordsworth, William . 
 
 280 
 
 Matilda 
 
 . Lytton, Robert Bulwer . 
 
 281 
 
 Matilda . 
 
 . Scott, Sir Walter . 
 
 282 
 
Contents 
 
 Maud . 
 May . 
 Meandrea 
 Melanie . 
 Melissa . 
 Melissa . 
 
 MiGNON 
 
 MiGNONNE 
 
 MiGNONNE 
 
 Mildred 
 Mildred 
 
 MiMI . 
 
 Minnie 
 
 Minnie 
 
 Miranda 
 
 Miranda 
 
 Miranda 
 
 Miriam 
 
 Molly 
 
 Myra . 
 
 Myrtilla 
 
 Nancy 
 
 Nanie 
 
 Nanny 
 
 Natalie 
 
 Nell . 
 
 Nelly 
 
 Nina . 
 
 Nora . 
 
 Norma 
 
 Olive . 
 
 Olivia 
 
 Pamela 
 
 Pansie 
 
 Pauline 
 
 Pearl 
 
 Tennyson, Alfred, I^ord 
 Burns, Robert . 
 Kling;le. George 
 Brigham, W. L,. 
 Tennyson, Alfred, Lord 
 Blacklock, Thomas 
 Peck, Samuel Minturn 
 Lytton, Robert Bulwer 
 Jewett, Sophie 
 Patmore. Coventry . 
 Johnston, William Preston 
 Beers, Henry A. 
 Irwin, Thomas C. . 
 Stevenson, Robert Louis 
 Shakespeare, William 
 Harrison, S. Frances 
 Falconer, William . 
 Kimball, Sarah M. 
 Lover, Samuel . 
 Grenville, Fulke 
 Aldrich, Thomas Bailey 
 Grace, Alfred Perceval 
 Cunningham, Allan 
 Hume, Alexander . 
 England, Howell Stroud 
 Rothacker, Ottomar H. 
 Mitchell, Joseph 
 Tollemache, B. W. 
 Moore, Thomas 
 Scollard, Clinton 
 Austin, Alfred 
 Shakespeare, William 
 Hutchinson, Ellen M. 
 Ashe, Thomas . 
 Stringer, Arthur J. 
 Sterry, J. Ashby 
 
 PAGE 
 
 283 
 
Contents 
 
 Xlll 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Peggy 
 
 . Burns, Robert . 
 
 326 
 
 Penelope . 
 
 . McGrath, Harold . 
 
 327 
 
 Pepita 
 
 . Sherman, Frank Dempster 
 
 328 
 
 Perdita . 
 
 . Shakespeare, William . 
 
 330 
 
 Perdita , 
 
 . Klingle, George 
 
 . 331 
 
 Philira 
 
 . Vanbrugh, Sir John 
 
 334 
 
 Phillis 
 
 . Burns, Robert . 
 
 334 
 
 Phcebe 
 
 . IvOdge, Thomas 
 
 335 
 
 Phyllida . 
 
 . Dobson, Austin 
 
 337 
 
 Phyllis 
 
 . Hay, John 
 
 339 
 
 Polly . 
 
 . Blackie, John Stuart 
 
 340 
 
 Portia 
 
 . Shakespeare, William . 
 
 345 
 
 Priscilla . 
 
 . IvOngfellow, Henry W. . 
 
 344 
 
 Priscilla . 
 
 . Scollard, Clinton 
 
 345 
 
 Prudence 
 
 . Faulkner, H. C. 
 
 346 
 
 PSYCHE 
 
 . Browne, \ ^illiam 
 
 348 
 
 Rachel 
 
 . Patmore, Coventry . 
 
 350 
 
 Rebecca . 
 
 . Lanigan, G. T. 
 
 350 
 
 ROBINA 
 
 . Klingle, George 
 
 351 
 
 ROMAINE . 
 
 . Wheeler, Cora Stuart . 
 
 356 
 
 ROMOLA 
 
 . Ivory, Bertha May . 
 
 356 
 
 Rosa . 
 
 . Moore, Thomas 
 
 359 
 
 Rosalind . 
 
 . Shakespeare, William . 
 
 361 
 
 Rosalind . 
 
 . Tennyson, Alfred, lyord . 
 
 362 
 
 Rosaline . 
 
 . I,odge, Thomas 
 
 364 
 
 Rose . 
 
 . Dobson, Austin 
 
 366 
 
 Rosie . 
 
 . Sterry. J. Ashby 
 
 367 
 
 ROWENA 
 
 . Chadwick, John W. 
 
 368 
 
 Ruth . 
 
 . Whittier, John Greenleaf 
 
 370 
 
 Ruth . 
 
 . Hood, Thomas . 
 
 370 
 
 Saida . 
 
 . Washburn, William T. . 
 
 371 
 
 Sally . 
 
 . Hawes, Frank Mortimer 
 
 373 
 
 Samelia . 
 
 . Greene, Robert 
 
 373 
 
 Sara . 
 
 , Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 
 
 374 
 
 Sibyl . 
 
 . Payne, John . . . . 
 
 376 
 
 Silvia 
 
 . Herrick, Robert 
 
 376 
 
xiv 
 
 Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Silvia 
 
 . Shakespeare, William . 
 
 . 377 
 
 Stella 
 
 . Sidney, Sir Philip . 
 
 • 377 
 
 Stella 
 
 . Johnson, Samuel . , . 
 
 . 378 
 
 Sue 
 
 . Howe, Julia Ward . 
 
 . 379 
 
 Susan 
 
 . Gay, John 
 
 . 381 
 
 SUSETTE 
 
 . Peck, Samuel Minturn . 
 
 . 383 
 
 Sybil . 
 
 . Ellis, Joseph . 
 
 . 384 
 
 Teresa 
 
 . Scollard, Clinton . 
 
 . 385 
 
 Una . 
 
 . Spenser, Edmund . 
 
 . 387 
 
 Urania 
 
 . Arnold, Matthew . 
 
 • 389 
 
 Ursula 
 
 . Washburn, William T. 
 
 . 390 
 
 Victoria . 
 
 . Wilson, A. Stephen 
 
 • 391 
 
 Violet 
 
 . Monk house, W. C. 
 
 • 392 
 
 Wilhelmein 
 
 . I,anier, Clififord 
 
 . 392 
 
 Zara . 
 
 . Scollard, Chnton . 
 
 • 393 
 
THY NAME. 
 
 'T^AKE up thy pen a7id write 
 -^ What I shall say,— 
 Thus said a Voice to me 
 One perfect day 
 
 In summer's regal prime, 
 
 When marching by 
 Came all the splendors of 
 
 The earth and sky 
 
 A-step to song of birds, 
 
 And with the trees 
 For banners waving in 
 
 The lusty breeze. 
 
 Take up thy pen and write 
 What I shall say, — 
 
 XV 
 
xvi Ebs IRamc 
 
 And so I wrote and wrote 
 That perfect day ; 
 
 But ever}^ word I wrote 
 Was just the same, 
 
 And every word I wrote 
 Was just — thy name ! 
 
 And when I asked the Voice, 
 
 I heard it say : 
 No other word is meet 
 
 For such a day / 
 
 II. 
 
 Take up thy pen and write 
 What I shall say, — 
 
 Thus said a Voice to me 
 One dreary day 
 
 In winter's bitter time, 
 When earth and sky 
 
 Their gleaming cohorts led 
 No longer by ; 
 
Zb^ IRame. xvii 
 
 A day when all the world 
 
 Lost heart and bowed 
 Its head to sleet and rain 
 
 From sullen cloud. 
 
 Take 2ip thy peri arid write 
 
 What I shall say, — 
 And so I wrote and wrote, 
 
 That doleful day ; 
 
 But every word I wrote 
 
 Was just the same, 
 And every word I wrote 
 
 Was just — thy name ! 
 
 And when I asked the Voice, 
 
 I heard it sa}- : 
 No other word gives life 
 
 To such a day ! 
 
 Waitman Barbe. 
 
IN MY LADY'S NAME. 
 
IN MY LADY'S NAME. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 A H ! she is nature's own sweet child, 
 
 So pure in mind and heart, 
 Still unsuspecting, unbeguiled. 
 And all unspoiled by art ! 
 
 Health beats within her rounded zone 
 
 And glows in every vein ; 
 Her bosom is a living throne. 
 
 Where sweet affections reign ! 
 
 Her golden hair in rippling waves 
 
 Flows softly o'er her brow ; 
 Her snowy shoulders, where it laves, 
 
 Peer just a little through ! 
 
 Cheeks that outblush the morning rose, 
 
 A brow that rivals snow, 
 Lips that the ruby's tints disclose — 
 
 These need no pencilled glow ! 
 
 3 
 
BOa 
 
 A gentle breast that knows no sin, 
 In faith and virtue strong ; 
 
 It keeps its modesty within, 
 And never dreams of wrong ! 
 
 There is no sin or wrong in truth, 
 Whate'er the form it takes ; 
 
 Her sparkling e3'es and rosy mouth 
 Reveal it ere she speaks ! 
 
 Her virgin heart and mind of light, 
 Her soft, sweet, winning tone, 
 
 With many a nameless charm unite. 
 And blend them all in one ! 
 
 She needs not fashion's narrow rule 
 
 To guide her feet secure ; 
 Her wildest ways are beautiful, 
 
 Her freest thoughts are pure ! 
 
 There is a cadence in her step. 
 Her very motions rhyme ; 
 
 And there is music in her lip. 
 Her language is a chime ! 
 
 Such beauty needs no artful wile 
 
 Its dignity to prove ; 
 It needs no taught or practised smile 
 
 To win and keep our love ! 
 
BDeline 
 
 She brings us confidence and joy, 
 And leaves sweet memories — 
 
 A pleasure that can never cloy, 
 A charm that never dies ! 
 
 And only nature can impart 
 
 A grace so beautiful ; 
 It springs from purity of heart. 
 
 And dwells within the soul ! 
 
 Horace P. Biddlb. 
 
 ADELINE. 
 
 JWl YvSTERY of mysteries, 
 
 Faintly smiling Adeline, 
 Scarce of earth nor all divine, 
 Nor unhappy, nor at rest, 
 But beyond expression fair 
 With thy floating flaxen hair ; 
 Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes 
 
 Take the heart from out my breast. 
 Wherefore those dim looks of thine, 
 Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? 
 
 Whence that aery bloom of thine, 
 Ivike a lily which the sun 
 
- BDeline 
 
 Looks thro' in his sad decline, 
 
 And a rose-bush leans upon, 
 Thou that faintly smilest still, 
 As a Naiad in a well, 
 
 Looking at the set of day, 
 Or a phantom two hours old 
 
 Of a maiden passed away, 
 Ere the placid lips be cold ? 
 Wherefore those faint smiles of thine, 
 
 Spiritual Adeline? 
 
 3- 
 
 What hope or fear or joy is thine? 
 Who talketh with thee, Adeline ? 
 For sure thou art not all alone : 
 
 Do beating hearts of salient springs 
 Keep measure with thine own ? 
 
 Hast thou heard the butterflies, 
 What they say betwixt their wings ? 
 Or in stillest evenings 
 With what voice the violet woos 
 To his heart the silver dews ? 
 Or when little airs arise. 
 How the merry bluebell rings 
 To the mosses underneath ? 
 Hast thou looked upon the breath 
 Of the lilies at sunrise? 
 Wherefore that faint smile of thine, 
 Shadowy, dreamy Adeline ? 
 
BDeline 
 
 4. 
 
 Some honey-converse feeds thy mind, 
 Some spirit of a crimson rose 
 In love with thee forgets to close 
 His curtains, wasting odorous sighs 
 All night long on darkness blind. 
 What aileth thee ? whom waitest thou 
 With thy soften'd, shadow'd brow, 
 
 And those dew-lit eyes of thine, 
 Thou faint smiler, Adeline ? 
 
 5- 
 Lovest thou the doleful wind 
 
 Wheu thou gazest at the skies ? 
 Doth the low-tongued Orient 
 
 Wander from the side of the mom, 
 Dripping with Sabaean spice 
 On thy pillow, lowly bent 
 
 With melodious airs lovelorn. 
 Breathing Light against thy face, 
 While his locks a-drooping twined 
 Round th}' neck in subtle ring 
 Make a carcanet of rays, 
 
 And ye talk together still. 
 In the language wherewith Spring 
 Letters cowslips on the hill ? 
 Hence that look and smile of thine. 
 Spiritual Adeline. 
 
 Alfred (Lord) Tennyson. 
 
8 BDelle 
 
 ADELLE. 
 
 •THOUGH the hopes I have left be not many, 
 
 I have one which is second to none, 
 A hope that is dearer than any, 
 And it is — tho' this all may be ill or be well — 
 That perhaps in the fairer Hereafter, Adelle, 
 You and I will be one. 
 
 The streams which so tenderly blended 
 
 To their ocean divided may run ; 
 But perhaps, when their course is all ended, 
 Perhaps — tho' this all may be ill or be well — 
 Perhaps in the vaster Hereafter, Adelle, 
 
 The two may be one. 
 
 The days of affection have faded, 
 The nights of our visions are gone ; 
 
 And we — we shall pass e'en as they did ; 
 
 But perhaps — tho' this all may be ill or be well — 
 
 Perhaps in the mighty Hereafter, Adelle, 
 You and I shall be one. 
 
 George Frederick Cameron. 
 " To Adelle." 
 
BDriana 9 
 
 ADRIANA. 
 
 A RTEVELDE.— Oh, she is fair ! 
 
 Ad fair as Heaven to look upon ! as fair 
 As ever vision of the Virgin blest 
 That weary pilgrim, resting by the fount 
 Beneath the palm and dreaming of the tune 
 Of flowing waters, duped his soul withal. 
 It was permitted me in my pilgrimage 
 To rest beside the fount beneath the tree, 
 Beholding there no vision, but a maid 
 Whose form was light and graceful as the palm, 
 Whose heart was pure and jocund as the fount, 
 And spread a freshness and a verdure round. 
 
 Sir Henry Taylor. 
 From " Philip Van Artevelde. " 
 
 AGATHA. 
 
 A A/ ERE her face as dusk as twilight, 
 
 When the soft September eves 
 Darken slowly in the shadow 
 
 Till the daybeam is no more, 
 I would make her blaze with jewels. 
 
 As the night, when it receives 
 One by one the starry splendors, 
 
 Sprinkling all the heavens o'er : 
 
lo Bgatba 
 
 Diamonds from her ebon tresses 
 
 Should outflash their living light ; 
 On her fingers, rubies, sapphires. 
 
 Gems of loveliest hue should gleam ; 
 Oh, but I would make her glorious 
 
 As the star-encinctured night ! 
 Oh, but I would make her lovelier 
 
 Than the poet's fondest dream ! 
 
 But her brow is fair as morning 
 
 When no mists its beauty shroud ; 
 And her shining auburn ringlets 
 
 Like a sunlit torrent fall 
 Down the dainty neck whose whiteness, 
 
 Gleaming through a golden cloud, 
 Seems a snow-wreath in the splendor 
 
 That the day flings over all ! 
 Oh, her ej-es were made to worship. 
 
 With their depths of heavenly blue ! 
 Oh, her mouth was made for kisses. 
 
 With its dewy-luscious lips ! 
 And the heaven of her caresses. 
 
 Warm and passionate and true, 
 Fills me with delirious rapture, 
 
 Thrilling to my finger-tips. 
 
 Were her name a mark for slander, 
 Hissing out its venomed lies. 
 
 Till the world, with face averted, 
 Smote her with its cruel scorn, 
 
Bgatba n 
 
 I, agaiust a mad world's clamor, 
 
 Would believe those holy eyes, — 
 Mirror of a soul where only 
 
 White and starry thoughts are born ! 
 I would build my faith around her 
 
 Like a fortress of defense, 
 From the malice of the evil. 
 
 From the meanness of the proud ; 
 I would lavish love upon her, 
 
 Self-forgetting and intense. 
 Till the light of joy should scatter 
 
 From her pathway, every cloud ! 
 
 But the evil tongue is palsied 
 
 That would dare to wrong her name ; 
 And for her the lip of cursing 
 
 Can speak nothing but a prayer ; 
 Even envy casts no shadow 
 
 O'er the whiteness of her fame, 
 For the angels guard their sister 
 
 With a proud and loving care ! 
 Oh, I love her for her beauty. 
 
 Brighter than the poet's dreams 
 When elysian splendors haunt him 
 
 And his life is most divine ! 
 Oh, I love her for her goodness, 
 
 For the gentle soul that seems 
 Kindred with the star-crowned spirits, 
 
 For the pledge that makes her mme / 
 
 William H. Burleigh. 
 
12 Bgnes 
 
 AGNKS. 
 
 A S stars are dimm'd when full-orbed Diau fills 
 With her resplendent light an Autumn sky : 
 As fragrant musk all fainter perfume kills, 
 
 And roses shame the flow'rs that blossom 
 nigh: 
 So, Agnes, pale and pure, thy charms outvie 
 
 The brightest stars in fancy's boundless space ; 
 Soft as an od'rous zephyr is thy sigh. 
 
 And fairer than a lily is thy face. 
 But brighter still, and purer, and more fair 
 
 Than outward beauty, draped in cloth of gold. 
 Are those rich ornaments thy soul doth wear — 
 
 Truth, Hope, a Tenderness of depth untold, 
 A helpful Instinct, sweet as it is rare, 
 
 A Patience that abides, a Love that grows not 
 
 cold. 
 
 Joseph Tatlow. 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 IVyi Y little Agnes, — there she goes, 
 
 Just watch her while I speak, — 
 How like the petals of a rose 
 
 Her rounded damask cheek. 
 Those eyes, — the wild bee never sips 
 
 A violet half so fair ; 
 And mark those dainty roguish lips, — 
 
 What sweetness revels there ! 
 
Blcinea 13 
 
 See how the daisies scatter dew ' 
 
 About her as she goes ; 
 The violets their clear e3^es of blue 
 
 In wondering gaze unclose. 
 The grass she presses with her feet 
 
 Is greener when she 's gone ; 
 It looks more beautiful and sweet, 
 
 For she has walked thereon. 
 
 Oh, never care or weeping dole 
 
 Shall fill her gentle breast ; 
 The sacred beauty of her soul 
 
 Shines out a spirit blest. 
 Her voice is music to my ear, 
 
 Her smile is light divine ; 
 There 's never sorrow when she 's near, — 
 
 My Agnes, — and she 's mine ! 
 
 Daniel J. Donahoe. 
 "My lyittle Agfnes." 
 
 ALCINEA. 
 
 LJ ER bosom is like milk, her neck like snow ; 
 A rounded neck ; a bosom, where you see 
 Two crisp young ivory apples come and go, 
 
 Like waves, that on the coast beat tenderly, 
 When a sweet air is ruffling to and fro. 
 
 Ariosto. 
 
 Translated by I^eigh Hunt. 
 
14 Blicc 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 C HB feels her beauty's presence as the spring 
 
 Must feel her April sky ; 
 She only knows the gladness it doth bring, 
 
 Nor dreams of reasons why 
 Each charmed hour should come on noiseless 
 wing 
 
 And flit as lightly by. 
 
 Before the fire she sits with low-bent head 
 
 And slender folded hands ; 
 The glow from purple flame and embers red 
 
 L/ights up those distant lands 
 Where her young spirit walks with gentle tread, 
 
 Or, meditative, stands. 
 
 And as she wanders through those airy spheres 
 
 Of fancy, far away, 
 No voice from all her real world she hears. 
 
 No sounds her footsteps stay, 
 But as she goes great shining walls she rears, 
 
 Nor heeds them lightly sway. 
 
 And towers and archways grand her maiden 
 might 
 
 With confidence essays ; 
 And golden pinnacles of wondrous height 
 
 The dextrous fingers raise, 
 
Bllegra 15 
 
 To glow and sparkle in the warm delight 
 Of tranquil summer days. 
 
 At last the magic palace stands complete, 
 
 And in it she espies 
 Its blushing mistress, winsome, fair, and sweet, 
 
 With gladness in her eyes. 
 And on her lips, a frank confession meet 
 
 For love that scorns disguise. 
 
 And standing close beside her may be seen. 
 
 With triumph in his face, 
 The royal master with most royal mien, 
 
 And full of kingly grace. 
 Who, smiling, gives that homage to his queen 
 
 He takes from all his race. 
 
 Blanche Bonner Wright. 
 
 ALLEGRA. 
 
 T WOULD more natures were like thine, 
 
 That never casts a glance before, — 
 Thou Hebe, who thy heart's bright wine 
 
 So lavishly to all dost pour. 
 That we who drink forget to pine, 
 
 And can but dream of bliss in store. 
 
i6 ailctira 
 
 Thou canst not see a shade in life : 
 With sunward instinct thou dost rise, 
 
 And. leaving clouds below at strife, 
 Gazest undazzled at the skies, 
 
 With all their blazing splendors rife, 
 A songful lark with eagle's eyes. 
 
 Thou wast some foundling whom the Hours 
 Nursed, laughing, with the milk of Mirth ; 
 
 Some influence more gay than ours 
 Hath ruled thy nature from its birth, 
 
 As if thy natal stars were flowers 
 That shook their seeds round thee on earth. 
 
 And thou, to lull thy infant rest. 
 Wast cradled like an Indian child : 
 
 All pleasant winds from south and west 
 With lullabies thine ears beguiled, 
 
 Rocking thee in thine oriole's nest, 
 Till Nature looked at thee and smiled. 
 
 Thine every fancy seems to borrow 
 A sunlight from thy childish years, 
 
 Making a golden cloud of sorrow, 
 A hope-lit rainbow out of tears, — 
 
 Thy heart is certain of to-morrow, 
 Though 'yond to-day it never peers. 
 
aiUe 17 
 
 I would more ratures were like thine, 
 
 So innocently wild and free. 
 "Whose sad thoughts, even, leap and shine. 
 
 Like sunny wavelets in the sea, 
 INIaking us mindless of the brine, 
 
 In gazing on the brilliancy. 
 
 James Russell Lowell. 
 
 ALLIE. 
 
 C N^'Y thou the sweet possession 
 
 Of a spirit pure and mild. 
 That no part of least transgression. 
 
 That no wasted years, or wild, 
 Hath to ruffle o'er its pearly. 
 Tranquil waters late and early. 
 
 Such a lovely spirit Allie 
 
 Carries with her to the grots ; 
 
 And her silent feet keep tally 
 Ever to her silent thoughts : 
 
 Nothing in her out of keeping 
 
 With green dales and lilies sleeping. 
 
 When she comes within the shadow, 
 Fashioned darkly to her mind. 
 
 Of a maple-bordered meadow, 
 In small compass all confined, — 
 
i8 BmanDa 
 
 There a brook 'neath long grass shrinking 
 Still keeps time to Allie's thinking. 
 
 There, beneath the water's gliding, 
 Minnows hear, and shining dace, 
 
 And come boldly from their hiding, 
 To look on her pretty face — 
 
 Their long fearfulness in token 
 
 Of her artlessness now broken. 
 
 Walking thoughtfully, she marries 
 Her quick soul to ever}- sound, 
 
 And within her bosom carries 
 
 That which all sweets cluster round. 
 
 Nature's thousand pearl-eyes glisten, 
 
 When such pure ones look or listen. 
 
 James Herbert Morse. 
 
 AMANDA. 
 
 /'^OME, dear Amanda, quit the town, 
 
 And to the rural hamlets fly ; 
 Behold ! the wintrj' storms are gone ; 
 A gentle radiance glads the sky. 
 
 The birds awake, the flowers appear, 
 Earth spreads a verdant couch for thee ; 
 
 'T is joy and music all we hear, 
 'T is love and beauty all we see. 
 
Bmarantba 19 
 
 Come, let us mark the gradual spring, 
 How peeps the bud, the blossom blows ; 
 
 Till Philomel begins to sing, 
 
 And perfect May to swell the rose. 
 
 E'en so thy rising charms improve, 
 
 As life's warm season grows more bright ; 
 
 And, opening to the sighs of love. 
 Thy beauties glow with full delight, 
 
 James Thomson. 
 "To Amanda. ' 
 
 AMARANTHA. 
 
 A MARANTHA, sweet and fair, 
 
 Oh, braid no more that shining hair ! 
 IvCt it fly, as unconfined, 
 As its calm ravisher, the wind ; 
 Who hath left his darling, th' east, 
 To wanton o'er that spicy nest. 
 Every tress must be confest, 
 But neatly tangled, at the best ; 
 Ivike a clue of golden thread 
 Most excellently ravelled. 
 Do not, then, wind up that light 
 In ribands, and o'ercloud in night, 
 Like the sun's in early ray ; 
 But shake your head, and scatter day ! 
 
 Richard Lovelace. 
 "Song." 
 
20 Bmelia 
 
 AMELIA. 
 
 C ARTH was a bower of roses rare and pale, 
 
 And heaven a starry sea ; 
 Through the soft shadow sang the nightingale 
 
 His wondrous melod3\ 
 'T was springtime, and the dewy dawn was 
 wet, — 
 
 When from its dreaming stirred, 
 The flower's soul in sweetness rising met 
 
 The bright soul of the bird ; 
 And from that kiss th}' loveliness was born : 
 
 Fair shrine that doth enclose 
 The song-bird's voice, the gladness of the morn, 
 
 The perfume of the rose. 
 
 AURELIO Garay. 
 Translated bv Marv E. Blake. 
 
 AMELIA. 
 
 \A7HENE'ER mine eyes do my Amelia greet 
 
 It is with such emotion 
 As when, in childhood, turning a dim street, 
 T first beheld the ocean. 
 There, where the little, bright, surf-breathing 
 
 town, 
 That showed me first her beauty and the sea, 
 Gathers its skirts against the gorse-gilt down 
 And scatters gardens o'er the southern lea, 
 
Bmg 21 
 
 Abides this Maid 
 
 Within a kind, yet sombre Mother's shade, 
 
 Who of her daughter's graces seems almost 
 
 afraid, 
 Viewing them ofttimes with a scared forecast. 
 Caught, haply, from obscure love-peril past. 
 Howe'er that be, 
 She scants me of my right, 
 Is cunning careful evermore to balk 
 Sweet seprrate talk. 
 And fevers my delight 
 By frets, if, on Amelia's cheek of peach, 
 I touch the notes which music cannot reach, 
 Bidding " Good-night ! " 
 
 Coventry Patmore. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 A MY, of old a bold knight, 
 
 Naming his lady-love true 
 Ere he went forth to the fight. 
 
 Conquered a foeman or two ; 
 Victory surely I might 
 
 Claim for my love, for I, too. 
 Whisper your name in ni}^ plight, 
 
 Amy, aiinee, m^ aimez-vous ? 
 
 Kmy.je t-aime ; that is trite, 
 Tell me how better to woo ; 
 
22 Bngelina 
 
 Shall I an Iliad write 
 
 Or a perfumed billet-doux ? 
 No — are you satisfied quite, 
 
 Tell me, my sweetest, are you ? 
 Answer me, mischievous sprite, 
 
 Amy, aimee, ni'aUncz-vous? 
 
 Amy, why turn from my sight 
 
 Byes of such lovely blue ? 
 Is it for fear that I might 
 
 Guess what is hidden from view ? 
 Do your fair cheeks, that were white, 
 
 Blush a soft " yes " when I sue ? 
 Do your eyes fill with love light, 
 
 Amy, ainiee, ni^aimez-vous? 
 
 ly'ENVOI, 
 
 Amy, my arms hold you tight. 
 
 Captive you are until you 
 Answer, and answer aright. 
 
 Amy, aimee, m'' ahnez-vous ? 
 
 H. C. Faulkner. 
 
 ANGEI.INA. 
 
 UOR ever gentle, sweet, and lone. 
 
 Her voice, her step, her hand subdued, 
 She moves like one who ne'er has known 
 The changes of a human mood. 
 
Bnita 23 
 
 The tender dawn of those fair eyes 
 
 Breaks, vaguely sweet, through tears unfail- 
 ing I 
 Waking strange Fancies ; Memories 
 
 As sweet, as strange recalling. 
 
 A soft shade makes her face more fair : — 
 
 Not softer, slanted from above 
 On lilies rocked in evening air 
 
 That shadow from the Star of lyove ! 
 
 Say, has she loved ? In some far sphere 
 Perhaps she loved, and loved in vain ; 
 
 And still in this cold exile here 
 
 Forgets the cause, but feels the pain. 
 
 Aubrey de Vere. 
 
 ANITA. 
 
 C HE 's a pretty puss in boots, 
 "With a saucy name that suits 
 
 Every glance. 
 Is it whispered, is it sung, 
 Still it ripples on the tongue 
 
 In a dance. 
 
24 Bnita 
 
 Oh, she walks so pit-a-pat, 
 And she talks of this and that 
 
 Such a way, 
 Just to watch her witching blush 
 Even Socrates would hush 
 
 Half a day. 
 
 vShe is not an angel ; no ! 
 They are out o' place below, 
 
 Let us grieve. 
 Yet perchance there is a wing 
 Hid beneath that puffy thing 
 
 Styled a sleeve. 
 
 Her singing makes me think 
 Of a tricksy bobolink 
 
 All delight. 
 With his silver strain aflow 
 Where the apple-blossoms blow 
 
 Pink and white. 
 
 Like a wild rose, newly born, 
 Bursting into bloom at morn, 
 
 Dew agleam, 
 So entrancing is her smile, 
 Lo, it haunts me all the while 
 
 In a dream. 
 
 Samuel Minturn Peck. 
 
Bnn 25 
 
 ANN. 
 
 VB gallants bright, I red ye right, 
 
 Beware o' bonnie Ann ; 
 Her comely face sae fu' o' grace, 
 
 Your heart she will trepan. 
 Her een sae bright, like stars by night. 
 
 Her skin is like the swan ; 
 Sae jimpy lac'd her genty waist, 
 
 That sweetly ye might span. 
 
 Youth, grace, and love attendant move. 
 
 And pleasure leads the van : 
 In a' their charms, and conquering arms, 
 
 They wait on bonnie Ann. 
 The captive bauds may chain the hands. 
 
 But love enslaves the man ; 
 Ye gallants braw, I red you a'. 
 
 Beware o' bonnie Ann. 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 Bonnie Ann." 
 
 ANNA. 
 
 DROWN is for Lalage, Jones for Lelia, 
 
 Robinson's bosom for Beatrice glows, 
 Smith is a Hamlet before Ophelia. 
 The glamour stays if the reason goes, 
 
26 Buna 
 
 Every lover the years disclose 
 Is of a beautiful name made free. 
 
 One befriends, and all others are foes : 
 Anna 's the name of names for me. 
 
 Sentiment hallows the vowels of Delia ; 
 
 Sweet simplicity breathes from Rose ! 
 Courtly memories glitter in Celia ; 
 
 Rosalind savors of quips and hose, 
 
 Araminta of wits and beaux, 
 Prue of puddings, and CoraHe 
 
 All of sawdust and spangled shows ; 
 Anna 's the name of names for me. 
 
 Fie upon Caroline, Jane, Amelia — 
 
 These I reckon the essence of prose ! — 
 
 Mystical Magdalen, cold Cornelia, 
 
 Adelaide's attitudes, Mopsa's mowes, 
 Maud's magnificence, Totty's toes. 
 
 Poll and Bet with their twang of the sea, 
 Nell's impertinence, Pamela's woes ! 
 
 Anna 'sthe name of names for me. 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 Ruth like a gillyflower smells and blows, 
 
 Sylvia prattles of Arcady, 
 Portia 's only a Roman nose, 
 
 Anna 's the name of names for me ! 
 
 William Ernest Henley. 
 "Oflyadies' Names." 
 
Bnne 27 
 
 ANNE. 
 
 LJ KR eyes be like the violets, 
 
 Ablow in Sudbury lane ; 
 When she doth smile, her face is sweet 
 
 As blossoms after rain ; 
 With grief I think of my gray hairs. 
 
 And wish me young again. 
 
 In comes she through the dark old door 
 
 Upon this Sabbath day ; 
 And she doth bring the tender wind 
 
 That sings in bush and tree ; 
 And hints of all the apple boughs 
 
 That kissed her by the way. 
 
 Our parson stands up straight and tall, 
 
 For our dear souls to pray, 
 And of the place where sinners go, 
 
 Some grewsome things doth say ; 
 Now, she is highest Heaven to me ; 
 
 So Hell is far away. 
 
 Most stiff and still the good folk sit 
 
 To hear the sermon through ; 
 But if our God be such a God, 
 
 And if these things be true, 
 Why did He make her then so fair, 
 
 And both her eves so blue ? 
 
28 Bnnetta 
 
 A flickering light, the sun creeps in, 
 And finds her sitting there ; 
 
 And touches soft her lilac gown, 
 And soft her 3'ellow hair ; 
 
 I looked across to that old pew, 
 And have both praise and prayer. 
 
 Oh, violets in Sudbury lane, 
 
 Amid the grasses green, 
 This maid who stirs ye with her feet 
 
 Is far more fair, I ween ! 
 I wonder how my forty years 
 
 IvOok by her sweet sixteen ! 
 
 LiZETTE WOODWORTH REESE. 
 
 ANNETTA. 
 
 O 
 
 NE day, all satiate with sport 
 
 Of piercing hearts unto their marrow, 
 Cupid, asleep in Sylvan Court, 
 Awoke and missed both bow and arrow. 
 
 Then in commingled grief and rage 
 
 He roamed as far as e'er love's star gets. 
 
 And for a while earth owned an age 
 
 Of unpierced hearts, love's virgin targets. 
 
Bnnic 29 
 
 But o'er his path Atinetta trips, 
 A vision of lost treasures flashes — 
 
 His ruby bow, — her arching lips, 
 
 His quivered darts, her trembling lashes. 
 
 Charles H. A. Esling. 
 
 ANNIE. 
 
 A NNIE is fairer than her kith 
 And kinder than her kin ; 
 Her eyes are like the open heaven 
 
 Holy and pure from sin : 
 Her heart is like an ordered house 
 
 Good fairies harbor in : 
 Oh, happy he who wins the love 
 
 That I can never win ! 
 
 Her sisters stand as hyacinths 
 
 Around the perfect rose : 
 They bloom and open to the full, 
 
 My bud will scarce unclose. 
 They are for every butterfly 
 
 That comes and sips and goes ; 
 My bud hides in the tender green 
 
 Most sweet, and hardly shows. 
 
30 Bnnie 
 
 Oh, cruel kindness in soft eyes 
 
 That are no more than kind, 
 On which I gaze my heart away 
 
 Till the tears make me blind ! 
 How is it others find the way 
 
 That I can never find 
 To make her laugh that sweetest laugh 
 
 Which leaves all else behind ? 
 
 Her hair is like the golden corn 
 
 A low wind breathes upon : 
 Or like the golden harvest-moon 
 
 When all the mists are gone : 
 Or like a stream with golden sands 
 
 On which the sun has shone 
 Day after day in summer time 
 
 Bre autumn leaves are wan. 
 
 I will not tell her that I love, 
 
 Lest she should turn away 
 With sorrow in her tender heart 
 
 Which now is light and gay. 
 I will not tell her that I love, 
 
 Lest she should turn and say 
 That we must meet no more again 
 
 For many a weary da}'. 
 
 Christina Rossetti. 
 
BriOane 31 
 
 ARIADNE. 
 T^HE moist and quiet mom was scarcely break- 
 
 When Ariadne in her bower was waking ; 
 
 Her eyelids still were closing, and she heard 
 
 But indistinctly yet a little bird, 
 
 That in the leaves o'erhead, waiting the sun, 
 
 Seemed answering another distant one. 
 
 She waked, but stirred not, only just to please 
 
 Her pillow-nestling cheek ; while the full seas, 
 
 The birds, the leaves, the lulling love o'er- 
 
 night. 
 The happy thought of the returning light. 
 The sweet, self-willed content, conspired to 
 
 keep 
 Her senses lingering in the field of sleep ; 
 And with a little smile she seemed to say, 
 *' I know my love is near me, and 't is day." 
 
 IvEiGH Hunt. 
 
 ARABEI.LA. 
 
 /^F a fair town where Doctor Rack was guide, 
 His only daughter was the boast and 
 pride ; 
 Wise Arabella, yet not wise alone. 
 She like a bright and polished brilliant shone ; 
 
32 2lrat)ella 
 
 Her father owned her for his prop and stay, 
 
 Able to guide, yet willing to obey ; 
 
 Pleased with her learning while discourse could 
 
 please, 
 And with her love in languor and disease : 
 To ever}' inother were her virtues known, 
 And to their daughters as a pattern shown : 
 Who in her youth had all that age requires, 
 And with her prudence, all that youth admires. 
 
 This reasoning Maid, above her sex's dread, 
 Had dared to read, and dared to say she read, 
 Not the last novel, not the new-born play ; 
 Not the mere trash and scandal of the day, 
 Bui (though her young companions felt the 
 
 shock) 
 She studied Berkeley, Bacon, Hobbes, and 
 
 Locke : 
 Her mind within the maze of history dwelt, 
 i\.nd of the moral Muse the beauty felt : 
 The merits of the Roman page she knew, 
 And could converse with More and Montagu : 
 Thus she became the wonder of the town. 
 From that she reaped, to that she gave renown, 
 And strangers coming, all were taught t' admire 
 The learned lady, and the lofty spire. 
 
 George Crabbe. 
 
 From " Arabella." 
 
Buausta 33 
 
 AUGUSTA. 
 
 ' ' Incedit regina ! ' ' 
 
 *' IJ ANDSOME aud haughty ! "—a comment 
 that came 
 From lips which were never accustomed to 
 malice ; 
 A girl with a presence superb as her name, 
 
 And c!iarmingly fitted for love — in a palace ! 
 And oft I have wished (for in musing alone 
 
 One's fancy is apt to be very erratic) 
 That the lad}' might wear — No ! I never will 
 own 
 A thought so decidedly undemocratic ! — 
 But if 't were a co7'onet — this I '11 aver, 
 
 No duchess on earth could more gracefully 
 wear it ; 
 And even a democrat, thinking of her, 
 
 Might surely be pardoned for wishing to 
 share it ! 
 
 John G. Saxe. 
 
 AURELIA. 
 
 \A/ITH gazing on those charms of thine, 
 
 My soul grows sad and faint ; 
 But, turning to Saint Valentine, 
 Who is a gentle saint, 
 
34 Burella 
 
 Said I, the fair Aurelia keeps 
 Her spirit locked from me : 
 
 Ob, show my weary heart the hook 
 On which she hangs the key ! 
 
 Her breast is like a frozen lake, 
 
 On whose cold brink I stand ; 
 Oh, buckle on my spirit's skates, 
 
 And take me by the hand ! 
 And lead thou, loving saint, the way 
 
 To where the ice is thin. 
 That it may break beneath my feet 
 
 And let a lover in. 
 
 I see the honey on her lip, — 
 
 Have pity, saint, on me, 
 And turn a lonely gentleman 
 
 Into a humble-bee. 
 Why is it that an eye whose light 
 
 Should feed but bright-hued petals^ 
 In my poor heart makes only night, 
 
 And grows but stinging nettles ? 
 
 Whatever men have sung of old 
 
 Of Cynthia or Amelia, 
 Seems flat, and tame, and dull, and cold, 
 
 To paint the young Aurelia. 
 All voices in my dreams seem hers, 
 
 And, through my fancies looming, 
 
Burora 35 
 
 All other foms put on the form 
 Of bright Aurelia's blooming. 
 
 Help, help, from thee. Saint Valentine ! 
 
 Bring forth thy strongest spell, 
 Go boldly to her soul's shut gate, 
 
 And ring her spirit's bell, 
 That she may ope the door at last 
 
 Unto my long desire. 
 And I take up my chair for life 
 
 Beside her young heart's fire. 
 
 Thomas KrBBLE Hervey. 
 Aurelia : A Valentine." 
 
 AURORA. 
 
 /^H, if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost 
 
 harm, 
 And dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil my 
 
 rest ; 
 Then thou wouldst melt the ice out of thy 
 
 breast 
 And thy relenting heart would kindly warm. 
 
 Oh, if thy pride did not our joys control, 
 What world of loving wonders shouldst thou 
 see ! 
 
36 JJSabette 
 
 For if I saw thee ouce transform'd in me, 
 Then in th}- bosom I would pour my soul ; 
 
 Then all my thoughts should in thy visage 
 
 shine, 
 And if that aught mischanced thou shouldst not 
 
 moan 
 Nor bear the burthen of thy griefs alone ; 
 No, I would have my share in what were thine : 
 
 And whilst we thus should make our sorrows 
 
 one. 
 This happ5' harmony would make them none. 
 
 William Alexander, Karl of Stirling. 
 
 " To Aurora. " 
 
 BABETTE. 
 
 T TNDER the old regime, Babette, 
 
 Do you remember how 
 We plucked the fragrant violet 
 
 And twined the myrtle-bough? 
 The myrtle was for love, Babette, 
 
 For fond youth's joyous dream ! 
 Can you those happy days forget 
 
 Under the old regime ? 
 
^Barbara 37 
 
 Was uot the sky a brighter blue, 
 
 The oirds' song sweeter then ? 
 Were not the maids more fair and true, 
 
 And manlier the men ? 
 Upon yon warm slope, southward set, 
 
 How bent the olives seem ! 
 They were not so of yore, Babette, 
 
 Under the old regime. 
 
 Under the old regime, Babette, 
 
 How light of heart we were ! 
 There were no grass-grown graves as yet 
 
 Beneath the sombre fir. 
 How mournful is the wind's hoarse fret, 
 
 How sad the twilight's gleam ! 
 Oh, to be back again, Babette, 
 
 Under the old regime I 
 
 Clinton Scollard. 
 
 BARBARA. 
 
 "THE morn is hanging her fire-fringed veil, 
 
 Made of the mist, o'er the walnut boughs, 
 And Barbara, with her cedar pail, 
 
 Comes to the meadow to call the cows. 
 
 " The little people that live in the air 
 Are not for my human hands to wrong," 
 
38 :©arbara 
 
 Says Barbara, and her loving prayer 
 Takes them up as it goes along. 
 
 Gay sings the miller, and Barbara's mouth, 
 
 Parses with echoes it will not repeat, 
 And the rose on her cheek hath a May-day's 
 growth 
 In the line with the ending, " I love you, 
 sweet." 
 
 Yonder the mill is, small and white, 
 Hung like a vapor among the rocks — 
 
 Good spirits say to her morn and night, 
 
 "Barbara, Barbara ! stay with 3'our flocks." 
 
 Stay for the treasures you have to keep, 
 Cherish the love that you know is true ; 
 
 Though stars should shine in the tears you weep 
 They never would come out of heaven to you. 
 
 And were you to follow the violet veins 
 Over the hills — to the ends of the earth, 
 
 Barbara, what would you get for your pains, 
 More than your true-love's love is worth ? 
 
 So, never a thought about braver mills, 
 Of prouder lovers your dreaming cease ; 
 
 A world is shut in among these hills — 
 Stay in it, Barbara, stay, for your peace ! 
 
 Alice Caky. 
 "Barbara in the Meadow." 
 
^Beatrice 39 
 
 BEATRICE. 
 
 CO gentle seems my lady and so pure 
 
 When she greets any one, that scarce the 
 eye 
 Such modesty and brightness can endure, 
 And the tongue, trembling, falters in reply. 
 
 She never heeds, when people praise her 
 wor h, — 
 
 Some in their speech, and many with a pen, 
 But meekly moves, as if sent down to earth 
 
 To show another miracle to men. 
 
 And such a pleasure from her presence grows 
 
 On him who gazeth, while she passeth by, — 
 A sense of sweetness that no mortal knows 
 Who hath not felt it, — that the soul's repose 
 Is woke to worship, and a spirit flows 
 
 Forth from her face that seems to whisper, 
 
 "Sigh!" 
 
 Dante Alighieri. 
 
 Translated by Thomas William Parsons. 
 
 BEATRICE. 
 
 I LIE unread, alone. None heedeth me. 
 Day after day the cobwebs are unswept 
 From my dim covers. I have lain and slept 
 In dust and darkness for a century. 
 
40 JBclinOa 
 
 An old forgotten volume, I. Yet see ! 
 
 Such mighty words within my heart are kept 
 That, reading once, great Ariosto wept 
 
 In vain despair so impotent to be. 
 
 And once, with pensive eyes and drooping 
 head. 
 Musing, Vittoria Colonna came. 
 
 And touched my leaves with dreamy finger- 
 tips, 
 Lifted me up half absently, and read ; 
 
 Then kissed the page with sudden tender 
 lips, 
 And sighed, and murmured one beloved 
 
 name. 
 
 Caroline Wilder Fellowes. 
 
 " A Volume of Dante." 
 
 BELINDA. 
 
 /^N her white breast a sparkling cross she 
 
 wore, 
 Which Jews might kiss, and Infidels adore. 
 Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, 
 Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those ; 
 Favors to none, to all she smiles extends : 
 Oft she rejects, but never once offends. 
 Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike. 
 And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. 
 
JiSella 41 
 
 ^et, graceful ^ase, and sweetness void of pride, 
 Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to 
 
 hide ; 
 If to her share some female errors fall, 
 Look on her face, and you '11 forget them all. 
 
 Alexander Pope. 
 From " The Rape of the IvOck. " 
 
 BKIvIvA. 
 
 AA/HERB the Northern pine-trees sing, 
 And the crystal torrents spring, 
 
 In a warm and dainty nest, 
 
 Dwells the maid that I love best, — 
 Born, as in the Alpine rose. 
 Blooming in the midst of snows. 
 
 Yet, so much she seems to me 
 
 Like a dream of Italy, ^ 
 Beautiful, serene, and calm. 
 Opulent with bloom and balm, — 
 
 That my heart leaps up to greet her, 
 
 Vita delta mia vita ! 
 
 Ah, carina ! in thine eyes 
 What miraculous meaning lies ! 
 Ah, what depths of rare romance 
 Charm me in their eloquent glance, — 
 
42 :©cila 
 
 Full of wonderful witcheries, 
 Shadowy, mouruful, tender eyes, — 
 
 Yet their mellovv^ midnight seems 
 
 Softly starred with silver dreams ; 
 Fairest eyes on earth they be, 
 Marvellous eyes of Italy ; — 
 
 'Eyes which make the hours go fleeter, 
 
 Viia della inia vita ! 
 
 Dreaming, oft again I dwell 
 In the laud I love so well, — 
 
 Where the fruited vineyards lie 
 
 Smiling at the smiling sky, — 
 And among the graceful shapes 
 Gathering the clustered grapes, 
 
 Eccolo! she parts the vines, 
 
 And a golden arrow shines 
 Tipped with sunlight in the rare 
 Purple blackness of her hair, — 
 
 How my glad heart springs to meet her. 
 
 Vita della i7iia vita ! 
 
 Ah, no lovelier maid, I ween. 
 
 Roams by Tiber's mellow sheen. 
 Or, with lingering footsteps, strays, 
 Where the font of Trevi plays. 
 
 Or, with heart devoid of ill, 
 
 Muses on the Pincian Hill, 
 
:©elpboct)e 43 
 
 Listening to the clear farewells 
 
 Of the silvery sunset-bells, 
 While the roses, one and all, 
 Nodding from the ivied wall 
 
 Blush to find her fair face sweeter, — 
 
 i^ita delta mia vita ! 
 
 E^LIZABETH AKEES. 
 
 BELPHCEBE. 
 
 I N her faire eyes two living lamps did flame. 
 Kindled above at th' heavenly Maker's 
 
 light, 
 And darted fyrie beames out of the same, 
 So passing persant, and so wondrous bright. 
 That quite bereaved the rash beholders sight ; 
 In them the blinded god his lustful fyre 
 To kindle oft assayed, but had no might ; 
 For, with dredd majestic and awfull yre, 
 She broke his wanton darts, and quenched base 
 
 desyre. 
 
 Her yvorie forhead, full of bountie brave, 
 Like a broad table did itselfe dispred. 
 For Love his loftie triumphes to engrave, 
 And write the battailes of his great godhed ; 
 All good and honor might therein be red ; 
 For there their dwelling was. And, when she 
 spake, 
 
44 JSessie 
 
 Sweet wordes, like dropping honey, slie did 
 
 shed ; 
 And 'twixt the perles and rubins softly brake 
 A silver sound, that heavenly musicke seemd to 
 
 make. 
 
 Upon her eyelids many graces sate, 
 Under the shadow of her even browes, 
 Working belgardes and amorous retrate ; 
 And everie one her with a grace endowes, 
 And everie one with meeknesse to her bowes ; 
 So glorious mirrhour of celestiall grace, 
 And soveraine moniment of mortall vowes, 
 How shall frayle pen descrive her heavenly face, 
 For feare, through want of skill, her beauty to 
 
 disgrace ! 
 
 Edmund Spenser. 
 From "The Faery Queen." 
 
 BESSIE. 
 
 "VE ling'ring birds that still rejoice, 
 
 And sing of Edens whence ye came ! 
 Ye would not sing a note for shame, 
 If ye had heard my Bessie's voice. 
 
 Ye stainless clouds, whose purple grace 
 The sunset heightens with its flush ! 
 I wonder not that ye should blush 
 
 Since ye have seen my Bessie's face. 
 
aScttine 45 
 
 Ye stars tliat tremble in the skies, 
 
 Half peering through the lids of Night ! 
 I know by your bedazzled sight 
 
 That ye have looked in Bessie's eyes. 
 
 Ah, modest Moon that sails the blue ! 
 No wonder that your face grows pale 
 And hides behind its snow^y vail, 
 
 When Bessie turns her face on you. 
 
 And all ye skies that o'er me roll ! 
 Ye could not show so pure a dome, 
 If, in its frequent journeys home, 
 
 Ye had not felt my Bessie's soul. 
 
 Charles M. Dickinson. 
 
 BETTINE. 
 
 LJER bodice was of scarlet and her petticoat 
 of grey, 
 
 Her wooden shoes — 
 Oh, who could choose 
 Shoes daintier than they ? 
 The crimson of the sunset was flooding all the 
 air ; 
 
 He saw its trace 
 Along her face 
 And mid her braided hair. 
 
46 :©irtba 
 
 The glad brook flung its music and the robbins, 
 fluttering near, 
 
 Were twittering low, 
 And loth to go 
 Seemed loitering to hear. 
 He told her that he loved her ; he told her noth- 
 ing more 
 
 Than woods had heard, 
 In whispered word, 
 For centuries before. 
 But the crimson 'neath her lashes, and the 
 bodice fluttering told 
 
 How new each word 
 The robins heard. 
 Unknown to her of old. 
 Oh, many a bodice scarlet ; oh, many a skirt of 
 grey 
 
 And shoes of wood 
 By brooks have stood 
 But none as glad as they. 
 
 George Klingle. 
 
 BIRTHA. 
 
 T^O Astragon, Heaven for succession gave 
 
 One only pledge, and Birtha was her name, 
 Whose mother slept where flowers grew on her 
 grave, 
 And she succeeded her in face and fame. 
 
JBirtba 47 
 
 Her beauty princes durst not hope to use, 
 Unless, like poets, for their morning theme ; 
 
 And her mind's beauty they would rather 
 choose, 
 Which did the light in beauty's lanthorn seem. 
 
 She ne'er saw courts, yet courts could have un- 
 done 
 With untaught looks, and an unpracticed 
 heart ; 
 Her nets, the most prepar'd could never shun, 
 For Nature spread them in the scorn of art. 
 
 She never had in busy cities been. 
 
 Ne'er warm'd with hopes, nor e'er allay 'd with 
 fears ; 
 Not seeing punishment, could guess no sin ; 
 
 And sin not seeing, ne'er had use for tears. 
 
 But here her father's precepts gave her skill, 
 Which with incessant business fill'd the hours ; 
 
 In spring she gather'd blossoms for the still ; 
 In autumn, berries ; and in summer, flowers. 
 
 And as kind Nature, with calm diligence, 
 Her own free virtue silently employs, 
 
 Whilst she unheard, does ripening growth dis- 
 pense. 
 So were her virtues, busy without noise. 
 
48 JBlancb 
 
 Whilst her great mistress, Nature, thus she 
 tends, 
 
 The busy household waits no less on her ; 
 By secret law, each to her beauty bends. 
 
 Though all her lowly mind to that prefer. 
 
 Gracious and free she breaks upon them all 
 With morning looks ; and they, when she 
 does rise, 
 Devoutly at her dawn in homage fall, 
 
 And droop like flowers when evening shuts 
 her eyes. 
 
 Sir William Davenant. 
 From " Gondibert." 
 
 BLANCH. 
 
 DLANCH is adorable and wise 
 
 As — glad winds teaching birds to sing ; 
 Steal thou and gaze deep in her eyes ; — 
 Such scholars of the starry skies ! — 
 Canst marvel at the thing ? 
 
 Nay, Blanch, like some red bud that blows. 
 
 Hoards honey in her sunny heart : 
 Study her smile ; wouldst not suppose 
 She from some warm, white, serious rose 
 Had learned the happy art ? 
 
Qxli 49 
 
 Aye, words that tarry on her tongue 
 
 Fall more than musical thereof : 
 
 And why? 'T is this : her soul was strung 
 
 A harp at birth to hope that sung, 
 
 Now hope is joined with love. 
 
 Madison Cawein. 
 
 C^I.1. 
 
 T F stars were really watching eyes 
 
 Of angel armies in the skies, 
 I should forget all watchers there, 
 And only for your glances care. 
 
 And if your eyes were really stars 
 With leagues that none can mete for bars 
 To keep me from their longed-for day, 
 I could not feel more far away ! 
 
 Francis W. Bourdillon. 
 
 CAROLINE. 
 
 /^ E)M of the crimson-colored even, 
 ^■"^ Companion of retiring day, 
 Why at the closing gates of heaven, 
 Beloved star, dost thou delay ? 
 
50 Caroline 
 
 So fair thy pensile beauty burns, 
 
 When soft the tear of twiUght flows ; 
 
 So due th}' plighted love returns, 
 To chambers brighter than the rose : 
 
 To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love, 
 So kind a star thou seem'st to be, 
 
 Sure some enamoured orb above 
 
 Descends and burns to meet with thee. 
 
 Thine is the breathing, blushing hour, 
 When all unheavenly passions fly, 
 
 Chased by the soul-subduing pov^er 
 Of Love's delicious witcher}\ 
 
 Oh ! sacred to the fall of day, 
 
 Queen of propitious stars, appear, 
 
 And early rise, and long delay. 
 When Caroline herself is here ! 
 
 Shine on her chosen green resort, 
 
 Whose trees the sunward summit crown, 
 
 And wanton flowers that well may court 
 An angel's feet to tread them down. 
 
 Shine on her sweetly-scented road. 
 Thou star of evening's purple dome, 
 
 That lead'st the nightingale abroad, 
 And guid'st the pilgrim to his home. 
 
Castara 51 
 
 Shine wlrere my charmer's sweeter breath 
 Embalms the soft exhaling dew, 
 
 Where dying w^inds a sigh bequeath 
 To kiss the cheek of rosy hue. 
 
 Where winnowed by the gentle air, 
 Her silken tresses darkly flow. 
 
 And fall upon her brow so fair, 
 
 Like shadows on the mountain snow. 
 
 Thus, ever thus, at day's decline, 
 In converse sweet, to wander far. 
 
 Oh bring with thee my Caroline, 
 And thou shalt be my ruling star ! 
 
 Thomas Campbell. 
 
 CASTARA. 
 
 T IKE the violet which, alone, 
 
 Prospers in some happy shade, 
 My Castara lives unknown, 
 To no ruder eye betray'd ; 
 For she 's to herself untrue 
 Who delights i' the public view. 
 
 Such is her beauty, as no arts 
 
 Have eurich'd with borrow'd grace ; 
 
 Her high birth no pride imparts. 
 For she blushes in her place. 
 
52 Castara 
 
 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 : 
 Women's feet run still astray, 
 If once to ill they know the way. 
 
 She sails by that rock, the court, 
 Where oft virtue splits her mast ; 
 
 And retiredness thinks the port, 
 Where her frame may anchor cast. 
 
 Virtue safely cannot sit 
 
 Where vice is enthroned for wit. 
 
 She holds that day's pleasure best 
 Where sin waits not on delight ; 
 
 Without mask, or ball, or feast, 
 Sweetly spends a winter's night : 
 
 O'er that darkness whence is thrust 
 
 Prayer and sleep oft governs lust. 
 
Catbarina 53 
 
 She he.- throne makes reason climb, 
 While wild passions captive lie ; 
 
 And each article of time, 
 
 Her pure thoughts to heaven fly ; 
 
 All her vows religious be, 
 
 And her love she vows to me. 
 
 William Habington. 
 
 CATHARINA. 
 
 C HE came — she is gone — we have met— 
 
 And meet perhaps never again ; 
 The sun of that moment is set, 
 
 And seems to have risen in vain. 
 Catharina has fled like a dream — 
 
 (So vanishes pleasure, alas !) 
 But has left a regret and esteem 
 
 That will not so suddenly pass. 
 
 The last evening ramble we made, 
 
 Catharina, Maria, and I, 
 Our progress was often delayed 
 
 By the nightingale warbling nigh. 
 We paused under many a tree. 
 
 And much she was charmed by a tone, 
 I^ess sweet to Maria and me. 
 
 Who so latelv had witnessed her own. 
 
54 Cecilia 
 
 My numbers that day she had sung, 
 
 And gave them a grace so divine, 
 As only her musical tongue 
 
 Could infuse into numbers of mine. 
 The longer I heard, I esteemed 
 
 The work of my fancy the more, 
 And e'en to myself never seemed 
 
 So tuneful a poet before. 
 
 William Cowpkr. 
 From "Catharina." 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 DY the pure spirit in each gaze revealed, 
 
 Which from thine eyelid's heavy-fringed 
 recess 
 Like those pale fires the meadow-grasses shield, 
 Subdues the sense, when star-beams mild 
 caress 
 The heavy odors from the jasmine flowers 
 Whose influence of love each swooning gale 
 o'erpowers ; 
 
 By the fair locks, which, like in form and dye 
 To flecks of golden cloud w^hen day has set, 
 
 Clasp the calm twilight of thy brow, and by 
 The soft sweet smile half mingled with regret. 
 
 Like rippling moonlight on an endless sea, 
 
 Which seems to lead the gaze into eternity ; 
 
Cecilia 55 
 
 I pray thee tell what secret whisperings 
 
 The elves that dwell in the moon's quivering 
 
 beams 
 
 Have spoken to thee when their viewless w'ings 
 
 Have brushed thy soothed temples into 
 
 dreams, 
 
 Or whence hath sprung, amid earth's wilderness, 
 
 The secret fountain-head of so much loveliness. 
 
 Evelyn Douglas. 
 
 CECILY. 
 
 TF at the sudden sight of thee 
 
 Joy pulses through my brain. 
 Not love is this ; but I foresee, — 
 Fair rose, to bloom so fain ! — 
 The peerless woman thou wilt be, 
 One day, my sweet girl Cecily ! 
 
 I gaze beyond thy semblance now, 
 And in that wide-expanding brow, 
 With arched eyes of soft blue-gray — 
 Like the tender dawn of day, — 
 Trusting eyes, that dare be seen, 
 Telling pure thoughts, — nothing mean ; 
 And in thy bearing, firm and mild, 
 I see the woman through the child. 
 
56 Gelia 
 
 Ivike a perfect image, wrought 
 Only in the sculptor's thought ; 
 Like a new song, under breath, 
 
 A poet-lover sings ; 
 Like a late- born butterfly, 
 
 Sunning her moist wings ; 
 Like a young moon, lit anew ; 
 Like a glad dream, coming true ; — 
 All delights too fresh to cloy ! — 
 Like all these art thou, my joy ! 
 
 Charles Ne^wton-Robinson 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 r\RINK to me only witli thine eyes, 
 
 And I will pledge with mine ; 
 Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 
 
 And I '11 not look for wine. 
 The thirst that from the soul doth rise, 
 
 Doth ask a drink divine : 
 But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 
 
 I would not change for thine. 
 
 I sent thee late a rosy wreath. 
 Not so much honoring thee, 
 
 As giving it a hope, that there 
 It could not withered be. 
 
CelinDa 57 
 
 But thou thereon did'st only breathe, 
 
 And send'st it back to me : 
 
 vSince when it grows, and smells, I swear, 
 
 Xot of itself, but thee. 
 
 Ben Jonson. 
 
 CELINDA. 
 
 AX/ALKING thus towards a pleasant grove. 
 
 Which did, it seemed, in new delight 
 The pleasures of the time unite 
 To give a triumph to their love, — 
 They stayed at last, and on the grass 
 Reposed so as o'er his breast 
 She bowed her gracious head to rest. 
 Such a weight as no burden was. 
 Long their fixed eyes to heaven bent. 
 Unchanged they did never move. 
 As if so great and pure a love 
 No glass but it could represent. 
 "These eyes again thine eyes shall see, 
 Thy hands again these hands infold. 
 And all chaste pleasures can be told 
 Shall with us everlasting be. 
 Let then no doubt, Celinda, touch, 
 Much less your fairest mind invade ; 
 Were not our souls immortal made, 
 Our equal loves can make them such." 
 
 Edward Hkrbbrt, Earl of Cherbury. 
 
58 Cbarlotte 
 
 CHARI.OTTB. 
 
 DEHOLD another year succeed ! 
 
 But, Charlotte, thou hast nought to dread, 
 Since time will ever beauty spare : 
 Time knows what ^^ perfect^ and well knows, 
 'T would take him ages to compose 
 Another damsel half so fair. 
 
 John Wolcot. 
 "To Charlotte, on New- Year's Day." 
 
 CHI.OB. 
 
 C INCE Chloe is so monstrous fair, 
 
 With such an eye and such an air, 
 What wonder that the world complains 
 When she each am'rous suit disdains ? 
 
 Close to her mother's side she clings, 
 And mocks the death her folly brings 
 To gentle swains that feel the smarts 
 Her eyes inflict upon their hearts. 
 
 Whilst thus the years of youth go by, 
 Shall Colin languish, Strephon die ? 
 Nay, cruel nymph ! come choose a mate, 
 And choose him ere it be too late ! 
 
 EiTGENE Field. 
 From "Echoes from Sabine Farm." 
 
Cbristie 59 
 
 CHRISTIE. 
 
 ! THINK of her when spirit-bowed ; 
 
 A glory fills the place : 
 Like sudden light on swords, the proud 
 
 Smile flashes in my face : 
 And o-hers see, in passing by. 
 
 But cannot understand 
 The vision shining in mine eye, 
 
 My strength of heart and hand. 
 
 That grave content and touching grace 
 
 Bring tears into mine eyes ; 
 She makes my heart a holy place 
 
 Where hymns and incense rise ! 
 Such calm her gentle spirit brings 
 
 As — smiling overhead — 
 White statued saints with peaceful wings 
 
 Shadow the sleeping dead. 
 
 Our Christie is no rosy Grace 
 
 With beauty all may see, 
 But I have never felt a face 
 
 Grow half so dear to me. 
 No curling hair about her brows, 
 
 Like many merry girls' ; 
 Well, straighter to my heart it goes 
 
 And round it curls and curls. 
 
6o Clara 
 
 Meek as the wood-anemone glints 
 
 To see if skies are blue, 
 Is my pale flower with her tints 
 
 Of heaven shining thro' ! 
 She will be poor and never fret, 
 
 Sleep sound and lowly lie ; 
 Will live her quiet life, and let 
 
 The great world-storm go by. 
 
 Gerald Massey. 
 From " Christie's Portrait." 
 
 CLARA. 
 
 'THE rose that lifts its head to kiss 
 
 The sunbeam glinting there, 
 As thy sweet face and ruby lips 
 Is not so fair. 
 
 As thou art far above the rose, 
 
 Below the sunbeam I, 
 And thou canst give the greatest gift 
 
 Beneath the sky. 
 
 Oh, canst thou overlook the line 
 That separates from me 
 
 The Venus of our Northern clime ? — 
 For I love thee ! 
 
 James Meade Adams. 
 
Clare 6i 
 
 CLARE. 
 
 f OVEL/Y, and gentle, and distress'd — 
 These charms might tame the fiercest 
 breast ; 
 Harpers have sung, and poets told. 
 That he, in fury uncontroll'd. 
 The shaggy monarch of the wood, 
 Before a virgin, fair and good, 
 Hath pacified his savage mood. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 From " Marmion." 
 
 CLARINDA. 
 
 /^H ! wot ye how fair Mistress Prue 
 ^"^^ Doth purse her lips and frown, 
 To see one fleet along the street 
 
 All in a trim new gown ? 
 Sing louder, robin, pipe, O wren, 
 
 And, thrush, your quavers dare ; 
 Let every throat be vocal when 
 
 Clarinda "takes the air." 
 
 She hath a smile that would beguile 
 A monk in robe and cowl, 
 
 And yet her eyes can look as wise 
 As grave Minerva's owl. 
 
62 Clarlsse 
 
 Lo, wheu she speaks, across her cheeks 
 
 The chasing dimples fare, 
 Oh ! young again I would be when 
 
 Clarinda "takes the air." 
 
 Nor left nor right her glances light ; 
 
 Demurely on she goes ; 
 In all the wide, wide country-side 
 
 There 's not so sweet a rose. 
 And ye, my gallant gentlemen — 
 
 Tut ! tut ! ye should not stare ; 
 And yet how may ye help it when 
 
 Clarinda "takes the air." 
 
 Clinton Scollard. 
 " Clarinda Takes the Air." 
 
 CIvARISSE. 
 
 T/" ISS you ? Wherefore should I, sweet ? 
 
 Casual kissing I condemn ; 
 Other lips your lips will meet 
 
 When my kisses die on them. 
 Should I grieve that this should be ? 
 Nay, if you will kiss— kiss me ! 
 
 Ivove you ? That were vainer still ! 
 
 If you win my love to-day, 
 When the morrow comes you will 
 
 Ivightly laugh that love away. 
 Should I grieve that this should be? 
 Nay, if you must love — love me ! 
 
dice 63 
 
 Wherefore play these fickle parts ? 
 
 Life and love will soon be done ; 
 Think you God made human hearts 
 
 Just for you to tread upon ? 
 Will you break them, nor repine ? 
 If you will, Clarisse, break mine ! 
 
 Frank I^. Stanton. 
 
 CLOE. 
 
 'T'HB merchant, to secure his treasure. 
 
 Conveys it in a borrowed name : 
 Euphelia serves to grace my measure, 
 But Cloe is my real flame. 
 
 My softest verse, my darling lyre, 
 
 Upon Euphelia's toilet lay ; 
 When Cloe noted her desire, 
 
 That I should sing, that I should play. 
 
 My lyre I tune, my voice I raise. 
 
 But with my numbers mix my sighs ; 
 
 And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise, 
 I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes. 
 
 Fair Cloe blushed ; Euphelia frowned ; 
 
 I sung and gazed ; I played and trembled 
 And Venus to the Loves around 
 
 Remarked, how ill we all dissembled. 
 
 Matthew Prior. 
 An Ode." 
 
64 Constance 
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 lyiE AN WHILE the child grew 
 
 Into girlhood ; and, like a sunbeam, slid- 
 ing through 
 Her green quiet years, changed by gentle 
 
 degrees 
 To the loveliest vision of youth a youth sees 
 In his loveliest fancies ; as pure as a pearl, 
 And as perfect ; a noble and innocent girl, 
 With eighteen sweet summers dissolved in the 
 
 light 
 Of her loveh- and lovable eyes, soft and bright ! 
 
 Owen Meredith. 
 
 From "Lucile."' 
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 \A/ILLED God to make 
 Thee, love, a rose. 
 Or with thy soul 
 
 Inflame a star ; 
 How should I quake 
 
 When winds arose, 
 When westering stole 
 
 The planet far ! 
 
Cora 65 
 
 But no wild blast 
 
 Disturbs thy heart, 
 Thy spirit's flame 
 
 Is bright alway, 
 Troth ever fast ; 
 
 To-day thou art 
 The very same 
 
 As yesterday. 
 
 Perennial prove 
 
 Thy blossom sweet, 
 Thy tender glow 
 
 Undimmed, while I 
 May live and love : — 
 
 Then fade and fleet, 
 And tell me so 
 
 'T is time to die. 
 
 Richard Garnett, 
 
 CORA. 
 
 T^HEY will never come back, the bright, beau- 
 tiful days, 
 The gladdening days of the glorious spring. 
 With its blossoming crocus and jessamine sprays 
 And its verdure that comes o'er the land like 
 a king : 
 
66 Cora 
 
 They are fleeing forever; the freshness and bloom 
 Of these sun-lighted days of the years of thy 
 life, 
 Like dreams dreamt on pillows of precious per- 
 fume 
 They fade ere thou knowest with what glory 
 they 're rife. 
 
 But say you the summer is coming anon, 
 
 Its gardens all flush v/ith ripe beauty and 
 splendor, 
 With its harmonies grander than those that are 
 gone. 
 With its sunshine more brilliant, its shadows 
 more tender ? 
 Dost thou say that its voices are richer in 
 meaning, 
 The fruit that is mellow more luscious than 
 bloom, 
 The harvest that 's golden and ripe for the 
 gleaning 
 Worth all of the spring's evanescent perfume ? 
 
 Ah ! love — 't is the seed sown in spring-time 
 that grows 
 To spangle with blossoms the summer's green 
 glade ; 
 'T is the sapling of spring whose maturity 
 throws 
 Over summer's hot pulses the cool cloak of 
 shade ; 
 
Cora 67 
 
 And the harvest that 's golden, the fruit that is 
 red, 
 And the gushes of song on the summer day's 
 track. 
 Are the precious results of a spring that has 
 sped, 
 Which will never come back, — which will 
 never come back. 
 
 Say'st thou autumn will come when the summer 
 is gone, 
 With the purple and gold that embroider its 
 glory. 
 And the song of the vintager greeting the dawn. 
 While with blood of the grape the winepress 
 is gory ? 
 Dost thou say that the full-handed autumn can 
 tender 
 Such riches as spring-time nor summer e'er 
 knew, 
 While the gorgeous skies and the forests of 
 splendor 
 Are rarer than roses and richer than dew ? 
 
 Remember that spring and its sunny caress. 
 Its welcoming warmth and its fostering 
 mould, 
 Is the source of all this that thy autumn can 
 bless. 
 Its clusters of purple, its harvests of gold ! 
 
68 Cora 
 
 For the stalk yielding grain and the grape 
 yielding wine, 
 And the fruit-laden orchards old autumn 
 must lack, 
 Were it not for the tendrils of spring's early 
 vine 
 And the seed of a season that never comes 
 back. 
 
 Then gather now, darling, the delicate bloom 
 Of the crocus, and jasmine, and clambering 
 rose ; 
 Extract from their petals the precious perfume, 
 
 Thy life to embalm as it draws to a close ; 
 Scatter seeds while the days of thy years are but 
 few, 
 Broadcast upon intellect's nourishing meuld, 
 That the sunshine of youth and its fostering 
 dew 
 May yield thee a harvest of beauty untold. 
 
 For the spring-time of youth quickly fadeth 
 away 
 And the swift summer perish on time's 
 sterile shore ; 
 All the autumn's rich glory fast falls to decay 
 And winter's chill hillsides are ours — nothing 
 more. 
 
CorDelia 69 
 
 But if ih the seed-time thou 'st planted aright, 
 For each season of life shall some blessing 
 arise, 
 Till the Spring-time Eternal shall bloom on thy 
 sight, 
 And thy wandering feet roam the star-sprin- 
 kled skies. 
 
 Mary Ashley Townsend. 
 "lyinesto Cora." 
 
 CORDEIvIA. 
 
 W 
 
 HEN winsome fair Cordelia 
 Down to her garden goes, 
 The West Wind wafts a courtesy 
 
 From every climbing rose ; 
 He doffs the hollyhocks' gay hats, 
 And bows the pinks' stiff heads, 
 Or, with glowing poppy petals, 
 A dainty pathway spreads — 
 
 West Wind, O West Wind ! Who art so bold 
 
 and free, 
 Who woos my love Cordelia (she takes no heed 
 of me) ; 
 
 1 would I were the North Wind, that I might 
 
 buffet thee ! 
 
70 CorDelia 
 
 She plays upon the spinet, when 
 
 The candles are alight ; 
 And rising, gayly crosses there 
 
 The oaken hallway bright ; 
 Against the broidered tapestry 
 
 Dances her silhouette, 
 As, with an unseen cavalier, 
 She treads the minuet. 
 Cordelia, sweet Cordelia, I prythee, cease thy 
 
 jest ; 
 I love thy very shadow, dear, and surely, it were 
 
 best. 
 To flout me not, but wed me now, and give my 
 spirit rest. 
 
 The gleaming silver candlesticks 
 
 Reflect her mocking smile, 
 
 And silken downcast lashes, too ; 
 
 Then ponders she, awhile, 
 
 " But, 't is thou who art my shadow. 
 
 Who always followest me ; 
 
 Narcissus-like, thou lovest thyself! " 
 
 (She laughs right merrily) — 
 
 " Alas," I cry, "Cordelia, and dost thou bid me 
 
 go?" 
 
 Makes answer sweet Cordelia, " Thy wit is 
 
 somewhat slow. 
 
 But ne'erless, thou mayest yet, of hope, a 
 
 shadow know." 
 
 Nancy Mann Waddle. 
 "Her Shadow." 
 
Corlnna 71 
 
 CORINNA. 
 
 /^^ ET up, get up for shame ! The blooming 
 morn 
 
 Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. 
 See how Aurora throws her fair 
 Fresh-quilted colors through the air : 
 Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see 
 The dew-bespangled herb and tree ! 
 
 Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the 
 east. 
 
 Above an hour since, yet 5'ou not drest ; 
 Nay ! not so much as out of bed ; 
 When all the birds have matins said, 
 And sung their thankful hymns : 't is sin, 
 Nay, profanation, to keep in. 
 
 When as a thousand virgins on this day 
 
 Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May. 
 
 Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen 
 To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and 
 green, 
 And sweet as Flora. Take no care 
 For jewels for your gown or hair : 
 Fear not ; the leaves will strew 
 Gems in abundance upon you : 
 Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, 
 Against you come, some Orient pearls unwept. 
 Come, and receive them while the light 
 Hangs on the dew-locks of the night. 
 
72 Corinna 
 
 And Titan on the eastern hill 
 Retires himself, or else stands still 
 
 Till you come forth ! Wash, dress, be brief in 
 praying : 
 
 Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying. 
 
 Come, my Corinna, come ; and coming, mark 
 How each field turns a street, each street a park, 
 Made green and trimm'd with trees! see 
 
 how 
 Devotion gives each house a bough 
 Or branch ! each porch, each door, ere this, 
 An ark, a tabernacle is. 
 Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove. 
 As if here were those cooler shades of love. 
 Can such delights be in the street 
 And open fields, and we not see 't ? 
 Come, we '11 abroad, and let 's obey 
 The proclamation made for May : 
 And sin no more, as we have done, by staying ; 
 But, my Corinna, come, let 's go a-Maying. 
 
 There 's not a budding boy or girl this day 
 But is up and gone to bring in May. 
 
 A deal of youth, ere this, is come 
 
 Back, and with white-thorn laden home. 
 
 Some have despatch'd their cakes and 
 cream. 
 
 Before that we have left to dream : 
 
Corinna 73 
 
 And some have wept and woo'd, and plighted 
 troth, 
 
 And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth : 
 Many a green-gown has been given ; 
 Many a kiss, both odd and even : 
 Many a glance, too, has been sent 
 From out the eye, love's firmament : 
 
 Many a jest told of the key's betraying 
 
 This night, and locks pick'd : yet we 're not a- 
 Maying. 
 
 Come, let us go, while we are in our prime. 
 And take the harmless folly of the time ! 
 
 We shall grow old apace, and die 
 
 Before we know our liberty. 
 
 Our life is short, and our days run 
 
 As fast away as does the sun. 
 And, as a vapor or a drop of rain. 
 Once lost, can ne'er be found again ; 
 
 So when or you or I are made 
 
 A fable, song, or fleeting shade. 
 
 All love, all liking, all delight 
 
 Ivies drown'd with us in endless night. 
 Then, while time serves, and we are but de- 
 caying. 
 Come, my Corinna, come, let 's go a-Maying. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 "Corinna's Maying," 
 
74 GrcseiDe 
 
 CREvSEIDB. 
 
 A MONG these other folke was Creseida, 
 
 In widowes habite black ; but natheless 
 Right as our first letter is now a, 
 In beautie first so stood she matchless, 
 Her goodly looking gladded all the prees, 
 Was never scene thing to be praised so dere, 
 Nor under cloude blacke so brighte starre. 
 
 Creseide nieane was of her stature, 
 Thereto of shape, of face and eke of chere, 
 There might ben no fairer creature, 
 And ofte time this was her man ere, 
 Son gone y tressed with her haires clere 
 Downe by her colere at her back behind, 
 Which with a thred of gold she woulde bind. 
 
 And save her browes joyneden yfere. 
 
 There nas no lacke, in aught I can espien ; 
 
 But for to speken of her eyen clere. 
 
 So, truly they written that her seien, 
 
 That Paradis stood formed in her eien, 
 
 And wnth her riche beauty evermore 
 
 Strove love in her, aie which of hem was more. 
 
 She sobre was, eke simple, and wise withall, 
 The best ynorished eke that might bee, 
 And goodly of her speche in generall, 
 
C^ntbia 75 
 
 Charitable, estately, lusty and free, 
 Ne nevermore ne lacked her pitee, 
 Tender hearted sliding of corage, 
 But truly I cannot tell her age. 
 
 Geoffrey Chaucer. 
 From "Troilus and Creseide." 
 
 CYNTHIA. 
 
 F\0 not conceal thy radiant eyes, 
 
 The star-light of serenest skies ; 
 Lest, wanting of their heavenly light, 
 They turn to chaos' endless night ! 
 
 Do not conceal those tresses fair, 
 The silken snares of thy curled hair ; 
 Lest, finding neither gold nor ore, 
 The curious silk-worm work no more ! 
 
 Do not conceal those breasts of thine, 
 More snow-white than the Apennine ; 
 Lest, if there be like cold and frost. 
 The lily be for ever lost ! 
 
 Do not conceal that fragrant scent. 
 Thy breath, which to all flowers hath lent 
 Perfumes ; lest, it being supprest. 
 No spices grow in all the East ! 
 
76 2)af6i2 
 
 Do not conceal thy heavenly voice, 
 Which makes the hearts of Gods rejoice ; 
 Lest, music hearing no such thing, 
 The nightingale forget to sing ! 
 
 Do not conceal, nor yet eclipse, 
 Thy pearly teeth with coral lips ; 
 Ivcst, that the seas cease to bring forth 
 Gems which from thee have all their worth I 
 
 Do not conceal a beauty, grace 
 That 's either in thy mind or face ; 
 IvCSt Virtue overcome by Vice 
 Make men believe no Paradise. 
 
 Sir Francis Kynaston. 
 "To Cynthia, on Concealment of her Beauty." 
 
 DAISY. 
 
 "\ A/OUIvD I might keep thee ever from the 
 storm 
 And threat of storm, from peril of the brink 
 And fall therefrom ; from even the subtlest 
 link 
 Of joy with joylessness ; from all earth's swarm 
 Of mockeries pitiless and multiform ; 
 
 Make from thy pathway every danger shrink, 
 
Bais^ 77 
 
 Give thy sweet lips but happy cups to drink, 
 My own hopes pledge to keep thine warm and 
 
 bright. 
 Alas ! I may not share thy peace nor strife ; 
 
 To me 't is not vouchsafed to give nor guard, 
 But in my soul great love for thee is rife, 
 
 And so my night is beautifully starred, 
 For it is written on the heights of life, 
 
 Love is its own exceeding great reward, 
 
 Mary Ashley Townsend. 
 
 DAISY. 
 
 ■\A7'HERE the thistle lifts a purple crown 
 ^ ^ Six feet out of the turf, 
 And the harebell shakes on the windy hill, 
 On the breath of the distant surf ! 
 
 The hills look over on the South, 
 And the southward dreams the sea. 
 
 And, with the sea-breeze hand in hand, 
 Came innocence and she. 
 
 Where 'mid the gores the raspberry 
 Red for the gatherer springs. 
 
 Two children did we stray and talk 
 Wise, idle, childish things. 
 
78 Baisg 
 
 She listened with big-lipped surprise, 
 Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine ; 
 
 Her skin was like a grape, whose veins 
 Run snow instead of wine. 
 
 She knew not those sweet words she spake, 
 Nor knew her own sweet way ; 
 
 But there 's never a bird, so sweet a song 
 Thronged in whose throat that day ! 
 
 Oh, there were flowers in Storrington 
 
 On the turf and on the spray, 
 But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills 
 
 Was the Daisy-flower that day ! 
 
 Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face I 
 
 She gave me tokens three, 
 A look, a word of her winsome mouth, 
 
 And a wild raspberry. 
 
 A berry red, a guileless look, 
 
 A still word, — strings of sand ! 
 And yet they made my wild, wild heart 
 
 Fly down to her little hand. 
 
 For standing artless as the air 
 
 And candid as the skies. 
 She took the berries with her hand 
 
 And the love with her sweet eyes. 
 
2)ai6S 79 
 
 The fairest things have fleetest eud ; 
 
 Their scent survives their close, 
 But the rose's scent is bitterness 
 
 To him that loved the rose ! 
 
 She looked a little wistfully, 
 Then went her sunshine way ; 
 
 The sea's eye had a mist on it, 
 And the leaves fell from the day. 
 
 She went her unremembering way. 
 
 She went and left in me 
 The pang of all the partings gone 
 
 And partings yet to be. 
 
 She left me marvelling why my soul 
 
 Was sad that she was glad 
 At all the sadness in the sweet. 
 
 The sweetness in the sad. 
 
 Still, still I seemed to see her, still 
 
 Look up with soft replies, 
 And take the berries with her hand 
 
 And the love with her lovely eyes. 
 
 Nothing begins, and nothing ends, 
 
 That is not paid with moan ; 
 For we are born in others' pain 
 
 And perish in our own. 
 
 Francis Thompson. 
 
8o 2)apbnc 
 
 DAPHNE. 
 
 A GBNTIvE look of sweet surprise 
 
 In Daphne's eyes. 
 Golden fetters which do not spare 
 
 In Daphne's hair. 
 Of the rosy blush, I dare not speak, 
 
 On Daphne's cheek. 
 A winning smile, like the warm, warm South, 
 
 Around her mouth. 
 A little dimple, my heart to win, 
 
 In Daphne's chin. 
 A dainty gesture of command, 
 
 In Daphne's hand. 
 These are the charms which to my love belong, 
 
 And hence my song. 
 
 May Porter. 
 
 DELIA. 
 
 O BR sparkling eyes are like two drops of dew 
 That twinkle under summer skies of blue, 
 Her cheeks like lilies flushed by dawn of day. 
 Her sweet mouth sweeter than the month of 
 
 May ; 
 Her little blue-veined feet, so soft, so swift. 
 That from the earth her figure seem to lift, 
 
Delia 8i 
 
 So white, so airy, free from spot and stain. 
 Are like the doves that wafted Cupid's wain ; 
 Her bosom 's like the cloud by morning spun, 
 Decked in the roses of the rising sun, 
 And on her swelling, gently-heaving breast 
 White-winged Love hath built his happy nest. 
 
 No other maiden lives in hut or hall, 
 Nor ever breathed since Eve's and Adam's fall, 
 To vie with her in gentleness and grace ; 
 And she outshines them with her lovely face, 
 As gladsome summer, warm with fragrant 
 
 flowers. 
 Outshines cold autumn's gaudy, lifeless bowers, 
 As radiant stars in jewelled skies outshine 
 The stony gems set in a chilly mine. 
 
 Walter Maxone. 
 
 DELIA. 
 
 I INTO the boundless ocean of thy beauty 
 
 Runs this poor river, charged with streams 
 of zeal, 
 Returning thee the tribute of my duty, 
 
 Which here my love, my youth, my plaints 
 reveal. 
 
82 Diana 
 
 Here I unclasp the book of my charged soul, 
 Where I have cast the accounts of all my 
 care ; 
 Here have I summed my sighs, here I enroll 
 How they were spent for thee : look what 
 they are ! 
 Ivook on the dear expenses of my youth, 
 
 And see how just I reckon with thine eyes ! 
 Bxamine well thy beauty with my truth, 
 
 And cross my cares ere greater sums arise ! 
 Read it, sweet Maid ! though it be done but 
 
 slightly : 
 Who can show all his love doth love but 
 lightly. 
 
 Samuel Daniel. 
 
 DIANA. 
 
 T IvOVB thee all the more that thou dost prove 
 
 So all unmoved by all proffered love ; 
 For not thy fault but ours it is, when we, 
 Poor sons of Adam, bend the suppliant knee, 
 That thou hast ne'er an answer to our sigh. 
 E'en in the virginal calmness of thine eye 
 (As some great lake which in its quietest sleep 
 Mirrors all heaven within its infinite deep) 
 I read the secret passion of great love, 
 
2)ianeme 83 
 
 That might have been did men more worthy 
 
 prove. 
 And I do love thy high-souled purity, 
 And I am well content that thou sbouldst be 
 Too pure, too proud, to stoop to such as we. 
 
 Wilson K. Welsh. 
 
 DIANEME. 
 
 C WHET, be not proud of those two eyes, 
 
 Which, star-like, sparkle in their skies ; 
 Nor be you proud, that you can see 
 All hearts your captives, — yours yet free. 
 Be you not proud of that rich hair 
 Which wantons with the love-sick air : 
 Whenas that ruby which you wear, 
 Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, 
 Will last to be a precious stone 
 When all your world of beauty 's gone. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 DOLLIE. 
 
 C HE sports a witching gown 
 With a ruffle up and down 
 
 On the skirt. 
 She is gentle, she is shy ; 
 But there 's mischief in her eye, 
 
 She 's a flirt ! 
 
84 2)olUe 
 
 She displays a tiny glove, 
 And a dainty little love 
 
 Of a shoe ; 
 And she wears her hat a-tilt 
 Over bangs that never wilt 
 
 In the dew. 
 
 'T is rumoied chocolate creams 
 Are the fabric of her dreams — 
 
 But enough ! 
 I know beyond a doubt 
 That she carries them about 
 
 In her muif. 
 
 With her dimples and her curls 
 She exasperates the girls 
 
 Past belief: 
 They hint that she 's a cat, 
 And delightful things like that 
 
 In their grief. 
 
 It is shocking, I declare ! 
 But what does Dollie care 
 
 When the beaux 
 Come flocking to her feet 
 Like the bees around a sweet 
 
 Ivittle rose ? 
 
 Samuel Mintxjrn Peck, 
 
H>ora 85 
 
 DORA. 
 
 T CAN like a hundred women, 
 
 I can love a score, 
 Only one with heart's devotion 
 
 Worship and adore. 
 Mary, Jessie, Lucy, Nancy, 
 
 With a fine control 
 Hold my eye or stir my fancy ; 
 
 Dora fills my soul. 
 
 Dainty doves are doves of Venus, 
 
 (Plumy, soft delight), 
 But my dove (O wonder !), Dora, 
 
 Hath an eagle's might. 
 Doves are pretty, doves are stupid, 
 
 But who Dora loves 
 Finds Minerva masqued in Cupid, 
 
 Strength in downy doves. 
 
 Like the sun's face brightly dancing 
 
 On the shimmering sea. 
 But, like Ocean, deep is Dora, 
 
 Strong, and fair, and free. 
 Chirping like a gay Cicala 
 
 In a sunny bower, 
 But a Muse in that Cicala 
 
 Sings with thoughtful power. 
 
86 Bora 
 
 Like a beck that bickers blithely 
 
 Down the daisied lea, 
 So her bright soul bursts and blossoms 
 
 In spontaneous glee. 
 Full of gamesome show is Dora ; 
 
 But behind the scene 
 Sits the lofty will of Dora 
 
 Throned like a queen. 
 
 Lovely marvel ! oak and lily 
 
 From one root came forth, 
 Twined in leafy grace together 
 
 At my Dora's birth. 
 Mellow Eve, and bright Aurora, 
 
 Sober Night, and Noon, 
 Dwell, divinely blent, in Dora, 
 
 To a jarless tune. 
 
 I can like a hundred women, 
 
 I can love a score, 
 Only one with heart's devotion 
 
 Worship and adore. 
 Mary, Jessie, Lucy, Nancy, 
 
 With a fine control 
 Hold my eye or stir my fancy ; 
 
 Dora fills my soul. 
 
 John Stuart Blackie. 
 
BorinDa 87 
 
 DORINDA. 
 
 A CCEPT, my love, as true a heart 
 
 As ever lover gave : 
 'T is free, it vows, from any art, 
 And proud to be your slave. 
 
 Then take it kindly, as 't was meant, 
 
 And let the giver live. 
 Who, with it, would the world have sent, 
 
 Had it been his to give. 
 
 And, that Dorinda may not fear 
 
 I e'er will prove untrue. 
 
 My vow shall, ending with the year, 
 
 With it begin anew. 
 
 Matthew Prior. 
 
 DORIS. 
 
 ] SAT with Doris, the shepherd maiden : 
 
 Her crook was laden with wreathed flowers ; 
 I sat and wooed her through sunlight wheeling. 
 And shadows stealing, for hours and hours. 
 
 And she, my Doris, whose lap encloses 
 Wild summer roses of rare perfume. 
 
 The while I sued her, kept hushed and heark- 
 ened 
 Till shades had darkened from gloss to gloom. 
 
88 2)orls 
 
 She touched my shoulder with fearful finger : 
 She said, " We linger ; we must not stay ; 
 
 My flock 's in danger, my sheep will wander : 
 Behold them yonder — how far they stray ! " 
 
 I answered bolder, " Nay, let me hear you, 
 And still be near you, and still adore ; 
 
 No wolf nor stranger will touch one yearling ; 
 Ah ! stay, my darling, a moment more." 
 
 She whispered, sighing : ** There will be sorrow 
 Beyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day ; 
 
 My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded, 
 I shall be scolded, and sent away." 
 
 Said I, denying : '* If they do miss you. 
 
 They ought to kiss you when you get home ; 
 
 And well rewarded by friends and neighbor 
 Should be the labor from which you come." 
 
 *' They might remember," she answered meekly, 
 *' That lambs are weakly and sheep are wild ; 
 
 But if they love me 't is none so fervent ; 
 I am a servant, and not a child." 
 
 Then each hot ember glowed within me, 
 And love did win me to swift reply : 
 
 " Ah ! do but prove me, and none shall bind 
 you 
 Nor fray nor find you, until I die." 
 
Dorotbs 8q 
 
 She blushed and started, and stood awaiting, 
 
 As if debating in dreams divine ; 
 But I did brave them — I told her plainly 
 
 She doubted vainly ; she must be mine. 
 
 So we, twin-hearted, from all the valley 
 Did rouse and rally the nibbling ewes ; 
 
 And homeward drave them, we two together, 
 Through blooming heather and gleaming 
 dews. 
 
 That simple duty fresh grace did lend her — 
 
 My Doris tender, my Doris true : 
 That I, her warder, did always bless her, 
 
 And often press her to take her due. 
 
 And now in beauty she fills my dwelling 
 With love excelling and undefiled ; 
 
 And love doth guard her, both fast and fervent, 
 No more a servant, nor yet a child. 
 
 Arthur J. Munby. 
 
 DOROTHY. 
 
 pvOROTHY is debonair ; 
 
 Little count hath she or care' ; 
 All her gold is in her hair. 
 
go Dulcinea 
 
 And the freshness of the Spring 
 Round this old world seems to cling 
 When you hear her laugh or sing. 
 
 On her sunny way she goes ; 
 Much she wonders — little knows 
 Love 's as yet a folded rose. 
 
 All her smiles in dimples die ; 
 Glad is she, nor knows she why 
 Just to live is ecstasy ! 
 
 Lightly lie the chains, methinks, 
 That have daisies for their links ; 
 Youth 's the fount where Pleasure drinks. 
 
 Dorothy is debonair ; 
 
 Little count hath she or care, 
 
 Sunshine in her heart and hair. 
 
 M. Hedderwick Browne. 
 
 DULCINEA. 
 
 C IMPLE am I, I care no whit 
 
 For pelf or place. 
 It is enough for me to sit 
 
 And watch Dulcinea's face ; 
 To mark the lights and shadows flit 
 Across the silver moon of it. 
 
:i£arine 91 
 
 I have no other merchandise, 
 
 No stocks or shares, 
 No other gold but just what lies 
 
 In those deep eyes of hers ; 
 And, sure, if all the world were wise, 
 It too would bank within her eyes. 
 
 I buy up all her smiles all day, 
 
 With all my love. 
 And sell them back, cost price, or, say, 
 
 A kiss or two above ; 
 It is a speculation fine, 
 The profit must be always mine. 
 
 The world has many things, 't is true, 
 
 To fill its time. 
 Far more important things to do 
 
 Than making love and rhyme ; 
 
 Yet, if it asked me to advise, 
 
 I 'd say — buy up Dulcinea's eyes ! 
 
 Richard I,e Galliennb. 
 " lyOve's Exchange." 
 
 EARINE. 
 
 C AINT valentine: kindles the crocus, 
 
 Saint Valentine wakens the birds ; 
 I would that his power could evoke us 
 In tender and musical words ! 
 
92 Earing 
 
 I mean, us unconfident lovers, 
 
 Whose doubtful or stammering tongue 
 
 No help save in rhyming discovers ; 
 Since what can't be said may be sung. 
 
 So, Fairest and Sweetest, your pardon 
 
 (If no better welcome) I pray ! 
 There 's spring-time in grove and in garden ; 
 
 Perchance it may breathe in my lay. 
 
 I think and I dream (did you know it?) 
 Of somebody's eyes, her soft hair, 
 
 The neck bending whitely below it, 
 The dress that she chances to wear. 
 
 Each tone of her voice I remember, 
 Bach turn of her head, of her arm ; 
 
 Methinks, had she faults out of number, 
 Being hers, they were certain to charm. 
 
 From her every distance I measure ; 
 
 Each mile of a journey, I say — 
 " I 'm so much the nearer my treasure,'* 
 
 Or "so much the farther away." 
 
 And love writes my almanac also ; 
 
 The good days and bad days occur. 
 The fasts and the festivals fall so. 
 
 By seeing or not seeing her. 
 
Baring 93 
 
 Who know her, they 're happy, they only ; 
 
 Whatever she looks on turns bright ; 
 Wherever she is not, is lonely ; 
 
 Wherever she is, is delight. 
 
 So friendly her face that I tremble, 
 On friendship so sweet having ruth ; 
 
 But why should I longer dissemble ? 
 Or will 5'ou not guess at the truth ? 
 
 And that is — dear Maiden, I love you ! 
 
 You sweetest and brightest and best ! — 
 Good-luck to the roof-tree above you, 
 
 The floor where your footstep is press 'd ! 
 
 May some new deliciousness meet you 
 On every new day of the Spring ; 
 
 Bach flow'r in its turn bloom to greet you. 
 Lark, mavis, and nightingale sing ! 
 
 May kind vernal powers in your bosom 
 
 Their tenderest influence shed ! 
 May I when the rose is in blossom 
 
 Enweave you a crown, white and red ! 
 
 William Allingham. 
 To Caring." 
 
94 JEOitb 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 C HE — so lowly-lovely and so loving, 
 
 Queenly responsive when the loyal hand 
 Rose from the clay it work'd in as she past, 
 Not sowing hedgerow texts and passing by, 
 Not dealing goodly counsel from a height 
 That makes the lowest hate it, but a voice 
 Of comfort and an open hand of help, 
 A splendid presence flattering the poor roofs 
 Revered as theirs, but kindlier than themselves 
 To ailing wife or wailing infancy, 
 Or old bedridden palsy, — was adored, 
 
 Alfred (I^ord) Tennyson. 
 From "Aylmer's Field." 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 D Y those blue eyes that shine 
 Dovelike and innocent, 
 Yet with a lustre to their softness lent, 
 By the chaste fire of guileless purity, 
 And by the rounded temple's symmetry ; 
 And by the auburn locks, disposed apart, 
 (Like Virgin Mary's pictured o'er the shrine) 
 In simple negligence of art ; 
 
BDitb 95 
 
 By the young smile on lips whose accents fall 
 
 With dulcet music, bland to all, 
 
 Like downward floating blossoms from the trees 
 
 Detached in silver showers by pla3^ful breeze ; 
 
 And by the cheek, ever so purely pale, 
 
 Save when thy heart with livelier kindness 
 
 glows ; 
 By its then tender bloom, whose delicate hue 
 Is like the morning's tincture of the rose, 
 The snowy veils of the gossamer mist seen 
 through ; 
 
 And by the flowing outline's grace, 
 Around thy features like a halo thrown, 
 
 Reminding of that noble race 
 Beneath a lovelier heaven in kindlier climates 
 known, 
 
 Whose beauty, both the moral and the mortal, 
 Stood at perfection's portal 
 And still doth hold a rank surpassing all com- 
 pare 
 By the divinely meek and placid air 
 
 Which witnesseth so well that all the charms 
 
 It lights and warms, 
 Though but the finer fashion of the clay 
 Deserve to be adored, since they 
 Are emanations from a soul allowed 
 
 Thus radiantly to glorify its dwelling 
 That goodness like a visible thing avowed, 
 May awe and win, and temper and prevail : 
 
96 Blaine 
 
 And by all these combined ! 
 I call upon thy form ideal, 
 
 So deeply in my memory shrined, 
 To rise before my vision, like the real, 
 
 Whenever passion's tides are swelling, 
 Or vanity misleads, or discontent 
 Rages with wishes, vain and impotent. 
 Then, while the tumults of my heart increase, 
 
 I call upon thy image — then to rise 
 In sweet and solemn beauty, like the moon, 
 Resplendent in the firmament of June, 
 
 Through the still hours of night to lonely 
 eyes. 
 I gaze and muse thereon, and tempests cease — 
 And round me falls an atmosphere of peace. 
 
 Francesca Canfield. 
 
 ElvAINK. 
 
 CIvAINE the fair, Elaine the lovable, 
 Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, 
 
 High in her chamber up a tower to the east 
 
 Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot ; 
 
 Which first she placed where morning's earliest 
 ray 
 
 Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam ; 
 
 Then fearing rust or soilure, fashioned for it 
 
 A case of silk, and braided thereupon 
 
Blaine 97 
 
 All the devices blazoned on the shield 
 In their own tinct, and added, of her wit, 
 A border fantasy of branch and flower, 
 And yellow-throated nestling in the nest. 
 Nor rested thus content, but day by day 
 Leaving her household and good father, climbed 
 That eastern tower, and entering barred her 
 
 door, 
 Stript off the case, and read the naked shield, 
 Now guessed a hidden meaning in his arms. 
 Now made a pretty history to herself 
 Of every dint a sword had beaten in it. 
 And every scratch a lance had made upon it. 
 Conjecturing when and where : this cut is 
 
 fresh ; 
 That ten years back ; this dealt him at Caer- 
 
 lyle; 
 That at Caerleon ; this at Camelot : 
 And ah, God's mercy, what a stroke was there ! 
 And here a thrust that might have killed, but 
 
 God 
 Broke the strong lance, and rolled his enemy 
 
 down, 
 And saved him : so she lived in fantasy. 
 
 Alfred (I^ord) Tennyson. 
 "Idyls of the King." 
 
gS Bleanora 
 
 ELEANORA. 
 
 A S the light of a star is found, 
 By day, in the sunless ground, 
 Where the river of silence lies, — 
 So the spirit of beauty dwells, 
 O love, in the mimic wells 
 
 Of thy large, thy luminous eyes. 
 
 As out of a turbulent night, 
 A lost bird turns to the light 
 
 Of a desolate dreamer's room, — 
 So, forth from the storm of thine eyes, 
 A passionate splendor flies 
 
 To my soul, through the inter-gloom. 
 
 As a lily quivers and gleams, 
 
 All night, by the darkling streams, 
 
 That dream in the underlands, — 
 So, up from the haunted lakes 
 Of thy shadowy eyes, Love shakes 
 
 The snows of her beck'ning hands. 
 
 As clusters of new worlds dawn. 
 When the infinite night comes on, 
 In the measureless, moonless skies- 
 
Eleanore 99 
 
 So the planet of love burns high, 
 O sweet, when the day sweeps by, 
 In the dusk of thy orient eyes. 
 
 James Newton Matthews. 
 ' The Eyes of Eleanora." 
 
 ELEANORB. 
 I. 
 
 •THY dark eyes open'd not, 
 
 Nor first revealed themselves to English 
 air, 
 
 For there is nothing here, 
 Which, from the outward to the inward brought, 
 Moulded thy baby thought. 
 Far off from human neighborhood. 
 
 Thou wert born, on a summer morn, 
 A mile beneath the cedar-wood. 
 Thy bounteous forehead was not fann'd 
 
 With breezes from our oaken glades. 
 But thou wert nursed in some delicious land 
 
 Of lavish lights, and floating shades : 
 And flattering thy childish thought 
 
 The oriental fairy brought, 
 At the moment of thy birth. 
 From old well-heads of haunted rills, 
 And the hearts of purple hills. 
 
100 Bleanorc 
 
 And shadow'd coves on a sunny shore, 
 The choicest wealth of all the earth, 
 Jewel or shell, or starry ore, 
 To deck thy cradle, Eleanore. 
 
 2. 
 
 Or the yellow-banded bees. 
 Thro' half-open lattices 
 Coming in the scented breeze, 
 
 Fed thee, a child, lying alone, 
 With whitest honey in fairy gardens 
 cull'd— 
 A glorious child, dreaming alone, 
 In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down, 
 "With the hum of swarming bees 
 
 Into dreamful slumber lull'd. 
 
 Who may minister to thee ? 
 
 Summer herself should minister 
 
 To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded 
 On golden salvers, or it may be. 
 
 Youngest Autumn, in a bower 
 
 Grape-tbicken'd from the light, and blinded 
 With many a deep-hued bell-like flower 
 
 Of fragrant trailers, when the air 
 
lEleanore loi 
 
 Sleepetli over all the heaven, 
 And the crag that fronts the Even, 
 
 All along the shadowing shore, 
 Crimsons over an inland mere, 
 
 Eleanore ! 
 
 How may full-sail' d verse express, 
 How may measured words adore 
 The full-flowing harmony 
 Of thy swan-like stateliness, 
 Eleanore ? 
 The luxuriant symmetry 
 Of thy floating gracefulness, 
 Eleanore ? 
 Every turn and glance of thine, 
 Ever}' lineament divine, 
 
 Eleanore, 
 And the steady sunset glow, 
 That stays upon thee ? For in thee 
 Is nothing sudden, nothing single 
 Ivike two streams of incense free 
 From one censer, in one shrine, 
 Thought and motion mingle. 
 Mingle ever. Motions flow 
 To one another, even as tho' 
 They were modulated so 
 To an unheard melody, 
 
I02 Bleanore 
 
 Which lives about thee, aud a sweep 
 Of richest pauses, evermore 
 
 Drawn from each other mellow-deep ; 
 Who may express thee, Eleanore? 
 
 I stand before thee, Eleanore ; 
 
 I see thy beauty gradually unfold, 
 Daily and hourly, more and more. 
 I muse, as in a trance, the while 
 
 Slowly, as from a cloud of gold. 
 Conies out thy deep ambrosial smile. 
 I muse, as in a trance, whene'er 
 
 The languors of thy love-deep eyes 
 Float on to me. I would I were 
 
 So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies, 
 To stand apart, and to adore, 
 Gazing on thee forevermore, 
 Serene, imperial Bleanore ! 
 
 Sometimes, with most intensity 
 
 Gazing, I seem to see 
 
 Thought folded over thought, smiling asleep, 
 
 Slowly awakened, grow so full and deep 
 
 In thy large eyes, that, overpower'd quite, 
 
 I cannot veil, or droop my sight, 
 
 But am as nothing in its light ; 
 
 As tho' a star, in inmost heaven set. 
 
Bleanore 103 
 
 Bv'n while we gaze on it, 
 
 Should slowly round his orb, and slowly grow 
 To a full face, there like a sun remain 
 Fix'd — then as slowly fade again, 
 
 And draw itself to what it was before ; 
 So full, so deep, so slow. 
 Thought seems to come and go 
 In thy large eyes, imperial Eleanore. 
 
 As thunder-clouds, that, hung on high, 
 
 Roof'd the world with doubt and fear, 
 Floating thro' an evening atmosphere, 
 Grow golden all about the sky ; 
 In thee all passion becomes passionless, 
 Touch'd by thy spirit's mellowness, 
 Losing his fire and active might 
 
 In a silent meditation, 
 Falling into a still delight, 
 
 And luxury of contemplation : 
 As waves that up a quiet cove 
 Rolling slide, and lying still 
 Shadow forth the banks at will : 
 Or sometimes they swell and move. 
 Pressing up against the land, 
 With motions of the outer sea : 
 And the self-same influence 
 Controlleth all the soul and sense 
 Of Passion gazing upon thee. 
 
104 JBlchxoxc 
 
 His bow-string slackenM, languid Love, 
 Leaning his cheek upon his hand, 
 Droops both his wings, regarding thee, 
 And so would languish evermore. 
 Serene, imperial Eleanore. 
 
 8. 
 
 But when I see thee roam, with tresses uncon- 
 
 fined. 
 While the amorous, odorous wind 
 
 Breathes low between the sunset and the 
 moon ; 
 Or, in a shadowy saloon, 
 On silken curtains half reclined ; 
 
 I watch thy grace ; and in its place 
 My heart a charmed slumber keeps. 
 
 While I muse upon thy face ; 
 And a languid fire creeps 
 
 Thro' my veins to all my frame, 
 Dissolvingly and slowly : soon 
 
 From thy rose-red lips my name 
 Floweth ; and then, as in a swoon. 
 With dinning sound my ears are rife. 
 My tremulous tongue faltereth, 
 I lose my color, I lose my breath, 
 I drink the cup of a costly death, 
 Brimm'd with delirious draughts of warmest 
 Hfe. 
 
lElectra 105 
 
 I die with my delight, before 
 I hear what I would hear from thee ; 
 Yet tell my name again to me, 
 
 I would be dying evermore, 
 
 So dying ever, Eleanore. 
 
 Alfred (lyORD) Tennyson. 
 
 ELECTRA. 
 
 |VA Y Love too stately is to be but fair, 
 
 Too fair she is for naught but stateliness ; 
 She bids me Nay, and yet a silent Yes 
 
 Dwells in the dusk her shadow}' eyelids wear. 
 
 My Love's step makes a music in the air. 
 
 Touching the sense with a divine caress, 
 And all the rapture of the dawn doth bless 
 
 The light that leaps to life across her hair. 
 
 Her mouth is just the love-couch for a song. 
 And 'mid the fragrance of its riven flowers 
 Low laughter breakes and trembles close 
 to tears, 
 Mingled of mirth and melody, as a throng 
 
 Of bird-notes wakes to joy the drowsy hours 
 And weaves delight through all the griev- 
 ing years. 
 
 Francis Howard Williams. 
 
io6 BltriDa 
 
 BLFRIDA. 
 
 'THB rows of corn like plumed knights 
 
 Stood up to guard the farmer's daughter, 
 
 And shook and rustled mockingly 
 
 The while that love and 1 besought her. 
 
 " Ah, love ! " I cried, " your heavenly eyes, 
 Your golden hair, my sweet Elfrida, 
 
 Have set a snare to catch my heart, 
 
 And brought me here a special pleader. 
 
 " Now how much love have you to spare ? " 
 She laughed a laugh like running water ; 
 
 "Say, how much for the eyes and hair, 
 
 And how much for the farmer's daughter ? '* 
 
 Her voice rang out so eerily, 
 
 She tripped away so feat and airy, 
 
 I said : " Now did they name you right. 
 And are you half an elf or fairy ? " 
 
 *' In sooth," she laughed, " we 're all akin. 
 
 The squirrel is my younger brother ; 
 The bird and bee make love to me 
 
 So well, I laugh at any other. 
 
 " Go ! take a lesson of the brook 
 
 That woos the tree-top to embrace it ; 
 
 Go ! ask the robin on his nest 
 
 How he persuades his mate to grace it. 
 
iSUee 107 
 
 *' T/iey do not bungle, like a man, 
 
 They know a thousand sweet love-phrases ; 
 But you, you laud her eyes and hair, 
 
 And woo a maiden with cheap praises. 
 
 *' Go ! study how to win a soul ! 
 
 The art will well repay your learning." 
 She turned and through the corn rows sped, 
 
 My longing vision scarce discerning, 
 
 Which were her curls of golden floss. 
 
 And which the corn-stalks' yellow tassels ; 
 
 I only know they held her safe 
 
 From touch of mine, like trusty vassals. 
 
 Mary Chase Peckham. 
 
 EIvISE. 
 
 \A/OULD I could write for my EHse 
 
 . Trim triolets and tensons tender, 
 And send them by the passing breeze ! 
 Would I could write for my Elise 
 Rhymes that might touch and tease and please, 
 
 And make her think upon the sender ! 
 Would I could write for my Elise 
 
 Trim triolets and tensons tender ! 
 
io8 JElise 
 
 Sweets to the sweet ! O honey-bees 
 
 Go, pillage all the woodland bowers ! 
 
 Go, plunder all the broidered leas ; 
 
 Sweets to the sweet ! O honey bees 
 
 Forget 5'our hives, to my Elise 
 
 Bring the sweet spoils of sweetest flowers ! 
 
 Sweets to the sweet ! O honey-bees 
 
 Go, pillage all the woodland bowers ! 
 
 In her fair garden, my Blise 
 
 Sits murmuring an ancient lay. 
 Of lover's woes and lover's ease. 
 In her fair garden, my Blise 
 Sings, and lest her sweet song should cease. 
 
 The bird is silent on the spray. 
 In her fair garden, my Elise 
 
 Sits murmuring an ancient lay. 
 
 The winter wind moans through the trees, 
 No sweet bird sings, the fields are sere, 
 
 The flowers are dead ; the winters freeze, 
 
 The winter wind moans through the trees ; 
 
 But by the bower of my Elise 
 
 The summer lingers all the year. 
 
 The winter wind moans through the trees. 
 No sweet bird sings, the fields are sere. 
 
 Henry Gaelyn. 
 
 "To Elise." 
 
Bli3a 109 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
 nrURN again, thou fair Eliza, 
 
 Ae kind blink before we part, 
 Rew on thy despairing lover ! 
 
 Canst thou break his faithfu' heart ? 
 Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 
 
 If to love thy heart denies, 
 For pity hide the cruel sentence 
 
 Under friendship's kind disguise ! 
 
 Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 
 
 The offence is loving thee : 
 Canst thou wreck his peace for ever 
 
 Wha for thine wad gladlj- die ! 
 While the life beats in my bosom, 
 
 Thou shalt mix in ilka throe : 
 Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 
 
 Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 
 
 Not the bee upon the blossom, 
 
 In the pride o' sinny noon ; 
 Not the little sporting fairy, 
 
 All beneath the simmer moon ; 
 Not the poet in the moment 
 
 Fancy lightens on his ee, 
 Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture 
 
 That thy presence gies to me. 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 "Fair Eliza." 
 
no Bli3abetb 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 CLIZABETH, alack, Elizabeth! 
 
 Your lovely lilies blow, 
 Slim, love, still, love, beside the echoing stair. 
 The bees have found them out. Row after 
 
 row 
 Your pinks, those little blossoms with a breath 
 Blown from the east, and out the spice-trees 
 there. 
 Nod up the paths ; and roses white as death. 
 And roses red as love, grow everywhere ; 
 For June is at the door. 
 
 Alack, alack, alack, Elizabeth ! 
 Sweeter than June, w^hy do you come no more? 
 
 lylZETTE WOODWORTH REESE. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 VOU meaner beauties of the night, 
 
 That poorly satisfy our eyes 
 More by your number than your light ; 
 
 You common people of the skies. 
 What are you when the moon shall rise ? 
 
 You curious chanters of the wood, 
 That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, 
 
Blla III 
 
 Thinking your passion 's understood 
 
 By your weak accents ; what 's your praise 
 When Philomel her voice doth raise ? 
 
 You violets that first appear, 
 
 By your pure purple mantles known 
 
 Like the proud virgins of the year, 
 As if the spring were all your own, — 
 
 What are you when the Rose is blown ? 
 
 So when my Mistress shall be seen 
 In form and beauty of her mind, 
 
 By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, 
 Tell me, if she were not designed 
 
 Th' eclipse and glory of her kind ? 
 
 Sir Henry Wotton. 
 *' To Elizabeth of Bohemia." 
 
 ELLA. 
 
 /^F all the blooming ones of Nisitisit, 
 
 I fain would ask thee, Ella dear, why is it 
 That one alone seems fair ? 
 That when a hundred eyes are round me beam- 
 ing, 
 Enough to set a frozen stoic dreaming, 
 I only ask a pair ? 
 
112 jglla 
 
 Was there but one so made to be admired ? 
 Was there but one so formed to be desired, 
 
 And hold a heart in thrall? 
 Not the rose only charms me 'mid the flowers, 
 When gentle Flora leads me through her 
 bowers, 
 
 But I must love them all. 
 
 But when I stand amid earth's fairest creatures, 
 Then Rosa's, Hinda's, and Miranda's features 
 
 To me are all the same ; 
 And queen-like Bvelyn, whose eye-beam flashes 
 Such floods of lustre through her silken lashes. 
 
 Excites in me no flame. 
 
 But yet 't is not that brightest charms are 
 
 wanting, 
 For others gaze and think them most enchant- 
 
 Howe'er they seem to me. 
 Nor shall it be that I myself am stupid. 
 Oh ! no, 't is that unchristian villain, Cupid, 
 
 So blinds me I can't see. 
 
 But there is one I wish forever near me. 
 Whose eyes of gentle light so soothe and cheer 
 me, 
 And through my spirit dart 
 That oft for hours I linger round about her, 
 
Bllen 113 
 
 And feel as if I could not do without her, 
 Then going, leave my heart. 
 
 Ask you her name? Alas, within my bower 
 I only utter it at twilight hour, — 
 
 Too pure for other light. 
 So spare me now, sweet Ell, and I will wreathe 
 
 it 
 In flowers for thee hereafter that shall breathe it 
 
 In fragrance and delight. 
 
 Henry H. Saunderson. 
 
 ELIvEN. 
 
 A ND ne'er did Grecian chisel trace 
 A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace, 
 Of finer form, or lovelier face : 
 What though the sun, with ardent frown. 
 Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown,— 
 The sportive toil, which, short and light 
 Had dyed her glowing hue so bright, 
 Served too in hastier swell to show 
 Short glimpses of a breast of snow : 
 What though no rule of courtly grace 
 To measured mood had trained her pace, — 
 A foot more light, a step more true. 
 Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'd the dew; 
 
114 Ellen 
 
 E'en the slight harebell raised its head, 
 Elastic from her airy tread : 
 What though upon her speech there hung 
 The accents of the mountain tongue, — 
 Those silver sounds, so soft, so clear, 
 The listener held his breath to hear ! 
 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 From " The lyady of the lyake." 
 
 ELLEN. 
 
 /^F wealth in profusion 
 I seek not to share ; 
 It brings but confusion, 
 
 With trouble and care. 
 One gem that is rarest 
 
 I seek to obtain : 
 O bring me my dearest — 
 
 My Ellen again ! 
 
 Her eyes are the brightest 
 
 In lustre and hue ; 
 Her step is the lightest 
 
 That brushes the dew ; 
 She smiles like the blossom 
 
 Expanding in rain — 
 O give to this bosom 
 
 My Ellen again ! 
 
Blsie 115 
 
 All objects in nature 
 
 Attractive or fair 
 Recall every feature — 
 
 Her form and her air ; 
 But morning is lonely — 
 
 The evening how vain ! 
 
 bring to me only 
 My Ellen again ! 
 
 1 loved her from childhood, 
 
 And cannot forget, 
 By streamlet and wildwood, 
 
 The spots where we met. 
 Ye powers bending o'er me, 
 
 O listen my strain — 
 In safety restore me 
 
 My Ellen again ! 
 
 Robert White, 
 
 EIvSIE. 
 
 CI^SIE, Elsie, sweet Adair ; 
 
 Hail you from the upper air ? 
 Graceful as the fabled fairy 
 In your silken robes so airy ; 
 With the mellow music swaying ; 
 While the colored lights are playing 
 On the vision transitory ; 
 
ii6 ;!£lsie 
 
 'T is a picture out of glory ; 
 For with angels you compare, 
 Elsie, Elsie, sweet Adair ! 
 
 Elsie, Elsie, sweet Adair ; 
 With a smile so debonair ; 
 Graceful as the waving willow, 
 Or the rolling, dancing billow ; 
 Turning, twisting, swinging, bending ; 
 Every charm on thee attending. 
 With such melody of motion, 
 One cannot resist the notion : 
 Hearts are broke beyond repair, 
 Elsie, Elsie, sweet Adair ! 
 
 Elsie, Elsie, have a care, 
 
 Somersaulting in the air ! 
 
 Ivucky worm whose gorgeous spinning 
 
 Robes the dancing maid so winning; 
 
 While the silken wings go whirling. 
 
 Fold on fold, in rapture curling ; 
 
 Deeming it a pleasant duty 
 
 To enfold such grace and beauty. 
 
 Chaste and charming thing of air, 
 
 Elsie, Elsie, sweet Adair ! 
 
 Fred Kmerson Brooks. 
 " Elsie Adair." 
 
Bmili2 117 
 
 KMIIvY. 
 
 TARIFFING along througli tiie meadow, 
 
 Footsteps so graceful and light, 
 Golden curls floating around her. 
 
 Blue eyes bewitchingly bright, 
 White teeth, and lips like twin cherries. 
 
 Cheeks like the roses in May, 
 Tripping along through the meadow, 
 
 Comes pretty Emily Grey — 
 Golden-haired Emily, cherry-lipped Emily, 
 
 Beautiful Emily Grey. 
 
 See ! Now she pauses to listen. 
 
 What has the dear maiden heard ? 
 'T was but the leaves, as they rustled 
 
 'Neath the light wings of a bird. 
 Nay, 't was a footstep approaching, 
 
 Somebody coming this way — 
 Hark ! " Won't you wait for me, Emily ? 
 
 Wait for me, Emily Grey. 
 Listen, dear Emily — stay, darling Emily, 
 
 Mischievous Emily Grey." 
 
 Shaking her bright curls, she hastens 
 
 Onward as fleet as the wind, 
 Never once stopping a moment, 
 
 Only once glancing behind ; 
 
ii8 )£mma 
 
 Till a strong arm, stealing around her 
 Forces her footsteps to stay. 
 
 Fain would she chide, but she cannot — 
 Kind-hearted Emily Grey. 
 
 Fleet-footed Bniily, light-hearted Emily, 
 Dear little Emily Grey. 
 
 Ellen Forrester. 
 "Emily Grey." 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 "\X/HY, pretty rogue ! do you protest 
 The trick of stealing you detest? 
 'T is what your doing every day, 
 Either in earnest or in play. 
 Cupid and you, 't is said, are cousins, 
 {Aufait in stealing hearts by dozens) 
 Who make no more of shooting sparks, 
 Than schoolboys do of wounding larks ; 
 Nay, what is worse, 't is my belief, 
 Though known to be an arrant thief, 
 Such powers of witchcraft are your own, 
 That Justice slumbers on her throne ; 
 And should 3'ou be arraign'd in court 
 For practising this cruel sport, 
 In spite of all the plaintiffs fury 
 Your smile would bribe both judge and jury. 
 
 I,ADY BURRELL. 
 
iBssic 119 
 
 ESSIE. 
 
 C EE, Essie goes ! — and thou, proud rose, 
 
 Ah, where is now th-^^ vain delight, 
 
 When round thee swung yon bee and sung, 
 
 No beauty matched thy beauty bright ? 
 
 Adown the close — see, Essie goes ; 
 
 And see, enchanted at the sight. 
 Around her swings yon bee and sings, 
 
 Her beauty mocks thy beauty bright ! 
 
 Joseph Skipsey. 
 'See, Essie Goes ! " 
 
 ESTELLE. 
 
 N 
 
 O god were so supremely blest, 
 Could I my weary sorrows rest, 
 Upon thy tender-breathing breast, 
 
 Estelle, 
 
 Culling the rainbow's loveliest ra3'S 
 
 To deck with brightest flowers thy praise, 
 
 The burden of immortal lays, 
 
 Estelle. 
 
 Watching thy words in mUvSic flow, 
 Thy frolic glances kindlier grow, 
 Thy smiles their changing sunshine show, 
 
 Estelle. 
 
120 Estber 
 
 Wearing th}' soft arms' rosy wreath, 
 Drinking thy hyacinthine breath, 
 Through blissful life to blissful death, 
 
 Estelle. 
 
 Happy my life's sweet labor done, 
 To see thy name the proudest one 
 That fame has carved upon the sun, 
 
 Bstelle. 
 William T. Washburn. 
 
 ESTHER. 
 
 "COR Esther was a woman most complete 
 
 In all her ways of loving. And with me 
 Dealt as one deals who careless of deceit 
 And rich in all things is of all things free. 
 She did not stop with me to feel her way 
 Into my heart, because she all hearts knew. 
 But, like some prodigal heir of yesterday 
 Just in possession, counted not her due 
 And grandly gave. O brave humility ! 
 O joy that kneels ! O pride that stoops to tears ! 
 She spent where others had demanded fee, 
 Served where all service had of right been hers, 
 Casting her bread of life upon love's ways. 
 Content to find it after many days. 
 
 Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. 
 
Btbel 121 
 
 ETHBL. 
 
 ■\A/HAT hast thou seen in Ethel's tender 
 ej^es ? 
 
 An altar sacred as Dodona's shrine ? 
 
 Or canst thou in their darkling depths divine 
 A host of vague and subtle mysteries, 
 A witching power that never latent lies, 
 
 But warms the blood like rare Falernian 
 wine — 
 
 A lustrous gleam as from the stars that shine 
 At frosty midnight in the sapphire skies ? 
 
 Ah ! I have found them beaming beacon lights 
 Upon the shore where grim Temptation 
 stands, 
 Guiding my feet away from rocky heights, 
 
 And warning me against engulfing sands ; 
 Leading me onward toward the pure delights 
 That wait for those who follow love's com- 
 mands. 
 
 Clinton Scollard. 
 " Discovery." 
 
122 Btbel 
 
 ETHEIv. 
 
 " TN teacup times ! " The style of dress 
 Would suit your beauty, I confess ; 
 
 Belinda-like, the patch you'd wear ; 
 
 I picture you with powdred hair, — 
 You 'd make a charming Shepherdess ! 
 
 And I — no doubt — could well express 
 Sir Plume's complete conceitedness, — 
 Could poise a clouded cane with care 
 " In teacup times ! " 
 
 The parts would fit precisely — yes : 
 
 We should achieve a great success ! 
 
 You should disdain, and I despair, 
 
 With quite the true Augustan air ; 
 
 But . . . could I love you more, or less, — 
 
 " In teacup times ? " 
 
 Austin Dobson. 
 "A Rondeau to Kthel." 
 
 BTHEIvWYN. 
 
 C HE came with light steps thro' the old house 
 
 door, 
 With music on her lips and in her feet 
 And all about her a most airy grace, 
 
Bttarre 123 
 
 That made one think of a young day in spring 
 When earth and leaf and sky are exquisite 
 In the first rapture of their tender life. . , . 
 A sunbeam kissed her cheek, at her soft breast 
 White roses clung, and sweet fresh sights and 
 
 sounds 
 Breathed from her as she moved, and thro' the 
 
 door 
 The sunlight crept and stole about her robe 
 As though it loved her. ... As she came 
 
 she sang 
 A quaint old song that hearing it by chance 
 Had caught her fancy. 
 
 Helen Mathers. 
 From " The Token of the Silver Lily." 
 
 ETTARRB. 
 
 I ARGE her violet eyes look'd, and her bloom 
 
 A rosy dawn kindled in stainless heavens. 
 And round her limbs, mature in womanhood, 
 And slender was her hand and small her shape, 
 And but for those large eyes, the haunts of 
 
 scorn. 
 She might have seem'd a toy to trifle w^ith. 
 And pass and care no more. 
 
 Alfred (X,ord) Tennyson. 
 From " Pelleas and Ettarre." 
 
124 Bugenia 
 
 EUGENIA. 
 
 ^ X/HAT pearl of price within her lay 
 
 I could not know when first I met her 
 So little studious for herself, 
 
 Almost she ask'd we should forget her : 
 As the rose-heart at prime of dawn, 
 Herself within herself withdrawn : 
 And yet we felt that something there 
 Was fairer than the fairest fair. 
 
 I mark'd her goings through the day, 
 Intent upon her maiden mission : 
 The manners moulded on the mind ; 
 
 The flawless sense, the sweet decision. 
 So gracious to the hands she task'd, 
 She seems to do the thing she ask'd : 
 And then I knew that something there 
 Was fairer than the fairest fair. 
 
 Her eyes spoke peace ; and voice and step 
 
 The message of her eyes repeated ; 
 Truth halo-bright about her brows, 
 
 And Faith on the fair forehead seated, 
 And lips where Candor holds his throne, 
 And sense and sweetness are at one : 
 I look and look ; and something there 
 Is fairer than the fairest fair. 
 
Bulalie 125 
 
 As some still upward-gazing lake 
 
 Round which the mountain-rampart closes 
 Crystalline bright and diamond pure, 
 
 In azure depth of peace reposes ; 
 And Heaven comes down with all its grace 
 To find itself within her face ; 
 And the heart owns that something there 
 Is fairer than the fairest fair. 
 
 *' O just and faithful child of God ! 
 
 Thrice happy he," I cried, " who by her 
 Finds in her eyes the home of home, 
 
 Reads in her smile his heart's desire ; 
 The smile of beauty from above 
 Of equable and perfect love ! " 
 — I sigh'd — she smiled ; and something there 
 Was fairer than the fairest fair. 
 
 Francis Turner Palgrave. 
 
 BUIvALIK. 
 
 O ER voice is like the mocking-bird's upon the 
 
 myrtle tree. 
 Her eyes are like the summer stars that frolic on 
 
 the sea ; 
 Oh, 't is rapture to look at her ; and sets my 
 
 heart abeat. 
 Just to catch the pretty patter of her merry little 
 
 feet. 
 
126 Bulalie 
 
 The Fairies spun her tresses on a spindle made 
 
 of pearl, 
 Then dipped them in tlie summer shine and put 
 
 them up in curl ; 
 And when I see them flutter, as she dances in 
 
 the wind, 
 I wish I were a butterfly, or — something of the 
 
 kind. 
 
 I know that Cupid did it, and think it was a 
 
 sin 
 To carve a cunning dimple in the middle of her 
 
 chin ; 
 For it is a crime to covet — so says the Law 
 
 Divine — 
 Yet I look at it, and love it, and I want it all for 
 
 mine. 
 
 She whispers that she loves me ! Now be it 
 
 understood. 
 The tidings are delightful — I 'd believe them if 
 
 I could ; 
 But in her vocabulary with its tantalizing flow 
 The truth will often tarry far behind a " yes," 
 
 or ''no." 
 
 She smiles at me ! She frowns at me ! She 
 knows I cannot fly ; 
 
Bva 127 
 
 O Cupid come and aid me with an arrow on the 
 
 sly, 
 That when the orange bowers are blowing, 
 
 Eulalie 
 May wear the snowy flowers in a bridal wreath 
 
 for me ! 
 
 Samuel Minturn Peck. 
 
 EVA. 
 
 /^ FAIR and stately maid, whose eyes 
 Were kindled in the upper skies 
 
 Ai: the same torch that lighted mine ; 
 For so I must interpret still 
 That sweet dominion o'er my will, 
 
 A sympathy divine. 
 
 Ah ! let me blameless gaze upon 
 Features that seem at heart my own ; 
 
 Nor fear those watchful sentinels, 
 Who charm the more their glance forbids, 
 Chaste-glowing, underneath their lids. 
 
 With fire that draws while it repels. 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson. 
 To Eva." 
 
128 jEvangeline 
 
 EVANGBLINB. 
 
 PAIR was she to behold, that maiden of seven- 
 teen summers. 
 
 Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on 
 the thorn by the wayside, 
 
 Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the 
 brown shade of her tresses ! 
 
 Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that 
 feed in the meadows. 
 
 When in the harvest heat she bore to the reap- 
 ers at noontide 
 
 Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah ! fair in sooth 
 was the maiden. 
 
 Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while 
 the bell from its turret 
 
 Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest 
 with his hyssop 
 
 Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters bless- 
 ings upon them, 
 
 Down the long street she passed, with her chap- 
 let of beads and her missal, 
 
 Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of 
 blue, and the ear-riugs, 
 
 Brought in the olden time from France, and 
 since, as an heirloom, 
 
 Handed down from mother to child, through 
 long generations. 
 
 But a celestial brightness — a more ethereal 
 beauty — 
 
JEvel^n 129 
 
 Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, 
 after confession, 
 
 Homeward serenely she walked with God's 
 benediction upon her. 
 
 When she had passed, it seemed like the ceas- 
 ing of exquisite music. 
 
 Henry Wadsw^orth I^ongfellow. 
 From " Evangeline." 
 
 EVELYN. 
 
 A SOFT, black eye — so deep, so deep, 
 
 Its liquid depths no glance maj^ follow. 
 »A face where lights and shadows creep 
 O'er arching brow and dimpled hollow. 
 
 A voice, now loud in maiden glee — 
 As tides on pebbly reaches throbbing — 
 
 Now sorrow-hushed as sunset sea 
 In purple rays at even sobbing. 
 
 Oh, twining hands ! Oh, rich, dark sheen 
 Of gleaming braids, that crown in glory 
 
 A face as fair as spirits seen 
 
 In ancient books of Bible story. 
 
 Oh, Ivove ! Oh, Life ! like generous wine — 
 
 9 
 
I30 3fann^ 
 
 Like breezes from the streams and moun- 
 tains — 
 Thy presence thrills this soul of mine, 
 
 Thy glances stir my heart's deep fountains. 
 
 Oh, lyove ! Oh, Life ! a rose, a weed, 
 Touched by thy hand, my peerless beauty, 
 
 Is cherished with the miser's greed. 
 And guarded well in jealous duty. 
 
 But though you 've woven, warp and woof. 
 Into the thread of my life's passion, 
 
 I dare not speak, but stand aloof, 
 And dream and sigh — the olden fashion. 
 
 Daniel O'Connell. 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 M ATURE, thy fair and smiling face 
 
 Has now a double power to bless ; 
 For 't is the glass in which I trace 
 My absent Fanny's loveliness. 
 
 Her heavenly eyes above me shine. 
 The rose reflects her modest blush, 
 
 She breathes in every eglantine, 
 She sings in every warbling thrush. 
 
dFanni? 131 
 
 That her dear form alone I see, 
 Need not excite surprise in any ; 
 
 For Fanny 's all the world to me, 
 And all the world to me is Fanny. 
 
 JAMES Smith. 
 Song to Fanny." 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 " CHB has beauty, but still you must keep 
 your heart cool ; 
 She has wit, but you must n't be caught 
 so" : 
 Thus Reason advises, but Reason 's a fool, 
 And 't is not the first time I have thought so, 
 
 Dear Fanny, 
 'T is not the first time I have thought so. 
 
 " She is lovely ; then love her, nor let the bliss 
 fly; 
 'T is the charm of youth's vanishing sea- 
 son " : 
 Thus Ivove has advised me, and who will deny 
 That Love reasons much better than Reason, 
 
 Dear Fanny ? 
 lyove reasons much better than Reason. 
 
 Thomas Moore, 
 
132 3Fit)e5sa 
 
 FIDBSSA. 
 
 'TONGUE ! never cease to sing Fidessa's 
 
 praise ; 
 Heart ! howe'er she deserve, conceive the best ; 
 Byes ! stand amazed to see her beauty's rays ; 
 Lips ! steal one kiss and be for ever blessed ; 
 Hands ! touch that hand wherein your life is 
 
 closed ; 
 Breast ! lock up fast in thee thy life's sole 
 
 treasure ; 
 Arms ! still embrace, and rever be disclosed ; 
 Feet ! run to her without or pace or measure : 
 Tongue ! heart ! eyes ! lips ! hands ! breast ! 
 
 arms ! feet ! 
 Consent to do true homage to your Queen : 
 Lovely, fair, gent, wise, virtuous, sober, sweet, 
 Whose like shall never be, hath never been ! 
 O that I were all tongue, her praise to show ! 
 Then surely my poor heart were free from woe. 
 
 Bartholomew Griffin. 
 
 FLEURKTTE. 
 
 HTHE books of each old love-poet 
 
 Are warm with the touch of your hand 
 Your voice — the Ps^'che would know it. 
 Would feel it and understand, 
 
^leurette 133 
 
 And thrill in her marble splendor ; 
 The harp rich music would render, 
 And the walls re-echo yet 
 The sweetest of names, Fleurette, 
 
 Fleurette ! 
 
 This oaken nook where you studied 
 Ofttimes I entwined with flowers, 
 Here the rose of Hellas budded 
 lu the deep Homeric bowers. 
 But clearer far than Attic Greek 
 
 The name wherewith your heart did speak — 
 Whose resonance thrills me yet. 
 As dreaming I hear, Fleurette, 
 
 Fleurette ! 
 
 In your presence, care and aching 
 
 Blossomed to exquisite peace ; 
 In my young heart heaven awaking 
 
 Bade Life's vain doubting cease. 
 Love made me a sheltered bower, 
 Is it strange I grew like a Tower ? 
 Ah, the sunlight lingers yet. 
 And you say, " My own Fleurette, 
 
 Fleurette ! " 
 
 O land of the poet's vision, 
 
 What beauty do you bespeak ! 
 What holds you in fields Elysian 
 
 Thrice fairer than dream of Greek ! 
 
134 3Flora 
 
 Through me the long vista of the years, 
 Only one voice my fancy hears, 
 Mine when life's last sun is set, 
 Mine to follow the call, "Fleurette, 
 "Fleurette! " 
 
 Fanny H. Runnels Pool. 
 " In the lyibrary," 
 
 FLORA. 
 
 r\ FLORA, sweetest Flora, there were never 
 smiles like thine, 
 When the fairest and the purest smiled on 
 heaven without a stain ; 
 There was never rapture born so sweet, nor 
 pleasure so divine 
 As the pleasure and the rapture brought by 
 thee from bliss again ; 
 The starry dawns around thee come to steal 
 their songs and dyes, 
 The morning bids thee welcome, for the day 
 with thee will shine ; 
 And the golden rays will crown the bower 
 wherein my blossom lies ; — 
 O Flora, sweetest Flora, there were never 
 smiles like thine. 
 
JFIorence 135 
 
 O Flora, sweetest Flora, there were never smiles 
 like thine, 
 For through my heart and through my heart 
 the tides of joy they sway ; 
 And o'er my brow and round my steps with 
 brighter glow combine 
 Than ever cheered the pilgrim's path along 
 the cloudless way : 
 The dream that thou dost love me is my bosom's 
 fairest bloom. 
 The dream that thou dost love me with a love 
 as deep as mine ; 
 With thee to bless me, never could the world 
 have grief or gloom ; — 
 O Flora, sweetest Flora, there were never 
 smiles like thine. 
 
 A. Stephen Wilson. 
 
 FLORENCE. 
 
 TF all God's world a garden were, 
 
 If women were but flowers ; 
 If men were bees that busied there. 
 Through all the summer hours, — 
 Oh, I would hum God's garden through 
 For honey, till I came to you. 
 
136 iflorlne 
 
 Then I should hive within your hair, 
 Its sun and gold together : 
 
 And I should hide in glory there, 
 Through all the changeful weather. 
 
 Oh ! I should sip but one, this one 
 
 Sweet flower beneath the sun. 
 
 Oh, I would be a king, and coin 
 Your golden hair in money ; 
 
 And I would only have to seek 
 Your lips for hoards of honey. 
 
 Oh ! I would be the richest king 
 
 That ever wore a signet-ring. 
 
 Joaquin Miller. 
 
 FI.ORINB. 
 
 A S knights in olden time went forth to fight 
 For crowns of war, and won the world's 
 applause, 
 Whose echoes told of triumph in a cause 
 
 That gave to honor strength, and blessed the 
 right, 
 So will I battle but in mortal might, 
 
 My sword a song of thee that nations pause 
 To hear ; my shield my faith in thee, whose 
 laws 
 Shall lead the world from darkness into light. 
 
3frances 137 
 
 My love for thee shall be my helmet strong. 
 
 Then will I sing the glory of thy name, 
 Thy grace, thy beauty and nobility. 
 
 Then will the world find peace in love and 
 song 
 By thee inspired. The heavens will joy pro- 
 claim, 
 And laurels won shall bring thee ecstasy. 
 
 Edward Freiberger. 
 
 FRANCES. 
 
 "ynOU wouldst be loved ?— Then let thy heart 
 
 From its present pathway part not ! 
 Being everything which now thou art, 
 
 Be nothing which thou art not. 
 So with the world thy gentle ways, 
 
 Thy grace, thy more than beauty, 
 Shall be an endless theme of praise, 
 
 And love — a simple duty. 
 
 Edgar Allan Poe. 
 
 -"To F s S. O d." 
 
 GENEVIEVE. 
 
 ly/l AID of my Love, sweet Genevieve ! 
 In Beauty's light you glide along : 
 Your eye is like the star of eve, 
 
138 Genevieve 
 
 And sweet your Voice, as seraph's song. 
 
 Yet not your heavenly beauty gives 
 
 This heart with passion soft to glow : 
 
 Within your soul a Voice there lives ! 
 
 It bids you hear the tale of Woe. 
 
 When sinking low the Sufferer wan 
 
 Beholds no hand outstretched to save, 
 
 Fair, as the bosom of the Swan 
 
 That rises graceful o'er the wave, 
 
 I 've seen your breast with pity heave, 
 
 And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve ! 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 
 
 GENEVIEVE. 
 
 /^H, Genevieve, I 'd give the world 
 
 To live again the lovely Past! 
 The rose of youth was dew-impearled ; 
 
 But now it withers in the blast. 
 I see thy face in every dream, 
 
 My waking thoughts are full of thee ; 
 Thy glance is in the starry beam 
 
 That falls along the summer sea. 
 Oh, Genevieve, sweet Genevieve, 
 
 The days may bring me joy or woe, 
 But still the hands of Memory weave 
 
 The blissful dreams of long ago, 
 Sweet Genevieve ! 
 
(Bencvra 139 
 
 Oh, Genevieve, my early love, 
 
 The years but make thee dearer far ! 
 My heart from thee shall never rove, 
 
 Thou art my only guiding star ! 
 For me the Past has no regret, 
 
 Whate'er the years may bring to me ; 
 I bless the hour when first we met, — 
 
 The hour that gave me love and thee ! 
 Oh, Genevieve, sweet Genevieve, 
 
 The days may bring me jo}^or woe, 
 But still the hands of Memory weave 
 
 The blissful dreams of long ago, 
 Sweet Genevieve ! 
 
 George Cooper. 
 "Sweet Genevieve." 
 
 GENEVRA. 
 
 'THY cheek is pale with thought, but not from 
 
 woe. 
 And yet so lovely, that if mirth could flush 
 Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, 
 My heart would wish away that ruder glow : 
 And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes, — but, Oh ! 
 While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, 
 And into mine my mother's weakness rush. 
 Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. 
 
I40 (3corgiana 
 
 For, through thy long dark lashes low depend- 
 ing, 
 The soul of melancholy gentleness 
 Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending, 
 Above all pain, yet pitying all distress ; 
 At once such majesty with sweetness blending^ 
 I worship more, but can not love thee less. 
 
 IvORD Byron. 
 "To Genevra." 
 
 GEORGIANA. 
 
 T^HERE crowd your finely-fibred frame, 
 
 All living faculties of bliss ; 
 And Genius to your cradle came, 
 His forehead wreathed with lambent flame, 
 And bending low, with godlike kiss 
 Breath'd in a more celestial life ; 
 But boasts not many a fair compeer, 
 
 A heart as sensitive to joy and fear? 
 And some, perchance, might wage an equal 
 
 strife, 
 Some few, to nobler being wrought, 
 Co-rivals in the nobler gift of thought. 
 Yet these delight to celebrate 
 Laurelled War and plumy State ; 
 Or in verse and music dress 
 Tales of rustic happiness — 
 
(3eraIDine 141 
 
 Pernicious Tales ! insidious Strains ! 
 That steel the rich man's breast, 
 And mock the lot uublest, 
 
 The sordid vices and the abject pains, 
 
 Which evermore must be 
 
 The doom of Ignorance and Penury ! 
 But you, free Nature's uncorrupted child, 
 You hailed the Chapel and the Platform vv^ild, 
 
 Where once the Austrian fell 
 
 Beneath the shaft of Tell ! 
 O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure ! 
 Where learnt you that heroic measure ? 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 
 
 From " Ode to Georgiana, Dutchess of Devonshire." 
 
 H 
 
 GBRALDINE. 
 
 AS any one seen 
 My lost Geraldine ? 
 My beautiful, dutiful, dear Geraldine ! 
 Has she been this way 
 In the course of the day ? 
 Tell me truly, ye swains. 
 
 You would know Geraldine, 
 My idolized queen, 
 By the glimmering, shimmering, silvery sheen 
 
142 ©eralDine 
 
 Of her curling hair 
 As it floats on the air 
 
 In the glamouring light. 
 
 Simeon Tucker Clark. 
 From " Geraldine." 
 
 GERALDINE. 
 
 She will not need the Shepherd' s crook. 
 Her griefs are only passing shadow ; 
 
 She ' // bask beside the purest brook. 
 And nibble in the greenest meadow. 
 
 A simple child has claims 
 
 On your sentiment, her name's 
 
 Geraldine. 
 Be tender, but beware, 
 She 's frolicsome as fair, — 
 
 And fifteen. 
 
 She has gifts to grace allied, 
 And each she has applied, 
 
 And improved : 
 She has bliss that lives and leans 
 On loving, — ah, that means 
 
 She is loved. 
 
 Her beauty is refined 
 By sweet harmony of mind, 
 And the art, 
 
0eralC>me 143 
 
 And the blessed nature, too, 
 Of a tender, of a true 
 Little heart. 
 
 And yet I must not vault 
 Over any foolish fault 
 
 That she owns ; 
 Or others might rebel, 
 And enviously swell 
 
 In their zones. 
 
 For she 's tricksy as the fays, 
 Or her pussy when it plays 
 
 With a string : 
 She 's a goose about her cat. 
 Her ribbons and all that 
 
 Sort of thing. 
 
 These foibles are a blot, 
 Still she never can do what 
 
 Is not 7iice ; 
 Such as quarrel, and give slaps — 
 As I've known her get, perhaps. 
 
 Once or twice. 
 
 The spells that draw her soul 
 Are subtle — sad or droll : 
 
 She can show 
 That virtuose whim 
 Which consecrates our dim 
 
 Long-ago. 
 
144 (5ertruDe 
 
 A love that is not sham 
 
 For Stothard, Blake, and Lamb ; 
 
 And I 've known 
 Cordelia's sad eyes 
 Cause angel-tears to rise 
 
 In her own. 
 
 Her gentle spirit yearns 
 
 When she reads of Robin Burns ;— 
 
 Luckless Bard, 
 Had she blossom'd in thy time, 
 Oh, how rare had been the rhyme 
 
 — And reward ! 
 
 Frederick IvOCker-Lampson. 
 From "Geraldine." 
 
 GERTRUDE. 
 
 IT seemed as if those scenes sweet influence 
 
 ^ had 
 
 On Gertrude's soul, and kindness like their 
 
 own 
 Inspired those eyes affectionate and glad, 
 That seemed to love whate'er they looked 
 
 upon ; 
 Whether with Hebe's mirth her features 
 
 shone, 
 
Gertrude 145 
 
 Or if a shade more pleasing them o'ercast, 
 (As if for heavenly musing meant alone;) 
 Yet so becomingly th' expression past, 
 That each succeeding look was lovelier than the 
 last. 
 
 Nor guess I, was that Pennsylvanian home, 
 With all its picturesque and balmy grace. 
 And fields that were a luxury to roam, 
 Lost on the soul that looked from such a face ! 
 Enthusiast of the woods ! when years apace 
 Had bound thy lovely waist with woman's 
 
 zone, 
 The sunrise path, at morn, I see thee trace 
 To hills with high magnolia overgrown. 
 And joy to breath the groves, romantic and 
 alone. 
 
 Thomas Campbell. 
 From " Gertrude ofWyoming." 
 
 GERTRUDE. 
 
 A S Gertrude skipt from babe to girl. 
 
 Her necklace lengthened, pearl by pearl ; 
 Year after year it grew, and grew, 
 For every birthday gave her two. 
 Her neck is lovely, — soft and fair, 
 And now her necklace glimmers there. 
 
146 (3la^^5 
 
 So cradled, let it fall and rise, 
 And all her graces symbolize. 
 Perchance this pearl, without a speck, 
 Once was as warm on Sappho's neck ; 
 Where are the happy, twilight pearls 
 That braided Beatrice's curls ? 
 
 Is Gerty loved ? Is Gerty loth ? 
 Or, if she 's either, is she both? 
 She 's fancy free, but sweeter far 
 Than many plighted maidens are ! 
 "Will Gerty smile us all away, 
 And still be Gerty ? Who can say? 
 
 But let her wear her Precious Toy, 
 And I '11 rejoice to see her joy : 
 Her bauble's only one degree 
 Less frail, less fugitive than we, 
 For time, ere long, will snap the skein, 
 And scatter all her pearls again. 
 
 Frederick lyOCKER-I^AMPSON. 
 "Gertrude's Necklace." 
 
 GLADYS. 
 
 T X/HEN Gladys treads the minuet 
 With roses in her hair of jet, 
 Methinks no flower that ever blows 
 Is half so lovelv as the rose. 
 
(Brace i47 
 
 In football days she 's wont to wear 
 Chrysanthemums, and then I swear, 
 " No flower can be more rich and gay 
 Than that fair Gladys wears to-day." 
 
 And when she kneels with humble air 
 And murmurs low her Lenten prayer, 
 With purple violets on her breast, 
 Why, then I 'm sure I like them best. 
 
 But if for me she '11 wreathe her hair 
 With orange blossoms, pure and fair, 
 I '11 prize, till stars shall cease to shine, 
 The blooms which make sweet Gladys mine. 
 
 Dixie Wolcott. 
 *'My Favorite." 
 
 GRACE. 
 
 T KNOW not what, but when she lifts her 
 * hand 
 
 To point a flower's perfection, with " But see ! 
 
 How exquisite ! " the blossom magically 
 Assumes a rare, new fragrance, as by wand, 
 And all the quicken'd sense is forthwith fann'd 
 
 With wave on wave of Eden fragrancy. 
 A subtlety — we may not understand — 
 
 Past painter's brush, past poet's minstrelsy. 
 
 Orelia Key Bell. 
 
148 (3racta 
 
 GRACIA. 
 
 |V| AY, nay, Antonio ! nay, thou shall not 
 blame her, 
 
 My Gracia, who hath so deserted me. 
 Thou art my friend ; but if thou dost defame her 
 
 I shall not hesitate to challenge thee. 
 
 *' Curse and forget her ? " so I might another 
 One not so bounteous natured or so fair ; 
 
 But she, Antonio, she was like no other — 
 I curse her not, because she was so rare. 
 
 She was made out of laughter and sweet kisses ; 
 
 Not blood, but sunshine, through her blue 
 veins ran. 
 Her soul spilled over with its wealth of blisses — 
 
 She was too great for loving but a man. 
 
 None but a god could keep so rare a creature — 
 I blame her not for her inconstanc}^ ; 
 
 "When I recall each radiant smile and feature, 
 I wonder she so long was true to me. 
 
 Call her not false or fickle, I, who love her, 
 Do hold her not unlike the royal sun. 
 
 That, all unmated, roams the wide world over 
 And lights all worlds, but lingers not with 
 one. 
 
(3retcben 149 
 
 If she were less a goddess, more a woman, 
 And so had dallied for a time with me, 
 
 And then had left me, I, who am but human, 
 Would slay her, and her newer love, may be. 
 
 But since she seeks Apollo, or another 
 
 Of those lost gods (and seeks him all in vain), 
 
 And has loved me as well as any other 
 
 Of her men-loves, why, I do not complain. 
 
 Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 
 
 GRETCHEN. 
 
 r^OY Charmer, often watched, and long, 
 ^^ Come fill ray glass with wine ; 
 You cannot speak our English tongue, 
 Nor know I aught of thine. 
 
 Yet whisper Beauty's eyes to me 
 The sweetest English spoken, 
 
 A tender, wistful melody — 
 My heart is almost broken. 
 
 Fair Gretchen, fill my glass with wine, 
 
 And whisper me again 
 The language of your eyes divine, 
 
 Its mingled joy and pain. 
 
 William T. Washburn. 
 
I50 (Buineverc 
 
 GUINEVERE 
 
 C HE seemed a part of joyous Spring ; 
 
 A gown of grass-green silk she wore, 
 Buckled with golden clasps before ; 
 A light-green tuft of plumes she bore 
 
 Closed in a golden ring. 
 Now on some twisted ivy-net, 
 Now by some tinkling rivulet. 
 In mosses mixt with violet 
 Her cream-white mule his pastern set ; 
 
 And fleeter now she skimm'd the plains 
 Than she whose elfin prancer springs 
 By night to eery warblings, 
 When all the glimmering moorland rings 
 
 With jingling bridle-reins. 
 As she fled fast thro' sun and shade, 
 The happ}' winds upon her play'd, 
 Blowing the ringlet from the braid : 
 She looked so lovely, as she sway'd 
 
 The rein with dainty finger-tips, 
 A man had given all other bliss. 
 And all his worldly worth for this. 
 To waste his whole heart in one kiss 
 
 Upon her perfect lips. 
 
 Alfred (lyORc) Tennyson. 
 From " Sir I^auncelot and Queen Guinevere." 
 
(5wenDaIine 151 
 
 GWBNDAIvINE. 
 
 DLITHE was the minstrel, and bright was his 
 
 eye, 
 It had but one fault — it was looking too high : 
 And oft as he pass'd by the ivy-clad tower, 
 His glance was uprais'd to fair Gwendaline's 
 
 bow'r ; 
 He gaz'd at her casement, tho' oft half afraid. 
 Lest his eye might encounter the proud noble 
 
 maid. 
 For he dar'd not to venture that she should per- 
 ceive 
 What he trembled to trust his own heart to 
 believe. 
 
 O, blame not the minstrel, if sometimes he 
 
 prove 
 Too freely, too rashly, the victim of love — 
 The bosom will warm, as the love-tale he sings, 
 And heart answer harp in the deep-throbbing 
 
 strings ! 
 And, O, how it throbbed 'neath his t.'-emulous « 
 
 hand. 
 As the love-tale he sang at his lady's command, 
 So lovely while listening — O, who that had 
 
 seen. 
 Could blame him for loving the bright Gwen- 
 
 daline ? 
 
152 IbaiDee 
 
 But what means the pomp of that gay caval- 
 cade? 
 'T is an earl, in his pride, claims the hand of 
 
 the maid ; 
 Away from the castle is Gwendaline borne. 
 And dark is the brow of the minstrel forlorn ; 
 But darker the myst'ry that shrouded his way, 
 For ne'er was he traced from that sad festal 
 
 day. 
 One relic alone of the minstrel was seen, 
 'T was his harp, in the bower of the fair Gwen- 
 daline ! 
 
 Samuel Lover. 
 "The Fair Gwendaline." 
 
 HAIDBE. 
 
 O ER brow was overhung with coins of gold 
 
 That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair; 
 Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were 
 rolled 
 In braids behind ; and though her stature 
 were 
 Even of the highest for a female mould. 
 
 They nearly reached her heels ; and in her air 
 There was a something which bespoke com- 
 mand. 
 As one who was a ladv in the land. 
 
IbaiDee 153 
 
 Her hair, I said, was auburn ; but her eyes 
 Were black as death, their lashes the same 
 hue, 
 
 Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies 
 Deepest attraction ; for when to the view 
 
 Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies. 
 Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew : 
 
 'T is as the snake late coiled, who pours his 
 length. 
 
 And hurls at once his venom and his strength. 
 
 Her brow was white and low ; her cheek's pure 
 dye. 
 
 Like twilight, rosy still with the set sun ; 
 Short upper lip — sweet lips ! that make us sigh 
 
 Bver to have seen such ; for she was one 
 Fit for the model of a statuary 
 
 (A race of mere impostors when all 's done — 
 I 've seen much finer women, ripe and real. 
 Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal). 
 
 I/ORD Byron. 
 From " Don Juan," Canto ii. 
 
154 Ibannab 
 
 HANNAH. 
 
 A SPRING o'erhung with many a flower, 
 
 The gray sand dancing in its bed, 
 Embanked beneath a hawthorn bower, 
 
 Sent forth its waters near my head. 
 A rosy lass approached my view ; 
 
 I caught her blue eyes' modest beam ; 
 The stranger nodded " How-d'ye-do ? " 
 And leaped across the infant stream. 
 
 The water heedless passed away ; 
 
 With me her glowing image stayed ; 
 I strove, from that auspicious day. 
 
 To meet and bless the lovely maid. 
 I met her where beneath our feet 
 
 Through downy moss the wild thyme grew ; 
 Nor moss elastic, flowers though sweet, 
 
 Matched Hannah's cheek of rosy hue. 
 
 I met her where the dark woods wave, 
 
 And shaded verdure skirts the plain ; 
 And when the pale moon rising gave 
 
 New glories to her rising train. 
 From her sweet cot upon the moor, 
 
 Our plighted vows to heaven are flown ; 
 Truth made me welcome at her door. 
 
 And rosy Hannah is my own. 
 
 ROBEKT BLOOMFIELD. 
 
 "Rosy Hannah." 
 
Ibarrict 155 
 
 HARRIET. 
 
 \ A/ HOSE is the love that, gleaming through 
 
 the world, 
 Wards ofif the poisonous arrow of its scorn ? 
 Whose is the warm and partial praise, 
 Virtue's most sweet reward ? 
 
 Beneath whose looks did my reviving soul 
 Riper in truth and virtuous daring grow ? 
 Whose eyes have I gazed fondly on. 
 And love mankind the more ? 
 
 Harriet ! on thine : — thou wert my purer mind ; 
 Thou wert the inspiration of my song. 
 Thine are these early wilding flowers. 
 Though garlanded by me. 
 
 Then press into thy breast this pledge of love ; 
 And know, though time may change and years 
 ma}" roll, 
 Each floweret gathered in my heart 
 It consecrates to thine. 
 
 Percy Bysshe Shelley. 
 *' To Harriet." a 
 
156 tbarriett 
 
 HARRIETT. 
 
 TJ ERE at the halfway House of Life I linger, 
 Worn with the way, a weary-hearted 
 singer, 
 
 Resting a little space ; 
 And lo ! the good God sends me, as a token 
 Of peace and blessing (else my heart were 
 broken), 
 
 The sunbeam of thy face. 
 
 My fear falls from me like a garment ; slowly 
 New strength returns upon me, calm and holy ; 
 
 I kneel, and I atone — 
 Thy hand is clasped in mine — we lean together — 
 Henceforward, through the sad or shining 
 weather, 
 
 I shall not walk alone. 
 
 Robert Buchanan. 
 
 HEBE. 
 
 F 
 
 AIR Hebe I left, with a cautious design, 
 To escape from her charms, and to drown 
 Ivove in wine ; 
 I tried it, but found, when I came to depart, 
 The wine in my head, but still l/cve in my 
 heart. 
 
Ibelen 157 
 
 I repair'd to my Reason, entreating her aid, 
 Who paused on my case, and each circumstance 
 
 weigh' d : 
 Then gravely pronounced, in return to my 
 
 prayer, 
 That Hebe was fairest of all that were fair. 
 
 That 's a truth, replied I, I 've no need to be 
 
 taught, 
 I came for your counsel to find out a fault ; 
 If that 's all, quoth Reason, return as you 
 
 came. 
 
 For to find fault with Hebe would forfeit my 
 
 name. 
 
 Karl of de la Warre. 
 
 HELEN. 
 
 LJ ELEN, thy beauty is to me 
 
 L/ike those Nicean barks of yore, 
 That gently o'er a perfumed sea 
 
 The weary, wa3'-worn wanderer bore 
 
 To his own native shore. 
 
 On desperate seas long wont to roam, 
 Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face. 
 
 Thy Naiad airs have brought me home 
 To the glory that was Greece 
 
 And the grandeur that was Rome. 
 
158 Ibelen 
 
 IvO ! in yon brilliant window-niche 
 How statue-like I see thee stand ! 
 The agate lamp within thy hand, 
 
 Ah ! Psyche, from the regions which 
 Are Holy Land ! 
 
 Bdgar Allan Poe. 
 
 HELEN. 
 
 /^N Helen's cheek was once a glow, 
 
 An arc of dreamland glimpsed below, 
 A silver-purpled, peachy beauty 
 In tidal swayings to and fro. 
 
 O flush of youth ! outvelveting 
 The butterfly's Arabian wing ! 
 
 The very argosies of morning 
 Bear not from Heaven so rich a thing. 
 
 On Helen's cheek a springtide day, 
 Fragile and wonderful it lay ; 
 
 From Helen's cheek these twenty summers 
 Child-lips have kissed the bloom away. 
 
 Nay, Time ! record it not so fast. 
 The reign of roses overpast ; 
 
 All victor-pomps of theirs encircle 
 A loyal woman to the last. 
 
Ibel^ne 159 
 
 So true of speech, of soul so free, 
 Of such a mellowed blood is she, 
 
 That girlhood's vision, long evanished, 
 Rounds never to a memory. 
 
 No loss in her love's self descries ! 
 Up-trembling to adoring eyes. 
 
 The sweet mirage of youth and beauty 
 On Helen's cheek forever lies. 
 
 L,ouiSE Imogen Guiney. 
 On Helen's Cheek." 
 
 HBLEJNE. 
 
 JVAORB closely than the clinging vine 
 
 About the wedded tree, 
 Clasp thou thine arms, ah, mistress mine ! 
 
 About the heart of me. 
 Or seem to sleep, and stoop your face 
 
 Soft on my sleeping eyes, 
 Breathe in your life, your heart, your grace, 
 
 Through me, in kissing wise. 
 Bow down, bow down your face, I pray, 
 
 To me, that swoon to death, 
 Breathe back the life you kissed away. 
 
 Breathe back your kissing breath. 
 So by 3^our eyes I swear and say, 
 
 My mighty oath and sure. 
 
i6o Ibermione 
 
 From your kind arms no maiden may 
 
 My loving heart allure. 
 I '11 bear your yoke, that 's light enoughj 
 
 And to the Blysian plain, 
 When we are dead of love, my love. 
 
 One boat shall bear us twain. 
 They '11 flock around you, fleet and fair, 
 
 All true loves that have been, 
 And you of all the shadows there, 
 
 Shall be the shadow queen. 
 Ah, shadow-loves and shadow-lips ! 
 
 Ah, while 'tis called to-day, 
 Love me, my love, for summer slips, 
 
 And August ebbs away. 
 
 Andrew I^ang 
 " A I.a Belle H61^ne" (after Ronsard). 
 
 HERMIONE. 
 
 'THOU hast beauty bright and fair, 
 
 Manner noble, aspect free, 
 Eyes that are untouched by care : 
 What then do we ask from thee ? 
 Hermione, Hermione ! 
 
 Thou hast reason quick and strong. 
 Wit that envious men admire, 
 
Ibermion^ i6i 
 
 And a voice, itself a song ! 
 
 What then can we still desire ? 
 Henniojie, Herinione ! 
 
 Something thou dost want, O queen ! 
 
 (As the gold doth ask alloy), 
 
 Tears, — amidst thy laughter seen, 
 
 Pity, — mingling with thy joy. 
 
 This is all we ask, from thee, 
 Hermio7ie, Hermione ! 
 
 Bryan Waller Procter, 
 
 HERMIONE. 
 
 \A/HEREVER I wander, up and about, 
 
 This is the puzzle I can't make out — 
 Because I care little for books, no doubt : 
 
 I have a wife, and she is wise, 
 
 Deep in philosophy, strong in Greek, 
 Spectacles shadow her pretty eyes, 
 
 Coteries rustle to hear her speak ; 
 She writes a little — for love, not fame ; 
 Has published a book with a dreary name ; 
 
 And yet (God bless her !) is mild and meek. 
 And how I happened to woo and wed 
 
 A wife so pretty and wise withal, 
 Is part of the puzzle that fills my head — 
 
i62 Ibermione 
 
 Plagues me at daytime, racks me in bed, 
 
 Haunts me and makes me appear so small, 
 The only answer that I can see 
 Is — I could not have married Hermione 
 (That is her fine wise name), but she 
 Stooped in her wisdom and married me. 
 
 For I am a fellow of no degree, 
 
 Given to romping and jollity ; 
 
 The Latin they thrashed into me at school 
 
 The world and its fights have thrashed away ; 
 At figures alone I am no fool. 
 
 And in city circles I say my say. 
 But I am a dunce at twenty-nine. 
 And the kind of study that I think fine, 
 Is a chapter of Dickens, a sheet of the Times, 
 
 When I lounge, after work, in my easy chair ; 
 Pujich for humor and Praed for rhymes, 
 
 And the butterfly mots blown here and there 
 
 By the idle breath of the social air. 
 A little French is my only gift. 
 Wherewith at times I can make a shift, 
 Guessing at meanings to flutter over 
 A filagree tale in a paper cover. 
 
 Hermione, my Hermione ! 
 
 What could your wisdom perceive in me? 
 And Hermione, my Hermione ! 
 
 How does it happen at all that we 
 
 Love one another so utterly ? 
 
Ibermione 163 
 
 Well, I have a bright-eyed boy or two, 
 
 A darling who cries with lung and tongue, 
 about 
 As fine a fellow, I swear to you, 
 
 As ever poet of sentiment sung about ! 
 And my lady-wife, with serious eyes, 
 
 Brightens and lightens when he is nigh, 
 And looks, although she is deep and wise, 
 
 As foolish and happy as he or I ! 
 And I have the courage just then, you see, 
 To kiss the lips of Hermione — 
 Those learned lips that the learned praise — 
 And to clasp her close as in sillier days ; 
 
 To talk and joke in a frolic vein, 
 To tell her my stories of things and men ; 
 
 And it never strikes me that I 'm profane. 
 
 For she laughs, and blushes, and kisses again, 
 And, presto ! fly ! goes her wisdom then ! 
 For boy claps hands and is up on her breast, 
 
 Roaring to see her so bright with mirth, 
 And I know she deems me (oh, the jest !) 
 
 The cleverest fellow on all the earth ! 
 
 And Hermione, my Hermione, 
 Nurses her boy and defers to me ; 
 Does not seem to see I 'ni small — 
 Even to think me a dunce at all ! 
 And wherever I wander, up and about, 
 Here is the puzzle I can't make out — 
 That Hermione, my Hermione, 
 
i64 1bc6ter 
 
 In spite of her Greek and philosophy, 
 When sporting at night with her boy and me, 
 Seems sweeter and wiser, I assever — 
 Sweeter and wiser, and far more clever, 
 And makes me feel more foolish than ever, 
 Through her childish, girlish, joyous grace, 
 And the silly pride in her learned face ! 
 
 That is the puzzle I can't make out — 
 Because I care little for books, no doubt ; 
 But the puzzle is pleasant, I know not why ; 
 
 For whenever I think of it, night or mom, 
 I thank my God she is wise, and I 
 
 The happiest fool that was ever born ! 
 
 Robert Buchanan. 
 " Hennion6 ; or, Diflferences Adjusted." 
 
 HESTER. 
 
 r\IMPLED of cheek and grave of gown, 
 
 ■ A maid of whom this world has dearth. 
 She walks the streets of that old town. 
 And makes them mellow with her mirth. 
 
 The hoary roofs grow young with cheer. 
 The windows brighten pane by pane ; 
 And haunted by her laughter dear, 
 To bud the shrivelled boughs are fain. 
 
1bett^ 165 
 
 The painted ladies of the age, 
 Flaunt past her over-sweet with musk ; 
 But she trips on with scent of sage 
 Blown out some yard at fall of dusk. 
 
 These painted dames of Hester's time — 
 When they are laid by churchyard doors, 
 She will laugh on in English rhyme, 
 And she be known on alien shores. 
 
 IvIZETTB WOODWORTH REESE. 
 
 HETTY. 
 
 DEAUTlFUIy, distracting Hetty, 
 
 
 This was how it come to be 
 
 As we strolled upon the jetty. 
 
 I had danced three times with Netty, 
 
 She had flirted with Dobree, 
 Beautiful, distracting Hetty. 
 
 I was humming Donizetti, 
 
 Hurt was I, and angry she, 
 As we strolled upon the jetty. 
 
 As she levelled her Negretti 
 
 With provoking nicety, 
 Beautiful, distracting Hetty. 
 
i66 IbilDegaiDe 
 
 Suddenly she flashed a pretty, 
 
 Half-defiant glance at me, 
 As we strolled upon the jetty. 
 
 And our quarrel seemed so petty, 
 By the grandeur of the sea ! 
 Beautiful, distracting Hetty, 
 As we strolled upon the jetty. 
 
 Cosmo Monkhouse. 
 
 HIIvDEGARDE. 
 
 VOUNG Hildegarde, beside her cottage door. 
 Sat at her spinning when the sun was low. 
 
 The shadows fell athwart the sanded floor, 
 The long sun lances set the hills aglow, 
 While twilight soft wrapt all the vale below. 
 
 The little maid her humming wheel forgets ; 
 
 Her blue eyes wander from the verdant sward, 
 Flecked with her own sweet mountain violets, 
 Swept by the breeze, with sun and shadow 
 
 barred, 
 Far up the mountain side, all seamed and 
 scarred. 
 
 Old grandsire Herman left his easy chair. 
 To come and stand within the fading light. 
 
1btlDegarC>e 167 
 
 He murmured softly, " Karth is very fair ; 
 How grand the day ! how beautiful the night ! 
 How dear it all is to my failing sight." 
 
 Came to these two, as from the cool fresh ground, 
 The ringing of the convent curfew bell ; 
 
 And echo caught it ; waves of silvery sound 
 Rose to the heights with joyous peal and swell, 
 Then downward swung to die within the dell. 
 
 They stood and watched the sunset's dying 
 gleam 
 That lingered on the blue horizon's rim ; 
 The convent walls, like walls seen in a dream, 
 Stood half defined, down in the valley dim, 
 And faintly rose the nun's sweet evening 
 hymn. 
 
 Then Hildegarde, with eyes brim-full of peace, 
 Folds her brown hands, a smile is on her lips, 
 
 "Praise God, O earth, for all thy fair increase ; 
 Praise Him, each one who of her nectar sips, 
 And praise Him, ye, down on the sea in ships ! " 
 
 Too joyful seemed the girl to kneel in prayer. 
 She stood with face uplifted to the skies ; 
 
 She heard a step, and turned with kindly care, 
 Yet with the enraptured look within her eyes. 
 Like one who'd caught a glimpse of paradise. 
 
i68 Ibil^egarDe 
 
 A black -robed sister there beside her stood, 
 Weary with toiling up the mountain side, 
 
 For some poor suffering fellow-creature's good : 
 "Ah, Hildegarde," she said, and saying 
 
 sighed, 
 " And have I come, again to be denied? 
 
 "Will you not go with me from all these toils, 
 
 That nourish but the sinful flesh alone ? 
 While the worn spirit frets with hurts and soils, 
 And hearts grow colder than the mountain 
 
 stone ; 
 Come, child, find peace that you have never 
 known." 
 
 " Nay, Sister Agnes," Hildegarde replied, 
 "What is there here to break our quietude? 
 
 Peace dwells upon this sunny mountain side, 
 And in our dear old cot, though plain and 
 
 rude. 
 None but our friends have ever dared intrude. 
 
 "I could not worship God with beads and 
 books ; 
 I could not pray shut in by four stone walls ; 
 I want the music of the running brooks ; 
 The whispering leaves ; the birds, with wild 
 
 sweet calls ; 
 The humming bees, and babbling waterfalls. 
 
IbilDegarDe 169 
 
 *'Kach summer day seems brighter than the 
 last ; 
 Naught is unkind ; the fickle, wand'ring 
 breeze 
 Brings odors of the fields that it has passed, 
 And friends look out from all the gray old 
 
 trees ; — 
 What could be purer, truer than are these ? 
 
 ''Here grow my vines, and here 1 've planted 
 flowers ; 
 And here I feed the merry wild-wood birds 
 That sing to me through many happy hours ; 
 Adown yon path go all the flocks and herds ; 
 They wait, sometimes, to hear my kindly 
 words. 
 
 ''And, like a guardian angel, strong to save, 
 See yonder mound, warm in the sunset's 
 glow ; 
 You know it well, my fair young mother's 
 grave ; 
 You know how brightly there the flowers 
 
 blow. 
 All for the precious heart that lies below. 
 
 *' And who would my dear grandsire soothe and 
 cheer ? 
 My soldier father, lying dead in Spain, 
 
I70 1[3inDa 
 
 Was all he had. My duty, sure is here ; 
 And Sister Agnes, I would not complain 
 If I for gandsire bore a world of pain." 
 
 *' Yes, Hildegarde, but Herman 's old, and when 
 He shall no longer need your gentle care, 
 
 Ah, child, I daily pray for you, that then. 
 
 For every gleam of gold in your brown hair, 
 There may not come a pang of deep despair." 
 
 Then Hildegarde, with cheek and eye alight 
 With that strange fire ne'er found on land, nor 
 sea, 
 Said : " Sister Agnes, every morn and night, 
 A shepherd lad waits by yon ancient tree, 
 To speak to grandsire ; and — he 's — kind — to 
 — me." 
 
 Margaret Holmes Bates. 
 
 HIND A. 
 
 /^H what a pure and sacred thing 
 
 ^-'^ Is Beauty, curtained from the sight 
 
 Of the gross world, illumining 
 
 One only mansion with her light ! 
 Unseen by man's disturbing eye, — 
 
 The flower that blooms beneath the sea 
 
Ibonoria 171 
 
 Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie 
 Hid in more chaste obscurity. 
 
 So, Hinda, have thy face and mind, 
 
 I/ike holy mysteries, lain enshrined. 
 
 And oh, what transport for a lover 
 To hft the veil that shades them o'er ! — ■ 
 
 Like those who, all at once, discover 
 In the lone deep some fairy shore. 
 Where mortal never trod before, 
 
 And sleep and wake in scented airs 
 
 No lip had ever breathed but theirs. 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 From " Italia Rookh." 
 
 HONORIA. 
 
 I WATCHED her face, suspecting germs 
 Of love : her farewell showed me plain 
 She loved, on the majestic terms 
 
 That she should not be loved again. 
 She was all mildness ; yet 't was writ 
 
 Upon her beauty legibly, 
 " He that 's for heaven itself unfit, 
 Let him not hope to merit me." 
 
 And though her charms are a strong law 
 Compelling all men to admire. 
 
172 Ibonorla 
 
 They are so clad with lovely awe, 
 
 None but the noble dares desire. 
 He who would seek to make her his, 
 
 Will comprehend that souls of grace 
 Own sweet repulsion, and that 't is 
 
 The quality of their embrace, 
 To be like the majestic reach 
 
 Of coupled suns, that, from afar. 
 Mingle their mutual spheres, while each 
 
 Circles the twin obsequious star : 
 And in the warmth of hand to hand. 
 
 Of heart to heart, he '11 vow to note 
 And reverently understand 
 
 How the two spirits shine remote ; 
 And ne'er to numb fine honor's nerve. 
 
 Nor let sweet awe in passion melt. 
 Nor fail by courtesies to observe 
 
 The space which makes attraction felt ; 
 Nor cease to guard like life the sense 
 
 Which tells him that the embrace of love 
 Is o'er a gulf of difference 
 
 Love cannot sound, nor death remove. 
 
 Coventry Patmork, 
 From " The Angel in the House." 
 
Hantbe 173 
 
 lANTHB. 
 
 Urom you, lanthe, little troubles pass 
 
 I/ike little ripples down a sunny river ; 
 Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass, 
 Cut down, and up again as blythe as ever. 
 Walter Savage I<andor. 
 
 lANTHK. 
 
 M OT in those climes where I have late been 
 
 straying, 
 Though Beauty long hath there been match- 
 less deem'd ; 
 Not in those visions to the heart displaying 
 Forms which it sighs but to have only dream' d, 
 Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd : 
 Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek 
 To paint those charms which varied as they 
 
 beam'd — 
 To such as see thee not my words were weak ; 
 To those who gaze on thee what language could 
 they speak ? 
 
 Ah ! mayst thou ever be what now thou art. 
 Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring. 
 As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, 
 Ivove's image upon earth without his wing, 
 
174 ITantbe 
 
 And guileless beyond Hope's imagining ! 
 And surely she who now so fondly rears 
 Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, 
 Beholds the rainbow of her future years, 
 Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disap- 
 pears. 
 
 Young Peri of the West ! — 't is well for me 
 
 M}' years already doubly number thine ; 
 
 My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, 
 
 And safely view thy ripening beauties shine ; 
 
 Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline ; 
 
 Happier, that while all younger hearts shall 
 bleed. 
 
 Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes as- 
 sign 
 
 To those whose admiration shall succeed. 
 But mix'd with pangs to Love's even loveliest 
 hours decreed. 
 
 Oh ! let that eye, which, wild as the Gazelle's, 
 Now brightly bold or beautifully shy. 
 Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells. 
 Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny 
 That smile for which my breast might vainly 
 
 sigh. 
 Could I to thee be ever more than friend : 
 This much, dear maid, accord ; nor question 
 
 why 
 
ir&a 175 
 
 To one so young my strain I would commend, 
 But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily 
 blend. 
 
 Such is thy name with this my verse intwined ; 
 And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast 
 On Harold's page, lanthe 's here enshrined 
 Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last ; 
 My days once numbered, should this homage 
 
 past 
 Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre 
 Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast, 
 Such is the most my memory may desire : 
 Though more than Hope can claim, could 
 Friendship less require ? 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 " Dedication of Childe Harold." 
 
 IDA. 
 
 A LL beauty compass' d in a female form, 
 The Princess ; liker to the inhabitant 
 Of some clear planet close upon the Sun, 
 Than our man's earth ; such eyes were in her 
 
 head. 
 And so much grace and power, breathing down 
 From over her arched brows, with every turn 
 Lived thro' her to the tips of her long hands. 
 And to her feet. 
 
176 llmoGen 
 
 My princess, O my princess ! true she errs, 
 But in her own grand way : being herself 
 Three times more noble than three-score of 
 
 men, 
 She sees herself in every woman else, 
 And so she wears her error like a crown 
 To blind the truth and me : for her, and her, 
 Hebes are they to hand ambrosia, mix 
 The nectar ; but — ah she — whene'er she moves 
 The Samian Here rises and she speaks 
 A Memnon smitten with the morning Sun. 
 
 Alfred (I,ord) Tennysok 
 From " The Princess." 
 
 IMOGEN. 
 
 TACHIMO. How bravely thou becom'st thy 
 
 ^ bed ! Fresh lily ! 
 
 And whiter than the sheets ! That I might touch ! 
 
 . . . 'T is her breathing that 
 
 Perfumes the chamber thus : The flame o' the 
 
 taper 
 Bows towards her ; and would under-peep her 
 
 lids, 
 To see the enclosed lights, now canopied 
 Under these windows, white and azure, laced 
 With blue of heaven's own tinct. 
 
 William Shakespeare 
 From "Cymbeline." 
 
Ilmogenc 177 
 
 IMOGENE, 
 
 T^WO laughing little eyes of brown 
 
 I 've often seen, 
 Like gems inlaid upon a crown, 
 
 Or sunlight sheen 
 O'er limpid, rippling waters cast. 
 And ah ! I sigh as she flits past, 
 And feel my heart pulsating fast. 
 Sweet Imogene ! 
 
 Two dainty-fashioned lips of red, 
 
 With pearls between ; 
 While rich, dark curls adorn her head. 
 
 And catch the gleam 
 Of every genial Southern sun 
 That sees its daily course begun, 
 Shedding its lustrous rays upon 
 Sweet Imogene ! 
 
 A pretty figure she displays 
 
 As can be seen ; 
 For beauty, suppleness, and grace 
 
 And gentle mien 
 All other girls she quite excels, 
 And yet her every action tells 
 No vanity within her dwells — 
 Sweet Imogene ! 
 
178 Umperia 
 
 With practiced skill she mounts her wheel, 
 
 And calm, serene, 
 She hies where brooklets softly steal 
 
 'Mid sylvan scene ; 
 Where pipes the lark his roundelay, 
 And flowers bloom in bright array, 
 'T is there she greets the virgin da}' — 
 Sweet Imogene ! 
 
 And as I watch her riding by 
 
 Fondly I ween, 
 A maid more fair ne'er met my eye — 
 
 She looks a queen ! 
 And could one wish be given me, 
 That I my captive heart might free, 
 Then she in truth my queen should be — 
 Sweet Imogene ! 
 
 Sidney Warren Mase. 
 " Sweet Imogene. " 
 
 IMPERIA. 
 
 A LL pleasures of this pleasant Barth be 
 ^^ thine ! 
 
 Yea, let her servants fondly press 
 Unto thy feet. 
 
 Bearing all sights most fair, all scents most 
 sweet ; 
 
Una 179 
 
 Spring, playing with her wreath of budded 
 vine ; 
 
 Summer, with stately tress 
 
 Prink' d with green wheat-ears and the white 
 corn -bine ; 
 
 And Autumn, crown'd from the yellow forest- 
 tree ; 
 
 — And Winter, in his dress 
 
 Begemm'd with icicles, from snow dead-white 
 
 Shooting their wondrous light ; 
 
 These be thine ever. 
 
 Thomas Burbidge. 
 From " To Imperia." 
 
 INA. 
 
 A ''LOVELY fear," a sweet solicitude 
 
 For others' grief is hers ; skilled are her 
 fingers 
 To cool with dewy flowers the front of care, 
 Flattering to pleasant tears the over-worn. 
 She lives in her sweet maidenhood, untouched 
 By doubt, distrust, or pain ; and gives to 
 
 Heaven 
 Her heart, to earth her pity, to her friends 
 The snow-fed fountains of her fresh affections ; 
 Seldom she weeps, and never causes tears ; 
 Her looks are gentle, and her voice as low 
 
i8o irne3 
 
 As morning winds that spare the trembling 
 
 dewdrops ; 
 Her hand is lighter than a young bird's wing. 
 You deem her undefended. She is strong ! 
 A glorious Spirit zoned with power and beauty ! 
 The pure are always strong ; for they possess 
 Youth's heaven-taught lore, and Virtue's might 
 
 eterne : 
 And, as the ocean in the flowers of ocean, 
 So God within them dwells, and moves around. 
 
 Aubrey De Verb. 
 
 INEZ. 
 
 /^H, saw ye not fair Inez? 
 
 She 's gone into the west, 
 To dazzle when the sun is down, 
 And rob the world of rest : 
 She took our daylight with her. 
 The smiles that we love best, 
 With morning blushes on her cheek, 
 And pearls upon her breast. 
 
 Oh, turn again, fair Inez, 
 
 Before the fall of night, 
 
 For fear the moon should shine alone, 
 
 And stars unrivalled bright ; 
 
irne3 i8i 
 
 And blessed will the lover be 
 
 That walks beneath their light, 
 
 And breathes the love against thy cheek 
 
 I dare not even write ! 
 
 Would I had been, fair Inez, 
 
 That gallant cavalier, 
 
 Who rode so gayly by thy side, 
 
 And whispered thee so near ! — 
 
 Were there no bonny dames at home. 
 
 Or no true lovers here, 
 
 That he should cross the seas to win 
 
 The dearest of the dear ? 
 
 I saw thee, lovely Inez, 
 
 Descend along the shore, 
 
 With bands of noble gentlemen, 
 
 And banners waved before ; 
 
 And gentle youth and maidens gay. 
 
 And snowy plumes they wore ; 
 
 It would have been a beauteous dream, 
 
 — If it had been no more ! 
 
 Alas, alas ! fair Inez, 
 
 She went away with song, 
 
 With music waiting on her steps, 
 
 And shoutings of the throng ; 
 
 But some were sad, and felt no mirth, 
 
 But only music's wrong. 
 
i82 irnfelice 
 
 In sounds that sang farewell, farewell, 
 To her you 've loved so long. 
 
 Farewell, farewell, fair Inez ! 
 
 That vessel never bore 
 
 So fair a lady on its deck, 
 
 Nor danced so light before, — 
 
 Alas for pleasure on the sea, 
 
 And sorrow on the shore ! 
 
 The smile that blest one lover's heart 
 
 Has broken many more ! 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 Fair Inez.' 
 
 INFEIvICE. 
 
 (on her picture.) 
 
 /Wl Y Infelice's face, her brow, her eye. 
 
 The dimple on her cheek : and such sweet 
 skill 
 Hath from the cunning workman's pencil 
 
 flown, 
 These lips look fresh and lively as her own ; 
 Seeming to move and speak. Alas ! now I see 
 The reason why fond women love to buy 
 Adulterate complexion : here 't is read : 
 False colors last after the true be dead. 
 
ITone 183 
 
 Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks, 
 
 Of all the graces dancing in her eyes, 
 
 Of all the music set upon her tongue, 
 
 Of all that was past woman's excellence, 
 
 In her white bosom ; look, a painted board 
 
 Circumscribes all ! Earth can no bliss afford ; 
 
 Nothing of her but this ! This cannot speak ; 
 
 It has no lap for me to rest upon ; 
 
 No lip worth tasting. Here the worms will 
 
 feed, 
 As in her cofi5n. Hence, then, idle art, 
 True love 's best pictured in a true love's heart. 
 Here art thou drawn, sweet maid, till this be 
 
 dead. 
 So that thou livest twice, twice art buried. 
 Thou figure of my friend, lie there ! 
 
 Thomas Dekker. 
 From ■ ' Dramas. ' ' 
 
 lONE. 
 
 C WEETNBSS, Purity and Truth 
 
 Are the handmaids of thy 3'outh ; 
 And thy friendship, that doth last, 
 Makes the future as the past, 
 And about the present throws 
 All the perfume of the rose. 
 
i84 Ifrene 
 
 Oh, thy smile is like the smiling 
 Of some dream at morn beguiling, 
 All the senses with the tender 
 Glamour hopes to memories render ; 
 Noble, fair and true thou art, 
 And all-golden is thy heart. 
 
 Rowland B. Mahany. 
 
 IRENE). 
 
 OBRS is a spirit deep, and crystal-clear ; 
 
 Calmly beneath her earnest face it lies, 
 Free without boldness, meek without a fear, 
 Quicker to look than speak its sympathies ; 
 Far down into her large and patient eyes 
 I gaze, deep-drinking of the infinite, 
 As, in the mid-watch of a clear, still night, 
 I look into the fathomless blue skies. 
 
 So circled lives she with Love's holy light. 
 That from the shade of self she walketh free ; 
 The garden of her soul still keepeth she 
 An Eden where the snake did never enter ; 
 She hath a natural, wise sincerity, 
 A simple truthfulness, and these have lent her 
 A dignity as moveless as the center ; 
 So that no influence of earth can stir 
 
Hrene 185 
 
 Her steadfast courage, nor can take away 
 
 The holy peacefulness, which, night and day, 
 
 Unto her queenly soul doth minister. 
 
 Most gentle is she ; her large charity 
 (An all unwitting, childlike gift in her) 
 Not freer is to give than meek to bear ; 
 And, though herself not unacquaint with care. 
 Hath in her heart wide room for all that be, — 
 Her heart that hath no secrets of its own. 
 But open is as eglantine full blown. 
 Cloudless forever is her brow serene, 
 Speaking calm hope and trust within her, 
 
 whence 
 Welleth a noiseless spring of patience, 
 That keepeth all her life so fresh, so green 
 And full of holiness, that every look. 
 The greatness of her woman's soul revealing. 
 Unto me bringeth blessing, and a feeling 
 As when I read in God's own holy book, 
 
 A graciousness in giving that doth make 
 The small'st gift greatest, and a sense most 
 
 meek 
 Of worthiness, that doth not fear to take 
 From others, but which always fears to speak 
 Its thanks in utterance, for the giver's sake ; — 
 The deep religion of a thankful heart. 
 Which rests instinctively in Heaven's clear law 
 
i86 Ifrene 
 
 With a full peace, that never can depart 
 From its own steadfastness ; a holy awe 
 For holy things, — not those which men call 
 
 holy, 
 But such as are revealed to the eyes 
 Of a true woman's soul bent down and lowly 
 Before the face of daily mysteries ; — 
 A love that blossoms soon, but ripens slowly 
 To the full goldenness of fruitful prime, 
 Enduring with a firmness that defies 
 All shallow tricks of circumstance and time, 
 By a sure insight knowing where to cling, 
 And where it clingeth never withering ; — 
 These are Irene's dowry, which no fate 
 Can shake from their serene, deep-builded state. 
 
 In-seeing sympathy is hers, which chasteneth 
 No less than loveth, scorning to be bound 
 With fear of blame, and yet which everhasteneth 
 To pour the balm of kind looks on the wound, 
 If they be wounds which such sweet teaching 
 
 makes, 
 Giving itself a pang for others' sakes ; 
 No want of faith, that chills with sidelong eye, 
 Hath she ; no jealousy, no Levite pride 
 That passeth by upon the other side ; 
 For in her soul there never dwelt a lie. 
 Right from the hand of God her spirit came 
 Unstained, and she hath ne'er forgotten whence 
 
ITrenc 187 
 
 It came, nor wandered far from thence, 
 But laboreth to keep her still the same, 
 Near to her place of birth, that she may not 
 Soil her white raiment with an earthly spot. 
 
 Yet sets she not her soul so steadily 
 Above, that she forgets the ties of earth, 
 But her whole thought would almost seem to be 
 How to make glad one lowly human hearth ; 
 For with a gentle courage she doth strive 
 In thought and word and feeling so to live 
 As to make earth next heaven ; and her heart 
 Herein doth show its most exceeding worth, 
 That, bearing in her frailty her just part,. 
 She hath not shrunk from evils of this life, 
 But hath gone camly forth into the strife. 
 And all its sins and sorrows hath withstood 
 With lofty strength of patient womanhood : 
 For this I love her great soul more than all, 
 That, being bound, like us, with earthly thrall, 
 She walks so bright and heaven-like therein, — 
 Too wise, too meek, too womanly to sin. 
 
 Like a lone star through riven storm-clouds 
 seen 
 By sailors, tempest-tossed upon the sea, 
 Telling of rest and peaceful heavens nigh, 
 Unto my soul her star-like soul hath been. 
 Her sight as full of hope and calm to me ; — ' 
 
ITea 
 
 For she unto herself hath builded high 
 A home serene, wherein to lay her head, 
 Berth's noblest thing, a Woman perfected. 
 James Russell lyOWELL, 
 
 ISA. 
 
 /^H it 's bonnie, bonnie Isa, 
 ^^^ Whose hair is like the craw, 
 Her e'e the dusky violet, 
 
 Her neck the drifted snaw ; 
 By hills an' howes where Annan rowes 
 
 Are lasses bricht an' braw. 
 But my bonnie, bonnie Isa 
 
 Is the flower amang them a'. 
 
 I lo'ed her in the summer time. 
 
 When sweet the laverock sang ; 
 And mair and mair in winter prime. 
 
 When nichts were dark and lang : 
 But oh, I lo'ed her maist o' a' 
 
 When, nestlin' near tae me, 
 She pined awa — owre plain I saw 
 
 My bonnie bairn wad dee. 
 
 She took my bans atween her ain, 
 An' held them tae her breast, 
 
•ffsabel 189 
 
 An' wi' her slender fingers, mine 
 
 Sae tenderly caressed ; 
 Then lookin' up sae lovingly, 
 
 While tears cam' rinnin' doon, 
 Said, " Willie— Willie, think o' me ! 
 
 I '11 be in heaven soon." 
 
 But while she spak' a stranger cam' — 
 
 (Then melted was the snaw) — 
 Said, " Isa will arise again, 
 
 An' be a joy tae a'." 
 An' in the spring our Isa rose. 
 
 Slipped aff her weary pain ; 
 And smilin' bricht, as simmer light, 
 
 She 's brocht us joy again ! 
 
 Francis Bennoch. 
 
 ISABEL. 
 
 I. 
 
 UYES not down-dropped nor over-bright, but 
 
 ^ fed 
 With the clear-pointed flame of chastity, 
 Clear, without heat, undying, tended by 
 
igo Ifsabel 
 
 Pure vestal thoughts in the translucent fane 
 Of her still spirit ; locks not wide-dispread, 
 
 Madonna-wise on either side her head ; 
 
 Sweet lips whereon perpetually did reign 
 The summer calm of golden charity, 
 Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mood. 
 
 Revered Isabel, the crown and head. 
 The stately flower of female fortitude, 
 
 Of perfect wifehood, and pure lowlihead. 
 
 2. 
 
 The intuitive decision of a bright 
 And thorough-edged intellect to part 
 
 Error from crime ; a prudence to withhold ; 
 
 The laws of marriage character'd in gold 
 Upon the blanched tablets of her heart ; 
 A love still burning upward, giving light 
 To read those laws ; an accent very low 
 In blandishment, but a most silver flow 
 
 Of subtle-paced counsel in distress, 
 Right to the heart and brain, tho' undescried, 
 
 Winning its way with extreme gentleness 
 Thro' all the outworks of suspicious pride ; 
 A courage to endure and to obey ; 
 A hate of gossip parlance and of sway, 
 Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life, 
 The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife. 
 
•(Isabella 191 
 
 The mellowed reflex of a winter moon ; 
 A clear stream flowing with a muddy one, 
 Till in its onward current it absorbs 
 
 With swifter movement and in purer light 
 The vexed eddies of its wayward brother ; 
 A leaning and upbearing parasite, 
 Clothing the stem, which else had fallen 
 quite. 
 With cluster'd flower-bells and ambrosial orbs 
 Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on each 
 
 other — 
 Shadow forth thee ; — the world hath not 
 another 
 (Though all her fairest forms are types of thee, 
 And thou of God in thy great charity) 
 Of such a finish'dchasten'd purity. 
 
 Alfred (IvOrd) Tennyson. 
 
 ISABELIvA. 
 
 O EART warm as summer, fresh as spring, 
 
 Gracious as autumn's harvesting. 
 Pure as the winter's snows ; as white 
 A hand as lilies in sunlight ; 
 
192 IFaabella 
 
 Eyes glorious as a midn ight star ; 
 Hair shining as the chestnuts are ; 
 A step firm and majestical ; 
 A voice singing and musical ; 
 A soft expression, kind address ; 
 Tears for another's heaviness ; 
 Bright looks ; an action full of grace ; 
 A perfect form, a perfect face ; 
 All these become a woman well, 
 And these had Lady Isabel. 
 
 Christina Rossetti. 
 "Lady Isabella." 
 
 ISABEIvIvA. 
 
 ■\ X7 HENCE comes my love ? O heart, disclose ; 
 It was from cheeks that shamed the 
 rose. 
 From lips that spoil the ruby's praise. 
 From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze : 
 Whence comes my woe ? as freely own ; 
 Ah me ! 't was from a heart like stone. 
 
 The blushing cheek speaks modest mind, 
 The lips befitting words most kind, 
 The eye does tempt to love's desire. 
 And seems to say 'tis Cupid's fire ; 
 
5ane 193 
 
 Yet all so fair but speak my moan, 
 Sith naught doth say the heart of stone. 
 
 Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak 
 
 Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek — 
 
 Yet not a heart to save my pain ? 
 
 O Venus, take thy gifts again ! 
 
 Make not so fair to cause our moan, 
 
 Or make a heart that 's like our own. 
 
 John Harrington. 
 'lyines on Isabella Markham." 
 
 JANB. 
 
 UAR you must go, and look round you in vain 
 To find sweeter girl than my Highland lass, 
 Jane; 
 Many be summers, with bird-notes and bowers, 
 That drop in her pathway their innocent flow- 
 ers ; 
 Ever, with Truth setting seal on her brow, 
 May she be pure, and as spotless as now ! 
 
 In her blue eyes beams a soul-kindled light, 
 The lone star of eve is less placid and bright ; 
 Tinged is her lip with the red of the dawn ; 
 
194 5anet 
 
 Ligbt is her footsteps as tread of the fawn ; 
 Beauty has painted her cheek with the rose, 
 Round her a charm her own loveliness throws. 
 
 In the rich lines of that beautiful face, 
 Painter might find his true model of grace ; 
 I know that her heart with affection is warm, 
 And sculptor might study the mould of her 
 
 form : — 
 Far you must go and look around you in vain 
 To find fairer girl than my Highland lass, Jane, 
 
 W, C. H. HOSMER, 
 
 JANBT. 
 
 DEAUTIFUIvis dear Janet 
 
 As she smiling watches me, 
 Scarce a woman, more than child, 
 Modest — yet a trifle wild ; 
 
 Surely eye has never met 
 Picture fair as she. 
 
 Sunlight falls upon her head, 
 Bathing in its golden light ; 
 As upon an angel's face, 
 I, a man of mortal race. 
 
S^anet 195 
 
 Gaze in wonder till the red 
 Flashes in a torrent bright, 
 
 O'er her cheeks and o'er her brow, 
 From pure joy and happiness, 
 For she loves to be admired, 
 And but lately I 've aspired 
 To be, what she calls me now, 
 
 Husband — nothing more — nor less. 
 
 Singing sweetly to my soul, 
 Hers the sweetest voice to me, 
 What can heaven give more, I cry, 
 Oh ! that we might never die, 
 But, as endless seasons roll. 
 Only endless love foresee. 
 
 Pure in woman's purity, 
 
 By her side so dark I seem ; 
 Calm in many a trying hour, 
 Yet as fragile as a flower, 
 Childhood in maturity ; 
 Angel in a blessed dream. 
 
 Artful, without thought of harm. 
 Careless, without need of care, 
 Dark as even are her eyes, 
 And their lightest glance I prize ; 
 Soft the curve of the white arm, 
 Deepest brown her wealth of hair. 
 
10 3-can 
 
 Kind and gentle, when I feel 
 Careworn and oppressed with ill, 
 Fond of having her own way, 
 As all women are, they say, 
 To my heart I let her steal. 
 And she always has her will. 
 
 Proud as queen of eastern land, 
 Very proud indeed of me ; 
 Scornfully she looks on all 
 Who themselves her lovers call. 
 Joying in the blessed band 
 That binds her — yet is free. 
 
 Very rich is dear Janet, 
 Very rich I now am, too ; 
 
 All your wealth is this poor heart, 
 And all mine — love, do not start, 
 I 'm a lowly man as yet, 
 But so rich in having you. 
 
 Edward Willard Watson. 
 
 JEAN. 
 
 /^F a' the airts the wind can blaw 
 ^^ I dearly like the west. 
 For there the bonie lassie lives. 
 The lassie I lo'e best : 
 
5ean 197 
 
 There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 
 
 And monie a bill between ; 
 But day and night my fancy's flight 
 
 Is ever wi' my Jean. 
 
 I see her in the dewy flowers, 
 
 I see her sweet an fair ; 
 I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 
 
 I hear her charm the air : 
 There 's not a bonie flower that springs 
 
 By fountain, shaw, or green ; 
 There 's not a bonie bird that sings, 
 
 But minds me o' my Jean. 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 * I lyOve My Jean." 
 
 JEAN. 
 
 ' l\A ANG a' the lassies young and braw. 
 
 An' fair as summer's rosy beam, 
 There 's ane the bonniest o' them a' 
 
 That dwells by Manor's mountain stream. 
 Oft ha'e I gazed on her sweet face, 
 
 An' ilka time new beauties seen ; 
 For aye some new discover'd grace 
 
 Endears to me my lovely Jean. 
 
 An' oh ! to list her ev'ning sang. 
 When a' alane she gently strays 
 
igs Jennie 
 
 The yellow waving broom amang, 
 
 That blooms on Manor's flow'ry braes — 
 
 Her voice so saft, sae sweet and clear, 
 Afar in yonder bower sae green, 
 
 The mavis quits her lay to hear 
 A bonnier sang frae lovely Jean. 
 
 But it 's no her peerless face nor form, 
 
 It 's no her voice sae sweet and clear, 
 That keeps my love to her sae warm, 
 
 An' mak's her every day mair dear ; 
 It 's just the beauties o' her mind, 
 
 Her easy, winning, modest mien. 
 Her truth and constancy, which bind 
 
 My heart and soul to lovely Jean. 
 
 Peter Roger. 
 " I<ovely Jean." 
 
 JENNIE. 
 
 C OME men affect a liking 
 
 For the prim in face and mind, 
 And some prefer the striking 
 
 And the loud in womankind ; 
 Wee Madge is wooed of many, 
 
 And buxom Kate, as well. 
 And Jennie — charming Jennie — 
 
 Ah, Jennie does n't tell ! 
 
5enns 199 
 
 What eyes so bright as Daisy's, 
 
 And who as Maud so fair ? 
 Who does not sing the praises 
 
 Of Lucy's golden hair ? 
 There 's Sophie — she is witty, 
 
 A very sprite is Nell, 
 And Susie 's, oh, so pretty — 
 
 But Jennie does n't tell ! 
 
 And now for my confession : 
 
 Of all the virtues rare, 
 I argue that discretion 
 
 Doth most beseem the fair. 
 And though I hear the many 
 
 Bxtol each other belle, 
 I — I pronounce for Jennie, 
 
 For Jennie does n't tell ! 
 
 Eugene Field, 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 JENNY kissed me when we met, 
 
 Jumping from the chair she sat in ; 
 Time, you thief, who love to get 
 
 Sweets into your list, put that in : 
 Say I 'm weary, say I 'm sad, 
 
 Say that health and wealth have missed me, 
 
200 5c6Sie 
 
 Say I 'm growing old, but add, 
 Jenny kissed me. 
 
 Leigh Hunt. 
 "Jenny Kissed Me." 
 
 JESSIE. 
 
 'XHE sun has gane down o'er the lofty Ben- 
 lomond, 
 And left the red clouds to preside o'er the 
 scene, 
 While lanely I stray in the calm simmer 
 gloamin' 
 To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dum- 
 blane. 
 How sweet is the brier, wV its saft faulding blos- 
 som, 
 And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green ; 
 Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, 
 Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dum- 
 blane. 
 
 She 's modest as ony, and blithe as she 's bonny ; 
 
 For guileless simplicity marks her its ain ; 
 Aud far be the villain, divested o' feeling, 
 
 Wha 'd blight, in its bloom, the sweet flower 
 o' Dumblane. 
 
5oan 20I 
 
 Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the 
 e'euing, 
 Thou 'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood 
 glen ; 
 Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, 
 Is charming young Jessie, the flower of Dum- 
 blane. 
 
 How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie, 
 The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain ; 
 I ne'er saw a nymph I could ca' my dear lassie, 
 Till charm' d wi' sweet Jessie, the flower o' 
 Dumblane. 
 Though mine were the station o' loftiest gran- 
 deui", 
 Amidst its profusion I 'd languish in pain ; 
 And reckon as naething the height o' its 
 
 splendor. 
 If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dum- 
 blane. 
 
 Robert Tannahill. 
 
 "Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane.'' 
 
 JOAN. 
 
 /^ F her array the form if I shall write. 
 
 Towards her golden hair and rich attire, 
 In fretwise couchit with pearl is white 
 
202 3oan 
 
 And great balas learning as the fire. 
 With mony aue emeraut and fair sapphire ; 
 And on her head a chaplet fresh of hue, 
 Of plumis parted red, and white, and blue. 
 
 Full of quaking spangis bright as gold, 
 Forged of shape like to the amorets, 
 So new, so fresh, so pleasant to behold. 
 The plumis eke like to the flower jonets, 
 And other of shape, like to the flower jonets, 
 And above all this, there was, well I wot, 
 Beauty enough to make a world to dote. 
 
 About her neck, white as the fire amail, 
 A goodly chain of small orfevory, 
 Whereby there hung a ruby, without fail, 
 Like to ane heart shapen verily, 
 That as a spark of low, so wantonly 
 Seemed burning upon her white throat, 
 Now' if there was good party, God it wot. 
 
 And for to walk that fresh May's morrow, 
 Ane hook she had upon her tissue white, 
 That goodlier had not been seen to-forow, 
 As I suppose ; and girt she was alite, 
 Thus halfiugs loose for haste, to such delight 
 It was to see her 3-outh in goodlihede. 
 That for rudeness to speak thereof I dread. 
 
Joanna 203 
 
 In her was youth, beauty, with humble aport. 
 Bounty, richess, and womanly feature, 
 God better wot than my pen can report : 
 Wisdom, largess, estate, and cunning sure, 
 In every point so guided her measure, 
 In word, in deed, in shape, iu countenance, 
 That Nature might no more her child avance ! 
 
 James I. of Scotland. 
 
 From " The King's Quhair." 
 
 JOANNA. 
 
 A MID the smoke of cities did you pass 
 
 The time of early youth ; and there you 
 learned. 
 From years of quiet industry, to love 
 The living Beings by your own fireside. 
 With such a strong devotion that your heart 
 Is slow to meet the sympathies of them 
 Who look upon the hills with tenderness, 
 And make dear friendships with the streams 
 
 and groves. 
 Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind, 
 Dwelling retired in our simplicity 
 Among the woods and fields, we love you well, 
 Joanna ! and I guess, since you have been 
 So distant from us now for two long years, 
 
204 5osepbeta 
 
 That you will gladly listen to discourse, 
 
 However trivial, if you thence be taught 
 
 That they, with whom you once were happy, 
 
 talk 
 Familiarly of you and of old times. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 JOSEPHETA. 
 
 /^ REAT black eyes with looks so tender 
 ^"^ That they seem, almost, to weep ; 
 Hand that 's taper, brown, and slender, 
 
 Shades them peering up the steep. 
 From the " dobey " on the mesa. 
 Where the sun forever shines, 
 'Long the foothill, where the gazer 
 Sees amid the tangled vines 
 
 And the crooked manzanita, 
 Su Chiquita ! 
 La bonita. 
 
 There 's a little Mexic maiden, 
 Golden haired and eyes of blue, 
 
 With the summer flowers laden 
 
 Climbing down from where they grew, 
 
 Dusky-haired and dark -eyed mother — 
 Though mayhap the question 's bold — 
 
5osepbine 205 
 
 Whence those eyes of some one other, 
 Whence the shining locks of gold ? 
 Tell me, handsome Josepheta, 
 Of Chiquita, 
 La bonita. 
 
 Ah ! I see yon caballero, 
 
 Riding thither down the trail — 
 Now he lifts his broad sombrero, 
 Shouts the Saxon's hearty hail, 
 And the flax-haired caballero 
 Has Chiquita's eyes of blue. 
 Shaded by his slouch sombrero — 
 Pretty answer that is, too, 
 
 For the handsome Josepheta, 
 And Chiquita, 
 La bonita. 
 
 Will Visscher. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 •THERE was a France, there was a queen, 
 
 There was another Josephine, 
 Whose gentle love and tender art 
 Subdued Napoleon's soldier heart. 
 
2o6 3-osepbine 
 
 But she of France was ne'er, I ween, 
 Fairer than thou — my Josephine ; 
 To storm thy heart I '11 boldly plan — 
 God ! if I were the Corsican ! 
 
 Robert I^oveman. 
 " My Josephine." 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 HTHERE 's not a moment of my life 
 
 But that my mem'ry, fond and true, 
 Like some lone bird that seeks its mate 
 
 Flies on the wings of love to you. 
 I see your fair and faultless form, 
 
 In all my dreams your face is seen ; 
 I breathe your name in ev'ry pray'r. 
 
 My own, my darling Josephine. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 O ! Josephine, my own fair queen, 
 I swear by heav'n above you 
 
 My heart is true, sweet girl, to you, 
 Josephine, I love you. 
 
 O ! when I see your soul-lit eyes 
 In all their beauty on me shine, 
 
5uDitb 207 
 
 I feel as if some angel fair 
 
 Had come to give her smiles for mine. 
 But when our lips give kiss for kiss, 
 
 And life is happy and serene, 
 All earth becomes a Heaven then. 
 
 And you 're its angel, Josephine. 
 
 Will S, Hays. 
 " I L,ove You, Josephine." 
 
 JUDITH. 
 
 "\A/HBN she had gained her chamber she 
 ^ ^ threw off 
 
 The livery of sorrow for her lord. 
 The cruel sackcloth that begirt her limbs. 
 And from those ashen colors issuing forth, 
 Seemed like a golden butterfly new-slipt 
 From its dull chrysalis. Then, after bath, 
 She braided in the darkness of her hair 
 A thread of opals ; on her rounded breast 
 Spilt precious ointment ; and put on the robes 
 Whose rustling made her pause, half-garmented, 
 To dream a moment of her bridal morn. 
 Of snow-white silk stuff were her robes, and rich 
 With delicate branch- work, silver-frosted star. 
 And many a broidered lily-of-the vale. 
 
2o8 5uDitb 
 
 These things became her as the scent the rose, 
 For fairest things are beauty's natural dower. 
 The sun that through the jealous casement stole 
 Fawned on the Hebrew woman as she stood, 
 Toyed with the oval pendant at her ear, 
 And, like a lover, stealing to her lips 
 Taught them a deeper crimson ; then slipt down 
 The tremulous lilies to the sandal straps 
 That bound her snowy ankles. 
 
 Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 
 From "Judith." 
 
 JUDITH. 
 
 /^ HER eyes are amber-fine — 
 
 Dark and deep as wells of wine, 
 "While her smile is like the noon 
 Splendor of a day of June. 
 If she sorrow — lo ! her face 
 It is like a flowery space 
 In bright meadows, overlaid 
 With light clouds and lulled with shade. 
 If she laugh — it is the thrill 
 Of the wayward whippoorwill 
 Over upland pastures, heard 
 Kchoed by the mocking-bird 
 In dim thickets dense with bloom 
 And blurred cloyings of perfume. 
 
5ulia 209 
 
 If she sigh — a zephyr swells 
 
 Over odorous asphodels 
 
 And wan lilies in lush plots 
 
 Of moon-drown'd forget-me-nots. 
 
 Then, the soft touch of her hand — 
 
 Takes all breath to understand 
 
 What to liken it thereto ! — 
 
 Never re jeleaf rinsed with dew 
 
 Might slip soother-suave than slips 
 
 Her slow palm, the while her lips 
 
 Swoon through mine, with kiss on kiss * 
 
 Sweet as heated honey is. 
 
 James Whitcomb Riley. 
 
 JUIvIA. 
 
 C OMB asked me where the rubies grew, 
 
 And nothing I did say. 
 But with my finger pointed to 
 The lips of Julia. 
 
 Some asked how pearls did grow, and where ; 
 
 Then spake I to my girl. 
 To part her lips, and shew me there 
 
 The quarelets of pearl. 
 
2IO Julia 
 
 One asked me where the roses grew ; 
 
 I bade him not go seek ; 
 But forthwith bade my Julia shew 
 
 A bud in either cheek. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 /^ YOU, who know such Mays as blow 
 ^^^ The cowslips by the ways, dear, 
 The mountain-pink whose heart, you 'd think, 
 The thorn -pierced sparrow's blood did drink. 
 In their wise way, how — can you say? — 
 
 Is it you 're like such Mays, dear ? 
 In moods that run from shade to sun, 
 A thoughtful gloom ; like wild perfume, 
 A winning smile that laughs down guile — 
 
 Dear day ! so go such da3'S, dear. 
 In you some song keeps trying long, 
 
 Like some song bird, for flight, child ; 
 And when you speak all up your cheek 
 A crystal blush will faintly flush 
 So saintly sweet ! and at your feet 
 
 All shadow turns to light, child. 
 You may not know, but it is so, 
 If you but look, hark ! far a brook 
 Foams white through buds ! for of the woods 
 
 I know you are some sprite, child. 
 
Jiiiict 211 
 
 Yes, yes ; I swear that what 's your hair 
 
 Is but the soft-spun wind, love : 
 Wh}', when you move it is as Love 
 Hid in your grace and feet to face 
 Peeped roguishly ; and well I see 
 
 This Love is not a blind Love. 
 Laugh, and I hear, in each pink ear 
 Wood-blossoms strain, dew-words of rain 
 Slip musical, for you are all 
 
 Of music to my mind, love. 
 
 Max>ison Cawein. 
 
 JULIET. 
 
 pOMEO. But, soft! what light through 
 
 yonder window breaks ! 
 It is the east, and Juliet is the sun ! 
 Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon. 
 Who is already sick and pale with grief, 
 That thou her maid art far more fair than she : 
 Be not her maid since she is envious ; 
 Her vestal livery is but sick and green. 
 And none but fools do wear it ; cast it off. 
 It is my lady ; O ! it is my love : 
 O, that she knew she were ! 
 
 She speaks, yet she says nothing ! What of that ? 
 Her eye discourses, I will answer it. 
 
212 5uliet 
 
 I am too bold, 't is not to me she speaks : 
 
 Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, 
 
 Having some business, do entreat her eyes 
 
 To twinkle in their spheres till they return. 
 
 What if her eyes were there, they in her head ? 
 
 The brightness of her cheek would shame those 
 
 stars. 
 
 As daylight doth a lamp ; her eye in heaven 
 
 Would through the airy region stream so bright, 
 
 That birds would sing and think it were not 
 
 night. 
 
 William Shakespeare. 
 From "Romeo and Juliet." 
 
 JULIET. 
 
 T SEK you, Juliet, still, with your straw hat | 
 
 Loaded with vines, and with your dear pale 
 face, 
 On which those thirty years so lightly sat, ^ 
 
 And the white outline of your muslin dress. 
 You wore a \\ti\e Jichu trimmed with lace 
 And crossed in front, as was the fashion then, 
 Bound at your waist with a broad band or sash. 
 All white and fresh and virginally plain. 
 There was a sound of shouting far away 
 Down in the valley, as they called to us, 
 
5une 213 
 
 And you, with hands clasped seeming still to 
 
 pray 
 Patience of fate, stood listening to me thus 
 With heaving bosom. There a rose lay curled. 
 It was the reddest rose in all the world. 
 
 Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 *' lUNK ! June ! " the birds are singing, 
 
 All this long summer day ; 
 "June ! June ! " the woods are ringing 
 
 The echo of each lay. 
 Where is the charming maiden ? 
 
 Will she come to me soon ? 
 Return oh, dear, love-laden 
 
 Incomparable June ! 
 
 Her mind a noble shrine is 
 
 For all that 's pure and good ; 
 Her heart a holy sign is 
 
 Of Love's most sacred mood. 
 Her name is but a token 
 
 For L/ife's most perfect rune, 
 And e'er so lightly spoken 
 
 I love the name of June. 
 
 Douglas Morrow. 
 
214 1Rate 
 
 KATE. 
 
 T KNOW her by her angry air, 
 
 Her bright black eyes, her bright black 
 hair, 
 Her rapid laughters wild and shrill, 
 As laughters of the woodpecker 
 From the bosom of a hill. 
 'T is Kate — she sayeth what she will : 
 For Kate hath an unbridled tongue, 
 Clear as the twanging of a harp. 
 Her heart is like a throbbing star. 
 Kate hath a spirit ever strung 
 
 Ivike a new bow, and bright and sharp 
 As edges of the scymetar. 
 Whence shall she take a fitting mate ? 
 For Kate no common love will feel ; 
 My woman-soldier, gallant Kate, 
 As pure and true as blades of steel. 
 
 Kate saith "the world is void of might." 
 
 Kate saith "the men are gilded flies." 
 Kate snaps her fingers at my vows ; — 
 
 Kate will not hear of lovers' sighs. 
 I would I were an armed knight, 
 
 Far famed for well won enterprise. 
 And wearing on my swarthy brows 
 
 The garland of new-wreathed emprise ; 
 
Ikatbarine 215 
 
 For in a moment I would pierce 
 The blackest files of clanging fight, 
 
 And strongly strike to left and right, 
 In dreaming of my lady's eyes. 
 
 Oh ! Kate loves well the bold and fierce ; 
 But nc le are bold enough for Kate, 
 
 She can not find a fitting mate. 
 
 Alfred (I,ord) Tennyson^. 
 
 KATHARINE. 
 
 "\ A7B see you as we see a face 
 
 That trembles in a forest place 
 Upon the mirror of a pool 
 Forever quiet, clear and cool ; 
 And in the wayward glass, appears 
 To hover between smiles and tears, 
 Blfin and human, airy and true. 
 And backed by the reflected blue. 
 
 Robert I^ouis Stevenson. 
 
 o 
 
 KATHERINE. 
 
 H, tender, trustful face and steady eyes. 
 The angels must have kissed thee in thy 
 sleep, 
 
2i6 Ikatblcen 
 
 And through the slow hours of the weary day 
 That gentle talisman thou still dost keep. 
 Through lowliest ways of life thou wanderest, 
 A Una, clothed in peace and patience sweet, 
 And lo, the darksome forest is thy friend. 
 And Discord crouches reverent at thy feet. 
 As shell within its tiny spiral holds 
 The everlasting murmur of the sea, 
 The music that controls the circling spheres 
 Finds room to round its harmony in thee. 
 
 L,ILY A. IvONG. 
 
 KATHLEEN. 
 
 |\/l Y Kathleen dearest ! in truth or seeming, 
 No brighter vision e'er blessed my eyes 
 Than she for whom in Elysian dreaming 
 
 Thy tranced lover too fondly sighs. 
 Oh ! Kathleen fairest ! if elfin splendor 
 
 Hath ever broken my heart's repose, 
 'T was in the darkness, ere, purely tender, 
 
 Thy smile, like moonlight o'er ocean, rose. 
 
 Since first I met thee thou knowest thine are 
 This passion-music, each pulse's thrill — 
 
 The flowers seem brighter, the stars diviner, 
 And God and nature more glorious still. 
 
Ikatbleen 217 
 
 I see around me new fountains gushing — 
 More jewels spangle the robes of night ; 
 
 Strange harps are pealing — fresh roses blush- 
 ing- 
 Young worlds emerging in purer light. 
 
 No more thy song-bird in clouds shall hover ; 
 
 Oh ! give him shelter upon thy breast, 
 And bid him swiftly — his long flight over — 
 
 From Heaven drop into that love-built nest. 
 Ivike fairy flow'rets is love thou fearest, 
 
 At once that springeth like mine from earth ; 
 'T is friendship's ivy grows slowly, dearest. 
 
 But love and lightning have instant birth. 
 
 Thy mirthful fancy and artless gesture. 
 
 Hair black as tempest, and swanlike breast, 
 More graceful folded in simplest vesture 
 
 Thau proudest bosoms in diamonds drest. 
 Not these, the varied and rare possession 
 
 1^0 ve gave to conquer, are thine alone ; 
 But, oh ! there crowns thee divine expression, 
 
 As saints a halo, that 's all thine own. 
 
 Thou art as poets in olden story 
 
 Have pictured women before the fall — 
 
 Her angel beauty's divinest glory — 
 
 The pure soul shining, like God, through all. 
 
2i8 Ikatbrina 
 
 But vainl}', humblest of leaflets springing, 
 I sing the queenliest flower of love : 
 
 Thus soars the skylark, presumptuous singing 
 The orient morning enthroned above. 
 
 Yet hear, propitious, beloved maiden, 
 
 The minstrel's passion is pure as strong, 
 Through nature fated, his heart, love-laden, 
 
 Must break, or utter its woes in song. 
 Farewell ! if never my soul may cherish 
 
 The dreams that bade me to love aspire. 
 By memory's altar ! thou shalt not perish. 
 
 First Irish pearl of my Irish lyre ! 
 
 Richard D 'Alton Williams. 
 
 KATHRINA. 
 
 C HB w^as my peer 
 
 
 No weakling girl who would surrender will 
 
 And life and reason, with her loving heart. 
 To her possessor ; no soft, clinging thing 
 Who would find breath alone within the arms 
 Of a strong master, and obediently 
 "Wait on his whims in slavish carefulness ; 
 No fawning, cringing spaniel, to attend 
 His royal pleasure, and account herself 
 Rewarded by his pats and pretty words, — 
 
Ikitti? 219 
 
 But a round woman, who, with insight keen, 
 Had wrought a scheme of life, and measured 
 
 well 
 Her womanhood ; had spread before her feet 
 A fine philosophy to guide her steps ; 
 Had won a faith to which her life was brought 
 In strict adjustment, brain and heart meanwhile 
 Working in conscious harmony and rhythm 
 With the great sc leme of God's great universe, 
 On towards her being's end. 
 
 JosiAH Gilbert Holland. 
 From '' Kathrina." 
 
 KITTY. 
 
 JWIAID of all m^ids! — and the wide earth is 
 ^^^ full of them 
 
 Tender and witching, and slender and tall — 
 I know a maid takes the shine off the whole of 
 them ; 
 Kitty, agra, you outrival them all. 
 Pretty and sweet are you, neat and complete 
 are you, 
 Type of the grace of an old Irish stock ; 
 Rich are you, rare are you, fresh are you, fair 
 are you — 
 Kitty, agra, you 're the flower of the flock. 
 
220 Ikitt^ 
 
 When I kneel down at Mass, where are my 
 thoughts, alas? 
 Naught but the light of a bright face I see ; 
 All that my praying is, all that I 'm saying is, 
 "God bless sweet Kitty, and keep her for 
 me." 
 Hourly I sigh for you, proudly I 'd die for you. 
 
 Joyfully lay down my life on the block ; 
 King on his throne for you true love might 
 own for you, 
 Reigning alone for you, flov/er of the flock. 
 
 Maid of all maidens, my life is entwined in 
 thine, 
 Turning to thee like the flowers to the sun ; 
 Tell me, oh ! tell me, thy heart is enshrined in 
 mine — 
 Tell me, asthore, we had better be one. 
 Come with me, roam with me, over the foam 
 vnth me, 
 Come to my home with me, near Carrig rock. 
 Light of my life to be sweetheart and wife to 
 be, 
 Free from all life to be, flower of the flock. 
 
 Francis A. Fahy. 
 " The Flower of the Flock." 
 
Xalagd 221 
 
 lyAIvAG^. 
 
 IF whole in life and free from sin, 
 
 Man needs no Moorish bow, nor dart, 
 Nor quiver, carrying death within 
 By poison's art. 
 
 Though frowning Caucasus he treads. 
 And boiling Syrtes hath defied, 
 Been, Fuscus, where Hydaspes spreads 
 His mythic tide. 
 
 In Sabine woods, and fancy-free, 
 A wolf observed my wandering tread ; 
 Unarmed, I sang of Lalage ; 
 He saw, and fled. 
 
 Such portent in the oaken grove. 
 Hath martial Daunia never known ; 
 Nor Juba's land, where lions rove 
 The thirsty zone. 
 
 Place me, where desert wastes forbid 
 One tree to breathe the summer wind, 
 Where fogs the land and seas have hid, 
 With Jove unkind ; 
 
222 Xalage 
 
 Or, where the sun so near would be, 
 
 That none to build or dwell may dare ; 
 
 Thy voice, thy smile, my Lalage, 
 
 I '11 love them there. 
 
 Horace. 
 Translated by W. E. Gladstone. 
 
 IvAIvAGE. 
 
 "VKTHAT were sweet life without her 
 
 Who maketh all things sweet 
 With smiles that dream about her, 
 
 With dreams that come and fleet ! 
 Soft moods that end in languor ; 
 
 Soft words that end in sighs ; 
 Curved frownings as in anger ; 
 
 Cold silence of her eyes. 
 
 ■^ Sweet eyes born but for slaying, 
 
 Deep violet-dark and lost 
 In dreams of whilom Maying 
 
 In climes unstung of frost. 
 Wild eyes shot through wdth fire 
 
 God's light in godless years, 
 Brimmed wine-dark with desire, 
 
 A birth for dreams and tears. 
 
Xalage 223 
 
 Dear tears as sweet as laughter, 
 
 Low laughter sweet as love 
 Unwound in ripples after 
 
 Sad tears we knew not of. 
 What if the day be lawless, 
 
 What if the heart be dead, 
 Such tears would make it flawless, 
 
 Such laughter make it red. 
 
 Lips that were curled for kisses, 
 
 For loves, and hates, and scorns, 
 Brows under gold of tresses. 
 
 Brows as beauteous as the Morn's. 
 Imperial locks and tangled 
 
 Down to the graceful hips ; 
 Hair where one might be strangled 
 
 Carousing on thy lips. 
 
 Rose-lovely lips that hover 
 
 About the honeyed words, 
 That slip wild bees from clover 
 
 Whose sweets their sweet affords. 
 Though days be robbed of sunlight, 
 
 White teeth make light thereof; 
 Though nights unknown of onelight. 
 
 Thine eyes were stars enough. 
 
 Ah, lily-lovely features. 
 
 Round temples, throat, and chin. 
 
224 Xaura 
 
 Sweet gods of godless natures, 
 Sweet love of loveless men ! 
 
 Still moods and slumberous fanned on 
 To dreams that rock to sleep, 
 
 Unmerciful abandon, 
 That haunts or makes one weep. 
 
 She walks as if with sorrows, 
 
 And all unknown of joy ; 
 Byes fixed on dim to-morrows 
 
 That all sad feet decoy. 
 Yet she, a peer of pleasures, 
 
 Tears from Time's taloned hand 
 The hour-glass he treasures, 
 
 And wastes its sullen sand. 
 
 Madison Cawein. 
 
 LAURA. 
 
 r\OTH any maiden seek the glorious fame 
 Of chastity, of strength, of courtesy? 
 Gaze in the eyes of that sweet enemy 
 
 Whom all the world doth as my lady name ! 
 How honor grows, and pure devotion's flame, 
 How truth is joined with graceful dignity. 
 There thou may'st learn, and what the path 
 may be 
 
Xaura 225 
 
 To that bigh heaven which doth her spirit 
 claim ; 
 There learn soft speech, beyond all poet's 
 skill, 
 And softer silence, and those holy ways 
 Unutterable, untold by human heart. 
 
 But the infinite beauty that all eyes doth fill. 
 This none can copy ! since its lovely rays 
 Are given by God's pure grace, and not by art. 
 
 Francesco Petrarca. 
 Translated by Thomas Wentworth Higginson. 
 
 LAURA. 
 
 IZ ATE is like a violet, Gertrude 's like a rose, 
 
 Jane is like a gillyflower smart ; 
 But Laura 's like a lily, the purest bud that blows. 
 Whose white, white petals veil the golden 
 heart. 
 
 Girls in the garden — one and two and three — 
 One for song and one for play and oue — ah, one 
 
 for me ! 
 Gillyflowers and violets and roses fair and fine, 
 But only one a lily, and that one lily mine ! 
 
 Bertha is a hollyhock, stately, tall, and fair, 
 Mabel has the daisy's dainty grace, 
 
226 Xaurella 
 
 Edith has the gold of the sunflower on her hair, 
 
 But Laura wears the lily in her face. 
 Girls in the garden — five and six and seven — 
 Three to take, and three to give, but one — ah ! 
 
 one is giveu- 
 Hollyhocks and daisies, and sunflowers like the 
 
 sun, 
 But only one a lily, and that one lily won. 
 
 B. Nesbit Bland. 
 "A Garden of Girls." 
 
 IvAUREIvLA. 
 
 I AURELLA, thou art wild and coy, 
 
 But to thy mother tame ; 
 Thou knowest naught of the sad joy 
 And madness of love's flame. 
 
 How free thy hair floats in the breeze ! 
 
 Thy eyelashes droop low, 
 Nor man nor maiden ever sees 
 
 The thoughts that 'neath them glow. 
 
 Thy teeth, fresh ruby lips between. 
 As snow are gleaming white ; 
 
 And now, like a young gipsy queen, 
 Dancing thou takest flight. 
 
Xavinia 227 
 
 If some rude boy but look on thee 
 Thy cheek with crimson glows ; 
 
 If he but speak straight thou dost flee, 
 As pale as the primrose. 
 
 Paul Johann I^udwig Heyse. 
 Translated by J. L. Spalding. 
 
 LAVINIA. 
 
 T^HOUGHTLESS of beauty, she was Beauty's 
 
 ^ self, 
 
 Recluse amid the close-embowering woods. 
 
 As in the hollow breast of Apennine, 
 
 Beneath the shelter of encircling hills, 
 
 A myrtle rises, far from human eyes, 
 
 And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild ; 
 
 So flourished blooming, and unseen by all, 
 
 The sweet lyavinia. 
 
 James Thomson. 
 
 From " The Seasons." 
 
 LEILA. 
 
 OER eye's dark charm 't were vain to tell, 
 
 But gaze on that of the gazelle. 
 It will assist the fancy well : 
 
228 Xeila 
 
 As large, as languishingly dark, 
 
 But soul beamed forth in every spark 
 
 That darted from beneath the lid, 
 
 Bright as the jewel of Giamschid. 
 
 Yea, sold, and should our Prophet say 
 
 That form was naught but breathing clay, 
 
 By Allah ! I would answer Nay ; 
 
 Though on Al-Sirat's arch I stood, 
 
 "Which totters o'er the fiery flood. 
 
 With Paradise within my view, 
 
 And all his houris beckoning through. 
 
 Oh ! who young Lelia's glance could read 
 
 And keep that portion of his creed. 
 
 Which saith that woman is but dust, 
 
 A soulless toy for tyrant's lust ? 
 
 On her might muftis gaze, and own 
 
 That through her eye the Immortal shone ; 
 
 On her fair cheek's unfading hue 
 
 The young pomegranate's blossoms strew 
 
 Their bloom in blushes ever new : 
 
 Her hair in h3"acinthine flow. 
 
 When left to roll its folds below, 
 
 As midst her handmaids in the hall 
 
 She stood superior to them all, 
 
 Hath swept the marble where her feet 
 
 Gleamed whiter than the mountain sleet, 
 
 Ere from the cloud that gave it birth 
 
 It fell, and caught one stain of earth. 
 
 The cygnet nobly walks the water : 
 
Xeoline 229 
 
 So moved on earth Circassia's daughter, 
 The loveliest bird of Franguestan ! 
 As rears her crest the ruffled swan, 
 
 And spurns the wave with wings of pride, 
 When pass the steps of stranger man 
 
 Along the banks that bound her tide ; 
 Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck — 
 Thus armed with beauty would she check 
 Intrusion's glance, till Folly's gaze 
 Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 "The Giaour." 
 
 LEOLINK. 
 
 IN the molten-golden moonlight, 
 
 In the deep grass warm and drj', 
 We watched the firefly rise and swim 
 
 In floating sparkles by. 
 All night the hearts of nightingales, 
 
 Song-steeping, slumberous leaves, 
 Flowed to us in the shadow there 
 
 Below the cottage-eaves. 
 
 We sang our songs together 
 
 Till the stars shook in the skies. 
 
 We spoke — we spoke of common things, 
 Yet the tears were in our eyes. 
 
230 TLcoUnc 
 
 And my hand — I know it trembled 
 To each light, warm touch of thine ; 
 
 But we were friends, and only friends, 
 My sweet friend, Leoline ! 
 
 How large the white moon looked, dear ! 
 
 There has not ever been. 
 Since those old nights, the same great light 
 
 In the moons which I have seen. 
 I often wonder when I think, ^ 
 
 If you have thought so too, 
 And the moonlight has grown dimmer, dear, 
 
 Than it used to be to you. 
 
 And sometimes, when the warm west-wind 
 
 Comes faint across the sea, 
 It seems that you have breathed on it, 
 
 So sweet it comes to me. 
 And sometimes, when the long light wanes 
 
 In one deep crimson line, 
 I muse, "And does she watch it too. 
 
 Far oflf, sweet lycoline ? " 
 
 And often, leaning all day long 
 
 My head upon my hands. 
 My heart aches for the vanished time 
 
 In the far, fair foreign lands ; 
 Thinking sadly — "Is she happy ? 
 
 Has she tears for those old hours ? 
 
Xeoline 231 
 
 And the cottage in the starlight? 
 And the songs among the flowers ? " 
 
 One night we sat below the porch, 
 
 And out in that warm air 
 A firefly, like a dying star, 
 
 Fell tangled in her hair ; 
 But I kissed him lightly off" again, 
 
 And he glittered up the vine. 
 And died into the darkness 
 
 For the love of Leoline ! 
 
 Between two songs of Petrarch 
 
 r ve a purple rose-leaf pressed. 
 More sweet than common rose-leaves. 
 
 For it once lay in her breast. 
 When she gave me that her eyes were wet ; 
 
 The rose was full of dew. 
 The rose is withered long ago ! 
 
 The page is blistered, too. 
 
 There 's a blue flower in my garden, 
 
 The bee loves more than all ; 
 The bee and I, we love it both, 
 
 Though it is frail and small. 
 She loved it, too — long, long ago ; 
 
 Her love was less than mine. 
 Still we were friends, but only friends, 
 
 My lost love, Leoline ! 
 
 Robert Bulwer IvYtton. 
 
232 Xeonora 
 
 LEONORA. 
 
 I EONORA, Leonora, 
 
 How the word rolls — Leonora- 
 Liou-like, in full-mouthed sound, 
 Marching o'er the metric ground. 
 With a tawny tread sublime — 
 So your name moves, Leonora, 
 Down my desert rhyme. 
 
 So you pace, young Leonora, 
 Through the alleys of the wood, 
 Head erect, majestic, tall, 
 The fit daughter of the Hall ; 
 Yet with hazel eyes declined, 
 And a voice like the summer wind, 
 And a meek mouth, sweet and good, 
 Dimpling ever, Leonora, 
 In fair womanhood. 
 
 How those smiles dance, Leonora, 
 As you meet the pleasant breeze 
 Under your ancestral trees ; 
 For your heart is free and pure 
 As this blue March sky o'erhead, 
 And in the life-path you tread. 
 All the leaves are budding, sure, 
 All the primroses are springing, 
 
Xesbia 233 
 
 All the birds begin their singing — 
 'T is your spring-time, Leonora, 
 May it long endure. 
 
 Dinah Maria Mulock (Craik). 
 From ' ' Leonora. ' ' 
 
 LESBIA. 
 
 ' CORK thee I cast the purple royal of my 
 
 muse, 
 'Fore thee I breathless stand too mute to kneel. 
 I speak, indeed, to thee, but with mine ardent 
 
 glance 
 Whose loyalty is based upon thy weal. 
 To dream of thee and die is not so much to ask ; 
 To hope for thee and live ! O, may it be my 
 
 task! 
 
 'Fore thee I cast the purple royal of my muse, 
 As pure as angel-thoughts that praise inspire. 
 And strong as that which spurs the glitt'ring 
 
 spheres of God 
 On their eternal inference of desire ; 
 Divine of thee has wrought divine of me like 
 
 light. 
 That from the tossing wave reflects again at 
 
 night. 
 
234 Xilia 
 
 'Fore thee I cast the purple royal of my muse. 
 No churl's cheap cloak with flimsy tinsel spread, 
 Kor one that to the wealth of shops a slav'ry 
 
 owes, 
 But rich or poor with it, the legend 's read ; 
 If Love but lifts this trophy so divinely rare, 
 The act crowns Love, and Love herself writes 
 
 " Genius'''' there. 
 
 Forsyth de Fronsac. 
 
 LILIA. 
 
 I ILIA, come when the day is breaking, 
 
 Dawn may not shine on the blooms with- 
 out thee, 
 Under thy radiance, all blushing and waking, 
 Buds from their crimson a new summer see ; 
 And this heart o' mine, 
 All whose pulses are thine. 
 Will send out to welcome thee love all in 
 flowers ; 
 Till, borne to my arms, 
 I wish but thy charms 
 To scatter the shadows from life's morning 
 hours. 
 
 Lilia, come when the day is fading. 
 
 Darkness can ne'er be companion to thee ; 
 
Lilian 235 
 
 Glooms of the eve are but Nature's soft shading, 
 Brighter to picture the smile kept for me ; 
 
 And that heart o' thine, 
 
 All whose pulses are mine. 
 Will bring me the chalice of joy running o'er ; 
 
 Be mine but the blessing 
 
 Thy blush is repressing, 
 And this life that loves thee is blest evermore. 
 
 A. Stephen Wilson. 
 
 LIIvIAN. 
 
 A IRY, fairy Lilian, 
 
 Flitting, fairy Lilian, 
 When I ask her if she love me, 
 Clasps her tiny hands above me, 
 
 Laughing all she can ; 
 She '11 not tell me if she love me, 
 Cruel little Lilian. 
 
 2. 
 
 When my passion seeks 
 
 Pleasance in love-sighs, 
 
 She, looking thro' and thro' me 
 
236 Xilian 
 
 Thoroughly to undo me, 
 
 Smiling, never speaks : 
 So iunocent-arch, so cunning-simple. 
 From beneath her gather' d wimple 
 Glancing with black-beaded eyes, 
 Till the lightning laughters dimple 
 The baby-roses in her cheeks ; 
 • Then away she flies. 
 
 Prythee weep, May Lilian ! 
 Gayety without eclipse 
 
 Wearieth me, May Lilian : 
 Thro' my very heart it thrilleth 
 
 When from crimson-threaded lips 
 Silver-treble laughter trilleth : 
 
 Prythee weep. May Lilian. 
 
 Praying all I can, 
 If prayers will not hush thee. 
 
 Airy Lilian, 
 Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, 
 
 Fairy Lilian. 
 
 Alfrkd (L,ord) Tennyson. 
 
XiUan 237 
 
 LILIAN. 
 
 \X7HENEVBR the south wind blows, 
 ^ ^ Straight to the cliff I hie ; 
 A little back from the edge, 
 
 On the brown turf, down I lie ; 
 
 And there I ponder and muse ; 
 
 I hear what the South has to say : 
 To me it is seldom news, 
 
 For I hear it every day. 
 
 Lilian thinks 't is the stir — 
 
 The eternal sound of the sea : — 
 
 'T is not of the sea, but of her, 
 And her virgin love for me. 
 
 James Herbert Morse. 
 
 LILITH. 
 
 T WANDERING in a certain waste alone 
 ' In lands deserted, where no wild bird 
 called, 
 Before the desolation stood appalled 
 That stretched away in dreary monotone ; 
 The wind went muttering like a withered crone 
 And stunted trees in grayish moss were 
 shawled, 
 
238 %\na 
 
 A marshy mist, slow moving, upward crawled, 
 And sullen nature brooded, turned to stone. 
 
 But on a sudden, by a swampy space, 
 In weaving lines of breezy disarray, 
 A host of saffron lilies thronged the air, 
 And I bethought me of a woman's face 
 As fair, as sweet, as languorous as they, 
 The sunlight on her tangled yellow hair. 
 
 Krnest McGaffey. 
 
 LINA. 
 
 I INA, rival of the linnet, 
 
 When these lays shall reach thy hand, 
 Please transfer them to the spinnet. 
 
 Where thy friend was wont to stand. 
 
 Set the diapason ringing. 
 
 Ponder not the words you see. 
 
 Give them utterance by thy singing, 
 Then each leaf belongs to thee. 
 
 With the life of music fill them ; 
 
 Cold the written verses seem. 
 That, would Ivina deign to trill them. 
 
 Might be trancing as a dream. 
 
 JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE. 
 
Xisa 239 
 
 IvISA. 
 
 T THR heart, her mind, her voice, her looks! 
 
 Her hundred virtues sweet as nard ! 
 Could I but set them down in books, 
 
 The world would need no other bard, 
 And I, secure with fadeless bays, 
 Be hailed immortal through her praise. 
 
 Charles G. Blanden. 
 
 LISETTE. 
 
 'VKTH.'EN Love in myrtle shades reposed. 
 
 His bow and darts behind him slung ; 
 As dewy twilight round him closed, 
 
 Lisette these numbers sung : 
 **0 Love ! thy sylvan bower 
 I '11 fly while I 've the power ; 
 Thy primrose way leads maids where they 
 Love, honor, and obey ! " 
 
 *' Escape," the boy-god said, " is vain," 
 
 And shook the diamonds from his wings : 
 
 " I '11 bind thee captive in my train, 
 Fairest of earthly things ! " 
 
 " Go, saucy archer, go ! 
 
 I freedom's value know : 
 
240 Xt33ie 
 
 Begone, I pray — to none I '11 say 
 * Love, honor, and obey ! ' " 
 
 " Speed, arrow, to thy mark ! " he cried — 
 
 Swift as a ray of light it flew ! 
 Love spread his purple pinions wide, 
 
 And faded from her view ! 
 Joy filled that maiden's eyes — 
 Twin load-stars from the skies ! — 
 And one bright day her lips did say, 
 " lyove, honor, and obey ! " 
 
 George P. Morris. 
 
 LIZZIE. 
 
 /^H, who can paint the picture of my pet, 
 As 'mid the grey-green hay she childlike 
 kneels, 
 Who shows a dainty slipper, then conceals 
 'Neath tangled grass its celadon rosette ? 
 A soft, white robe, a broidered chemisette 
 
 Scarce veils her rounded bosom, as it steals 
 A subtle charm it only half reveals — 
 As sweet and modest as the violet ! 
 
 A gipsy hat casts shadows, pearly grey, 
 
 Across the golden sunshine of her smile, 
 
%0i3 241 
 
 Her glance e'en cynics dare not disobey, 
 Her dimples even iron hearts beguile — 
 
 A dainty despot on a throne of hay, 
 
 Who conquers all by magic girlish wile ! 
 
 J. Ashby-Sterry. 
 
 IvOIS. 
 
 T 
 
 HB day when Lois walked with me 
 September skies were blue ; 
 The woodbine on the wayside wall 
 Had found its autumn hue. 
 
 In gown of changing green and rose 
 
 And undersleeves of white, 
 With skirt in loose and flowing folds, 
 
 And bodice trim and tight, — 
 
 Her low-combed hair was just the shade 
 
 Of fallen chestnut burs ; 
 The cheeks of mellow astrakans 
 
 Are not more ripe than hers. 
 
 It seemed the mushrooms showed their caps 
 
 To win her eyes of brown, 
 And for one look into their depths. 
 
 The orchard bouafhs bent down. 
 
242 Uora 
 
 A blossom of the early fall 
 
 That later days would chill, 
 Dear girl, somewhere those eyes must wear 
 
 A gleam of summer still. 
 
 Cora A. Matson. 
 " A Memory of L,ois." 
 
 IvORA. 
 
 L 
 
 ORA is her name that slips 
 Nearly love between the lips ; 
 You must know she is so wise 
 All she does is lift her eyes 
 At her name and that replies — 
 
 She 's so wise, is Lora. 
 
 Lora is her name that makes 
 All the heart a chord that shakes ; 
 When she speaks, she is so blessed, 
 Life's hard riddle none has guessed 
 Softens, and the soul 's caressed 
 By the words of L/Ora. 
 
 Lora is her name that brings 
 Kisses as of airy things. 
 Honeyed hum of bees that deep 
 
Xorraine 243 
 
 In the rumpled blue-bells creep, 
 Buoyant sun-hearts forests keep 
 For their shadows' lives, such leap 
 In the life of Lora. 
 
 Lora, when I find your face, 
 Round your white neck I will lace 
 One firm arm, and so will woo 
 Your small mouth, as fresh as dew, 
 With quick kisses, love, that you 
 Follow must where hearts are true, 
 
 Somewhere, somewhere, Lora. 
 
 Madison Cawein. 
 
 LORRAINE. 
 
 I CANNOT paint thee as I would : the hue 
 That blooms upon thy cheek, is but the 
 
 glow 
 From thy translucent spirit, — flushes that flow 
 From the pure chastity of womanhood ; 
 Lustre from vestal flames, that, fed anew, 
 Perpetual burn, though hidden from the view. 
 So still a spirit, such meek brightness would 
 Chasten the gazer to a kindred mood. 
 An eye brimmed with the calm of placid love. 
 Unmixed with passion or wdth thoughts that 
 
 rove ; 
 
244 Xottic 
 
 Pure lips, whose ruddy fulness thread with bliss 
 The loving thoughts they coin to words ; that 
 
 kiss 
 With cleansing pressure all the ambient air, 
 And make about a purer atmosphere. 
 A soul serene, Madonna-like, enshrined 
 In her dear self ; at ease and free from pain ; — 
 Such is our golden one, our dear I/Orraine. 
 
 Francis Allen Hillard. 
 
 LOTTIE. 
 
 **/^H, Lottie is fair as the morning, 
 ^^^ And Lottie is bright as the sun ; 
 
 Her cheeks all the roses are scorning, 
 Her eyes dance with frolic and fun. 
 
 " She fills all the day with her chatter, 
 With laughter the pauses between, 
 
 And care to the four winds doth scatter — 
 For Lottie is merry sixteen." 
 
 But what though Miss Lottie is pretty ? 
 
 And what though Miss Lottie is bright ? 
 And what though she really be witty, 
 
 Or merry from morning till night ? 
 
Xouisa 245 
 
 What good does it do me to know it, 
 
 Though her presence makes Summer of 
 Fall? 
 
 For my brother, alas, is her poet, 
 And I 've never seen her at all ! 
 
 JAMKS G. Burnett. 
 
 IvOUISA. 
 (After accompanying her on a mountain excursion^ 
 
 J MET Louisa in the shade, 
 
 And, having seen that lovely maid. 
 Why should I fear to say 
 That, nymph-like, she is fleet and strong, 
 And down the rocks can leap along 
 Like rivulets in May ? 
 
 She loves her fire, her cottage home ; 
 Yet o'er the moorland will she roam 
 In weather rough and bleak ; 
 And, when against the wind she strains, 
 Oh ! might I kiss the mountain rains 
 That sparkle on her cheek. 
 
 Take all that 's mine " beneath the moon,'* 
 If I with her but half a noon 
 
246 Xouise 
 
 May sit beneath the walls 
 Of some old cave, or mossy nook, 
 When up she winds along the brook 
 To hunt the waterfalls. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 LOUISE. 
 
 "THOU stately queen of Love's domain, Louise ! 
 There 's conquest even in thy lilting name, 
 That echoes yet some olden jouster's fame, 
 Who tilted death his lady fair to please. 
 In Love's dear conflict thou dost win with ease. 
 Triumphing through thy hair of dusky flame. 
 Thine eye-darts with their swift inerrant aim, 
 And all thy charms my willing powers that seize. 
 Fain do I strive, but just enough to lose, 
 For when I lose, the guerdon yet is mine, 
 And I am victor, chained and on my knees. 
 Then will I, vanquished, my sweet forfeit 
 choose. 
 While Mars and Bros put their seals divine 
 Upon my choice, my conqueror, Louise. 
 
 Henry A. Van Fredenberg, 
 
 "Sonnets to Fair Women." 
 
Xucasta 247 
 
 IvUCASTA. 
 
 IF to be absent were to be 
 Away from thee ; 
 Or that, when I am gone, 
 You or I were alone ; 
 Then, my Lucasta, might I crave 
 Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave. 
 
 But I '11 not sigh one blast or gale 
 To swell my sail, 
 Or pay a tear to 'suage 
 The foaming blue-god's rage ; 
 For, whether he will let me pass 
 Or no, I 'm still as happy as I was. 
 
 Though seas and lands be 'twixt us both, 
 Our faith and troth, 
 Like separated souls, 
 All time and space controls : 
 Above the highest sphere we meet, 
 Unseen, unknown ; and greet as angels greet. 
 
 So, then,, we do anticipate 
 Our after-fate, 
 And are alive i' th' skies, 
 If thus our lips and eyes 
 Can speak like spirits unconfined 
 In heaven, — their earthly bodies left behind. 
 
 Richard Lovelace. 
 
248 Xuclle 
 
 LUCILE. 
 
 A S soft, and as sallow as Autumn — with hair 
 Neither black, nor yet brown, but that 
 tinge which the air 
 
 Takes at eve in September, when night lingers 
 lone 
 
 Through a vineyard, from beams of a slow-set- 
 ting sun. 
 
 Kyes — the wistful gazelle's ; the fine foot of a 
 fairy ; 
 
 And a hand fit a fay's wand to wave, — white 
 and airy ; 
 
 A voice soft and sweet as a tune that one knows. 
 
 Something in her there was, set you thinking 
 of those 
 
 Strange backgrounds of Raphael . . . that 
 hectic and deep 
 
 Brief twilight in which southern suns fall asleep. 
 
 Ivucile had acquired that matchless, unconscious 
 
 appeal 
 To the homage which none but a churl would 
 
 withhold — 
 That caressing and exquisite grace — never bold, 
 Bver present — which just a few women possess. 
 From healthful repose, undisturb'd by the stress 
 Of unquiet emotions, her soft cheek had drawn 
 A freshness as pure as the twilight of dawn. 
 
Xucrece 249 
 
 Her figure, though slight, had revived every- 
 where 
 The luxurious proportions of youth ; and her 
 
 hair — 
 Once shorn as an offering to passionate love — 
 Now floated or rested redundant above 
 Her airy pure forehead and throat ; gather'd 
 
 loose 
 Under which, by one violet knot, the profuse 
 Milk-white folds of a cool modest garment re- 
 posed, 
 Rippled faint by the breast they half hid, half 
 
 disclosed, 
 And her simple attire thus in all things reveal' d 
 The fine art which so artfully all things con- 
 ceal 'd. 
 
 Robert Bulwer Lytton. 
 From "I,ucile." 
 
 LUCRKCE. 
 
 LI BR lily hand her rosy cheek lies under, 
 Cozening the pillow of a lawful kiss ; 
 Who, therefore angry, seems to part in sunder, 
 Swelling on either side, to want his bliss. 
 Between whose hills her head entombed is ; 
 Where, like a virtuous monument, she lies, 
 To be admir'd of lewd, unhallow'd eyes. 
 
250 XUC^ 
 
 Without the bed her other fair hand was, 
 On the green coverlet ; whose perfect white 
 Show'd like an April daisy on the grass, 
 With peari}^ sweat, resembling dew of night. 
 Her eyes, like marigolds, had sheath 'd their 
 
 light, ^ 
 And canopied in darkness sweetly lay, 
 Till they might open to adorn the day. 
 
 Her hair, like golden threads, play'd with her 
 
 breath ; 
 O, modest wantons ! wanton modesty ! 
 Showing life's triumph in the map of death, 
 And death's dim look in life's mortality : 
 Each in her sleep themselves so beautify, 
 As if between them twain there were no strife, 
 But that life liv'd in death, and death in life. 
 William Shakespeare. 
 From " The Rape of Lucrece." 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 C BVENTEEN rose-buds in a ring. 
 Thick with sister flowers beset, 
 
 In a fragrant coronet, 
 Lucy's servants this day bring. 
 
 Be it the birthday- wreath she wears 
 Fresh and fair, and symbolling 
 
Xuella 251 
 
 The young number of her years, 
 The sweet blushes of her spring. 
 
 Types of youth and love and hope ! 
 
 Friendly hearts your mistress greet, 
 
 Be you ever fair and sweet, 
 And grow lovelier as 3-ou ope ! 
 
 Gentle nursling, fenced about 
 With fond care, and guarded so, 
 
 Scarce you 've heard of storms without, 
 Frosts that bite, or winds that blow ! 
 
 Kindly has your life begun, 
 
 And we pray that Heaven may send 
 To our floweret a warm sun, 
 
 A calm summer, a sweet end. 
 And where'er shall be her home, 
 
 May she decorate the place ; 
 Still expanding into bloom. 
 
 And developing ^u grace. 
 
 William Makepeacb Thackeray. 
 "IvUcy's Birthday." 
 
 LUElvLA. 
 
 [/ ATK 's at her best in an apron, 
 
 Jinny 's bewitching by gas, 
 While Becky, in kitchen or parlor. 
 Is just the ne plus of a lass ; 
 
252 Xuella 
 
 But Katie and Jinny, 
 "With Sadie and Minnie 
 And Becky and Bella, 
 Are not — not Luella. 
 
 Deb, in the choir of a Sunday, 
 
 Sings like a bird in the bough ; 
 Brisk Nan sits a saddle superbly. 
 And Betty 's a charmer, somehow ; 
 But Debby and Nanny, 
 And Betty and Annie, 
 And Edna and Stella, 
 Are not — not Luella. 
 
 Fan is a sylph in a bonnet, 
 
 Nett has her dozens undone ; 
 Grave Addy would madden Adonis, 
 And Caddy is certain to stun ; 
 But Fanny and Addy, 
 And Nettie and Caddy, 
 And Hetty and Delia, 
 Are not — not Luella. 
 
 Clara — the turn of her ankle ; 
 
 Dolly — her eyes and her smile ! 
 And where is the match for Semantha 
 (Unless it be Molly) in style ? 
 But Clara and Dolly, 
 Semantha and Molly, 
 
Xulu 253 
 
 And Esther and Ella, 
 Are not — not Luella. 
 
 Heavens, what a reign of all graces ! 
 
 Each is a queen in her way ; 
 And turning it over and over, 
 There 's only a word left to say : 
 Give me one and another 
 For this and the other, 
 But, O, for a "fellah"— 
 Luella ! Luella ! ! 
 
 John Vance Cheney. 
 
 IvULU. 
 
 A BIRTHDAY again ! 
 But nothing I rue ; 
 No age can have terror 
 That brings to me — you. 
 
 If winged went the year. 
 None too swiftly it flew, 
 
 For 't was only its last 
 That revealed to me — you. 
 
 How many my years ? 
 
 Ah, dear, if you knew ; 
 But why count the ones 
 
 That were lived without — you ! 
 
254 IL^Dla 
 
 Now time turns him backward, — 
 
 Indeed this is true, — 
 I 'm just a year younger 
 
 Since I 've known — you ! 
 
 Charles Henry Webb. 
 " To IvUlu : On One of My Birthdays." 
 
 LYDIA. 
 
 OREAK forth, break forth, O Sudbury town, 
 
 And bid your yards be gay 
 Up all your gusty streets and down, 
 For Lydia comes to-day ! 
 
 I hear it on the wharves below ; 
 
 And if I buy or sell, 
 The good folk as they churchward go 
 
 Have only this to tell. 
 
 My mother, just for love of her, 
 
 Unlocks her carved drawers ; 
 And sprigs of withered lavender 
 
 Drop down upon the floors. 
 
 For Ivydia's bed must have the sheet 
 
 Spun out of linen sheer. 
 And Lydia's room be passing sweet 
 
 With odors of last }- ear. 
 
X^nette 255 
 
 The violet flags are out ouce more 
 
 In lanes salt with the sea ; 
 The thorn-bush at Saint Martin's door 
 
 Grows white for such as she. 
 
 So, Sudbury, bid your gardens blow, 
 
 For Lydia comes to-day ; 
 Of all the words that I do know 
 
 I have but this to say. 
 
 lylZETTE WOODWORTH RKESE. 
 
 IvYNBTTE. 
 
 A DAMSBIv of high lineage, and a brow 
 
 May-blossom, and a cheek of apple-blos- 
 som, 
 Hawk-eyes ; and lightly was her slender nose 
 Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower. 
 
 A.I/FRED (Lord) Tennyson. 
 From "Gareth and lyynette." 
 
 MABEIv. 
 
 CAIR Mabel bids me sing to-night ! 
 
 Should Mabel plead in vain ? 
 Dear Muse, when lovely lips invite, 
 Ah ! sweet should be the strain ; 
 
256 /iRabel 
 
 So lend my lyre a blyther lay, 
 Whose wiusome glee shall flow 
 
 As lightly as the winds at play, 
 Where summer roses blow. 
 
 Fair Mabel bids me sing to-night ! 
 
 In days of old romance, 
 The minstrel sang for Beauty bright, 
 
 The gallant broke a lance ; 
 And both in homage proudly knelt 
 
 To loveliness and grace — 
 Ah, luckless age ! it never felt 
 
 The charm of Mabel's face ! 
 
 Fair Mabel bids me sing to-night ! 
 
 Her voice is low and pure ; 
 Oh, who can hear that voice aright, 
 
 And yield not to its lure ? 
 Or who can meet those peerless eyes 
 
 That dim the vestal's flame, 
 And never feel a yearning rise 
 
 To win a poet's name ? 
 
 Fair Mabel bids me sing to-night ! 
 
 Ah, could my numbers chime 
 With Herrick's grace, or vie in flight 
 
 With Waller's courtly rhyme ; 
 Oh, I would voice a strain to match 
 
 Her every lissome wile ; 
 
/Iftabel 257 
 
 And centuries to come should catch 
 The splendors of her smile. 
 
 Fair Mabel bids me sing to night ; — 
 
 Alas ! she pleads in vain ! 
 The muse hath winged a silent flight 
 
 Beyond the silver main. 
 A song for Mabel were too sweet 
 
 For mortal ears to know ; 
 I only catch its rh3'thmic beat 
 
 When Dreamland zephyrs blow. 
 
 Samuel Minturn Peck. 
 
 MABEL. 
 
 TN the woods young Mabel stands — 
 
 Loitering by an opening ; 
 Ferns and flowers are in her hands — 
 
 Just this morning's blossoming ; 
 Blue sky to the fir-tops bends, 
 
 To see fair Mabel loitering. 
 
 The heavens, methinks, are glad to see 
 Grace and beauty such as hers ; 
 
 Methinks the pines would neighbors be 
 
 Long time — and larch and sombre firs ;- 
 
 For such a bit of jollity 
 
 Is not in all the universe. 
 
258 /ifta^eltne 
 
 They are sad, and sigh, and moan — 
 Never laugh, a pleasant laugh ; 
 
 But she is glad, as if alone 
 
 Of all Earth's gladness she were half. 
 
 Hear their pining monotone 
 
 Stilled to make way for her laugh ! 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! "—a liquid note, 
 
 Like a brook within a dell, 
 Or a wood-thrush in his grot, 
 
 Singing — just where, none can tell ; 
 See her pretty, pearly throat. 
 
 With her bosom fall and swell ! 
 
 James Herbert Morse. 
 
 MADBlvINE. 
 
 A CASEMENT high and triple-arched there 
 
 was, 
 All garlanded with carven imageries 
 Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot- 
 grass. 
 And diamonded with panes of quaint device, 
 Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, 
 As are the tiger-moth's deep damasked wings ; 
 And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries, 
 
/IRaDelinc 259 
 
 And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 
 A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of 
 queens and kings. 
 
 Full on this casement shone the wintry 
 
 moon, 
 And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair 
 
 breast, 
 As down she knelt for Heaven's grace and 
 
 boon ; 
 Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, 
 And on her silver cross, fair amethyst, 
 And on her hair a glory, like a saint ; 
 She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest, 
 Save wings, for heaven : — Porphyro grew 
 
 faint : 
 She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal 
 
 taint. 
 
 Anon his heart revives ; her vespers done. 
 Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees ; 
 Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one ; 
 Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by degrees 
 Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees : 
 Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea- weed. 
 Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, 
 In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed. 
 But dares not look behind, or all the charm is 
 fled. 
 
26o /llbaDeline 
 
 Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, 
 In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay, 
 Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed 
 Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; 
 Flown, like a thought, until the morrow- 
 day ; 
 Blissfully havened both from joy and pain ; 
 Clasped like a missal where swart Paynims 
 
 pray; 
 Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, 
 As though a rose should shut, and be a bud 
 again. 
 
 John Keats. 
 From " The Eve of St. Agnes." 
 
 MADELINE. 
 
 I. 
 
 'T'HOU art not steeped in golden languors. 
 No tranced summer calm is thine, 
 
 Ever varying Madeline. 
 Thro' light and shadow thou dost range 
 Sudden glances, sweet and strange, 
 
 Delicious spites and darling angers. 
 And airy forms of flitting change. 
 
^aOelfne 261 
 
 Smiling, frowning, evermore, 
 Thou art perfect in love-lore. 
 Revealings deep and clear are thine 
 Of wealthy smiles ; but who may know 
 Whether smile or frown be fleeter ? 
 Whether smile or frown be sweeter, 
 
 Who may know ? 
 Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow 
 Light-glooming over eyes divine, 
 Like little clouds, sun-fringed, are thine, 
 Ever varying Madeline. 
 Thy smile and frown are not aloof 
 From one another, 
 Each to each is dearest brother : 
 Hues of the silken sheeny woof 
 Momently shot into each other. 
 All the mystery is thine ; 
 Smiling, frowning, evermore, 
 Thou art perfect in love-lore, 
 
 Ever varying Madeline. 
 
 A subtle, sudden flame, 
 
 By veering passion fann'd, 
 
 About thee breaks and dances 
 When I would kiss thy hand. 
 
262 /iftaDae 
 
 The flush of anger's shame 
 
 O'erflows thy calmer glances, 
 
 And o'er black brows drops down 
 
 A sudden-curved frown, 
 
 But when I turn away, 
 
 Thou, willing me to stay, 
 
 Wooest not, nor vainly w^anglest ; 
 
 But, looking fixedly the while. 
 All my bounding heart entangles! 
 In a golden-netted smile ; 
 
 Then in madness and in bliss, 
 
 If my lips should dare to kiss 
 
 Thy taper fingers amorously, 
 
 Again thou blushest angrily ; 
 
 And o'er black brows drops down 
 
 A sudden-curved frown. 
 
 Alfred (I^ord) Tennyson. 
 
 MADGE. 
 
 "VOUR cheeks were a-glowing with roses, 
 
 Your hair was a ripple of gold : 
 Away with the pain that discloses 
 
 The love that I bore you of old ! 
 You taught me to whirl to the measure 
 
 Of waltzes and schottisches, too. 
 The knowledge has given me pleasure, 
 
 Miss Madge, and I owe it to you ! 
 
With fingers as light as a fairy, 
 
 You thrummed on the ivory keys ; 
 With badinage, blithesome and airy, 
 
 You taught me to be at my ease, 
 And join in your melody, ringing. 
 
 And thrilling my heart through and through 
 So now I am lauded for singing, 
 
 Miss Madge, and I owe it to you ! 
 
 A worldly wise beauty of twenty. 
 
 Who many a conquest had seen. 
 Of lovers 3'OU surely had plenty, 
 
 Why toy with a lad of eighteen ? 
 Your manner, bewitching and artless, 
 
 Bnsnared me for aye, as you knew ; 
 And now I am bitter and heartless, 
 
 Miss Madge, and I owe it to you ! 
 
 F. S. Brown. 
 " Miss Madge." 
 
 MAGGIE. 
 
 O ER face was as the summer cloud, whereon 
 
 The dawning sun delights to rest his rays ! 
 
 Compared with it, old Sharon's vale, o'ergrown 
 
 With flaunting roses, had resigned its praise ; 
 
 For why ? Her face with heaven's own roses 
 
 shone, 
 
264 /IRaggie 
 
 Mocking the morn, and witching men to 
 
 gaze; 
 And he that gazed with cold unsmitten soul, 
 That blockhead's heart was ice thrice baked 
 
 beneath the Pole. 
 
 Her locks, apparent tufts of wiry gold, 
 Lay on her lily temples, fairly dangling. 
 
 And on each hair, so harmless to behold, 
 A lover's soul hung mercilessly strangling ; 
 
 The piping silly zephyrs vied to unfold 
 
 The tresses in their arms so slim and tan- 
 gling, 
 
 And thrid in sport these lover-noosing snares. 
 
 And played at hide-and-seek amid the golden 
 hairs. 
 
 Her eye was as an honored palace, where 
 A choir of lightsome Graces frisk and dance ; 
 
 What object drew her gaze, how mean soe'er, 
 Got dignity and honor from the glance ; 
 
 Woe to the man on whom she unaware 
 Did the dear witchery of her eye elance ! 
 
 'T was such a thrilling, killing, keen regard — 
 
 May Heaven from such a look preserve each 
 tender bard ! 
 
 William Tennant. 
 
 From " Anster Fair." 
 
/HbarccUa 265 
 
 MARCEl^IvA. 
 
 C YES justly levelled, searching yet sedate, 
 A marble brow enthroning a still light, 
 A cheek that neither seeks nor shuns our sight, 
 A form severely fair, on which aye wait 
 All natural emblems of unboastful state ; 
 A step reserved, yet steadied by the might 
 Of fearless frankness, garments dark as night, 
 A breast the Loves in vain would penetrate — 
 Thou hast no wishes : for the vestal Spirit 
 As with a beaming breastplate doth repel 
 Whate'er of troubled joy with her would dwell. 
 The brave with thee approval find, not merit : 
 Thy first of duties deem'st thou this — to scorn 
 What is not of the Immortals born. 
 
 Aubrey De Vere. 
 
 o 
 
 MARGARET. 
 I. 
 
 SWEET pale Margaret, 
 O rare pale Margaret, 
 What lit your eyes with tearful power, 
 Like moonlight on a falling shower ? 
 Who lent you, love, your mortal dower 
 Of pensive thought and aspect pale, 
 Your melancholy sweet and frail 
 As perfume of the cuckoo-flower ? 
 
266 /Ilbargaret 
 
 From the westward-winding flood, 
 From the evening-lighted wood, 
 
 From all things outward you have won 
 A tearful grace, as tho' you stood 
 
 Between the rainbow and the sun. 
 The very smile before you speak, 
 That dimples your transparent cheek, 
 Bncircles all the heart, and feedeth 
 The senses with a still delight 
 
 Of dainty sorrow without sound, 
 
 Like the tender amber round, 
 Which the moon about her spreadeth, 
 Moving thro' a fleecy night. 
 
 2. 
 
 You love, remaining peacefully. 
 
 To hear the murmur of the strife, 
 But enter not the toil of life. 
 
 Your spirit is the calmed sea, 
 
 Ivaid by the tumult of the fight. 
 
 You are the evening star, alway 
 
 Remaining betwixt dark and bright : 
 
 Lull'd echoes of laborious day 
 
 Come to you, gleams of mellow light 
 Float by you on the verge of night. 
 
 3- 
 What can it matter, Margaret, 
 
 What songs below the waning stars 
 
/Hbarciaret 267 
 
 The lion-heart, Plantagenet, 
 
 Sang looking thro' his prison bars ? 
 Exquisite Margaret, who can tell 
 The last wild thought of Chatelet, 
 Just ere the falling axe did part 
 The burning brain from the true heart. 
 Even in her sight he loved so well ? 
 
 A fairy shield your Genius made 
 
 And gave you on your natal day. 
 Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade, 
 
 Keeps real sorrow far away. 
 You move not in such solitudes, 
 
 You are not less divine, 
 But more human in your moods, 
 
 Than your twin-sister, Adeline. 
 Your hair is darker, and your eyes 
 
 Touch' d with a somewhat darker hue, 
 
 And less aerially blue. 
 
 But ever trembling thro' the dew 
 Of dainty-woful sympathies. 
 
 O sweet pale Margaret, 
 O rare pale Margaret, 
 Come down, come down, and hear me speak ; 
 
268 /Iftargcr^ 
 
 Tie up the ringlets on your cheek ; 
 
 The sun is just about to set. 
 The arching limes are tall and shady, 
 And faint, rainy lights are seen, 
 Moving in the leafy beech. 
 Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, 
 
 Where all da}' long you sit between 
 Joy and woe, and whisper each. 
 Or only look across the lawn, 
 
 Look out below 3'our bower-eaves. 
 Look down, and let 3'Our blue eyes dawn 
 Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves. 
 
 Alfred (I,ord) Tennyson. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 T'KLL you every feature 
 
 Of so sweet a creature ! 
 What a fool I 'd be 
 To wake the whole world up to see 
 Pretty, pretty Margery ! 
 
 Blue eyes full of twinkles, 
 Hair in cutest krinkles, 
 Dimples — Cautiously ! 
 I fear that you begin to see 
 Little witching Margery. 
 
/iRarcjuerlte 269 
 
 Well, then, tell me whether 
 
 Two rosebuds together 
 
 Could shape lips di-v — 
 
 But that is making much too free 
 
 With the Qharms of Margery. 
 
 Something of a notion 
 Of her brooky motion, 
 That were safe : her fee — 
 No, no ; another word, ah me, 
 And the end of Margery ! 
 
 Such a throat ! thereunder, 
 Why, the gods would wonder 
 As they gazed : a b — 
 Bless me, stop there, decidedly ; 
 How she 'd blush, would Margery ! 
 
 John Vance Cheney. 
 
 MARGUERITK. 
 
 UAIR Marguerite, the red of parted lips 
 
 Grows deeper, and the glory of thy brow 
 More glorious yet, as lowered lids allow 
 
 Swift glances, fleeting, but as sweet as sips 
 
 Of honey from the hearts of flowers. So 
 now, 
 
270 /IBarguerite 
 
 Poised in the halo of the sun that dips 
 
 Behind the empurpled hills, thy presence 
 
 seems 
 The realized perfection of my dreams. 
 
 Sweet, silent Marguerite ! How may I name 
 The hundred-tinted shadows of thy hair ? 
 Or count the liquid lights of eyes as rare 
 
 As polished pearls beneath white jets of flame. 
 Or soft stars scintillant through lambent 
 air 
 
 In the hushed night ? How, seeing thee, pro- 
 claim 
 The love I fain would bring, a sacrifice 
 To offer at the altar of thine eyes ? 
 
 Nay, Marguerite, I cannot ; for the soul 
 
 That reigns transcendent in the dwelling- 
 place 
 Of thy fair form, irradiates thy face 
 With lustre pure as words writ on the scroll 
 Of God's own law. I would not dare 
 erase 
 One faintest tracery, although the goal 
 
 Which whispered words of love ensured to 
 
 me 
 Should be an answering whisper felt by 
 thee. 
 
 Francis Howard Williams. 
 
L 
 
 Marguerite 271 
 
 MARGUERITE. 
 
 IFT up thy timorous eyes to mine, 
 
 O Marguerite ! 
 Thy pensive head's demure incline, 
 
 And glance discreet ; 
 And from those azure depths, dispense 
 
 One gracious gleam 
 Of heaven and holy innocence, 
 
 To light love's dream. 
 
 From chariest store of smiles vouchsafe 
 
 One — only one ; — 
 For merged heart, the merest waif. 
 
 To seize upon ; 
 And from th}' calm and coy lips' curve, 
 
 And lily face. 
 In lovely virginal reserve, 
 
 Shed heart of grace. 
 
 Lo ! Cupid, lying in ambush ! 
 
 Through sudden start — 
 Through shame's surprised and conscious 
 blush. 
 
 Faint soul takes heart ; 
 Through flooding of thine eyes' sunshine. 
 
 Thy shyness sweet. 
 Love's wary ways — I know thee mine, 
 
 O Marguerite ! 
 
 Margaret C. Bisland. 
 
272 /Rarian 
 
 MARIAN. 
 
 CHE was not white nor brown, 
 
 But could look either, like a mist that 
 changed 
 According to being shone on more or less ; 
 The hair, too, ran its opulence of curls 
 In doubt 'twixt dark and bright, nor left you 
 
 clear 
 To name the color. Too much her hair perhaps 
 (I '11 name a fault here) for so small a head. 
 Which seemed to droop on that side and on this, 
 As a full-blown rose uneasy with its weight 
 Though not a wind should trouble it. Again, 
 The dimple in the cheek had better gone 
 With redder, fuller rounds ; and somewhat 
 
 large 
 The mouth was, though the milky little teeth 
 Dissolved it to so infantine a smile. 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 
 From "Aurora l^eigh." 
 
 MARIE. 
 
 M' 
 
 I ARIE draws near : 
 I seem to hear 
 The shy approach of dreamy innocence 
 
jfflbarie 273 
 
 As if — brown leaves her crown — 
 A dryad should step down 
 From some dim oak-tree where the woods are 
 dense. 
 
 II. 
 Marie 's with me : 
 I seem to see 
 The brambles blossom where just touched her 
 dress : 
 For, as the whole spring glows 
 In one wild, woodland rose, 
 In her for me lives all life's loveliness. 
 
 Madison Cawein. 
 
 MARIE. 
 
 COR thee was always my awakening thought. 
 For thee the prayer that soothed me ere I 
 slept. 
 For thee the smiles that Hope but seldom 
 brought, 
 For thee the many bitter tears I wept. 
 
 For thee my life I gladly would cast down, 
 And for thy love would pay Death's fatal 
 price, 
 
 Thou, my sweet consolation and my crown, 
 Thou, my despair, my hope, my Paradise. 
 
274 /IRarion 
 
 For thee, oh my unsullied, stainless goal, 
 I live to-day ! and for one perfect kiss 
 
 From thy warm lips I would give forth my soul 
 And life in worlds hereafter and in this. 
 
 For thee, from sin I would not even shrink, 
 For thee, I would not tremble before death, 
 
 For thee I 'd perish, if I once could sink 
 And die upon the perfume of thy breath. 
 
 Thou art my hope, my future, and my past. 
 Thou art my sweetest torture and delight. 
 
 Thou art my only love, the first, the last, 
 Thou art my radiant dawn, my starry night. 
 
 Spurn not my passion that will e'er abide, 
 Boundless and vast and constant as the sea, 
 
 But rather pity in thy conscious pride 
 
 A love more strong than death itself, for 
 
 thee. 
 
 Francis Saltus Saltus. 
 "For Thee. To Marie B." 
 
 MARION. 
 
 J ITTLB Maid Marion, Rose in June, 
 
 What breath of prophecy comes and goes, 
 And stirs your heart like a vagrant tune 
 Till the deepening bloom on your soft cheek 
 glows, 
 
/Hbarion 275 
 
 And your blue eyes shine like the morning sky 
 Just alight with the morning star — 
 
 Hopeful and happy and sweet and shy, 
 While day and its glare are yet afar ? 
 
 Have you heard a name that we do not hear 
 And set it to music all your own ? 
 
 Has there come to you in a vision, Dear, 
 A face that only your eyes have known ? 
 
 Or is it still but a wandering voice 
 
 That whispers ^-ou something vague and 
 sweet. 
 Of days of wooing and days of choice, 
 
 And hearts that meet as the waters meet, — 
 
 Days that will come to you, Rose in June, — 
 Days that will test you, and try you and 
 show 
 
 The sacredest meaning, the secretest tune, 
 Of all that your maidenly heart can know ? 
 
 They will leave you not as they find you, 
 Dear, — 
 
 The morning star gives place to the sun ; 
 But your blue eyes meet me, faithful and clear, 
 
 I can trust your soul, when the dream is 
 
 done. 
 
 IvOuiSE Chandler Moulton. 
 " Maid Marion." 
 
276 /llbartba 
 
 MARTHA. 
 
 TTRANSFIXBD and spitted in my heart 
 By Mistress Martha's eyes, their dart, 
 Which has within me raised a great 
 Commotion and uneasy state. 
 
 Or are they black or are they blue 
 I know not any more than you, 
 Nor could I for a wager say 
 If they be hazel, brown, or gray. 
 
 But when it comes to diagnosis 
 Of what the outcome of their use is, 
 Full, comprehensive, and exact 
 Is my conception of the fact. 
 
 When first their witchery has begun 
 You might be saved if you would run ; 
 But who would look for cause for fear 
 In depths so limpid, calm, and clear. 
 Too soon, poor fool, you find you 've stayed 
 Till it 's too late to be afraid. 
 
 Alas for him who thus misreckons 
 For friendly lights mistaking beacons. 
 Better it were if he had found 
 Clarence, his fate, in Malmsey drowned, 
 
/flbar^ 277 
 
 Than, Mistress, in thine eyes to sink, 
 Nor make a tear o'erflow its brink. 
 
 E. S. Martin. 
 
 " Of Mistress Martha : Her Eyes." 
 
 MARY. 
 
 T S thy name Mary, maiden fair ? 
 
 Such should, methinks, its music be ; 
 The sweetest name that mortals bear 
 
 Were best befitting thee ; 
 And she to whom it once was given, 
 Was half of earth and half of heaven. 
 
 I hear thy voice, I see thy smile, 
 I look upon thy folded hair ; 
 
 Ah ! while we dream not they beguile, 
 Our hearts are in the snare ; 
 
 And she who chains a wild bird's wing 
 
 Must start not if her captive sing. 
 
 So, lady, take the leaf that falls. 
 To all but thee unseen, unknown : 
 
 When evening shades the silent walls, 
 Then read it all alone ; 
 
 In stillness read, in darkness seal, 
 
 Forget, despise, but not reveal ! 
 
 OLrv~ER Wendell Holmes. 
 'L'Inconnue." 
 
278 ^arg 
 
 MARY*: 
 
 /'^ O fetch to me a pint o' wine, 
 ^^^ And fill it in a silver tassie ; 
 That I may drink, before I go, 
 
 A service to my bonnie lassie ; 
 The boat rocks at the pier o' I^eith ; 
 
 Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry ; 
 The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 
 
 And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. 
 
 The trumpets sound, the banners fly. 
 
 The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
 The shouts o' war are heard afar, 
 
 The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
 It 's not the roar o' sea or shore 
 
 Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
 Nor shouts o' war that 's heard afar — 
 
 It 's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 " Bonnie Mary." 
 
 MARY. 
 
 "PvEAR honored name, beloved for human ties, 
 But loved and honored first that One was 
 given 
 In living proof to erring mortal eyes 
 
 That our poor earth is near akin to heaven. 
 
^ar^ 279 
 
 Sweet word of dual meaning : one of grace, 
 And born of our kind advocate above ; 
 
 And one by memory linked to that dear face 
 That blessed my childhood with its mother- 
 love, 
 
 And taught me first the simple prayer, "To 
 thee, 
 Poor banished sons of Bve, we send our cries ; " 
 Through mist of years, those words recall to 
 me 
 A childish face upturned to loving eyes. 
 
 And yet, to some the name of Mary bears 
 No special meaning and no gracious power ; 
 
 In that dear word they seek for hidden snares, 
 As wasps find poison in the sweetest flower. 
 
 But faithful hearts can see, o'er doubts and fears, 
 The Virgin link that binds the Lord to earth ; 
 
 Which to the upturned, trusting face appears 
 A more than angel, though of human birth. 
 
 The sweet-faced moon reflects on cheerless night 
 The rays of hidden sun to rise to-morrow ; 
 
 So unseen God still lets His promised light. 
 Through holy Mary, shine upon our sorrow. 
 
 John Boyle O'Reilly. 
 
28o /Iftarg 
 
 MARY. 
 
 C HB was a phantom of delight 
 
 When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
 A lovely apparition, sent 
 To be a moment's ornament ; 
 Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; 
 Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 
 But all things else about her drawn 
 From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; 
 A dancing shape, an image gay, 
 To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 
 
 I saw her lapon nearer view, 
 
 A spirit, yet a woman too ! 
 
 Her household motions light and free, 
 
 And steps of virgin-liberty ; 
 
 A countenance in which did meet 
 
 Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 
 
 A creature not too bright or good 
 
 For human nature's daily food ; 
 
 For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 
 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 
 
 And now I see with eye serene 
 The very pulse of the machine ; 
 A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
 A traveller between life and death ; 
 
/HbatilDa 28i 
 
 The reason finn, the temperate will, 
 Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 
 A perfect woman, nobly planned, 
 To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
 And yet a spirit still, and bright 
 With something of angelic light. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 *' She Was a Phantom of Delight." 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 A S airy and blithe as a blithe bird in air, 
 
 And her arch rosy lips, and her eager blue 
 eyes, 
 With their little impertinent look of surprise, 
 And her round youthful figure, and fair neck 
 
 below 
 The dark drooping feather, as radiant as snow, — 
 I can only declare, that if I had the chance 
 Of passing three days in the exquisite glance 
 Of those eyes, or caressing the hand that now 
 
 petted 
 That fine English mare, I should much have 
 
 regretted 
 Whatever might lose me one little half-hour 
 Of a pastime so pleasant, when once in my 
 
 power ; 
 
282 /DbatilDa 
 
 For, if one drop of milk from the bright Milky- 
 Way 
 
 Could turn into a woman, 't would look, I dare 
 say, 
 
 Not more fresh than Matilda was looking that 
 day. 
 
 Robert Btjlwer Lytton. 
 
 From " Lucile." 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 "IX/REATHED in its dark-brown rings, 
 
 her hair 
 Half hid Matilda's forehead fair, 
 Half hid and half reveal'd to view 
 Her full dark eye of hazel hue. 
 The rose, with faint and feeble streak, 
 So slightly tinged the maiden's cheek, 
 That you had said her hue was pale ; 
 But if she faced the summer gale, 
 Or spoke, or sung, or quicker moved, 
 Or heard the praise of those she loved. 
 Or when of interest was express'd 
 Aught that waked feeling in her breast. 
 The mantling blood in ready play 
 Rivall'd the blush of rising day. 
 There was a soft and pensive grace, 
 A cast of thought upon her face, 
 
/IftauO 283 
 
 That suited well the forehead high, 
 
 The eyelash dark, and downcast eye ; 
 
 The mild expression spoke a mind 
 
 In duty firm, composed, resign 'd ; 
 
 'T is that which Roman art has given 
 
 To mark their maiden Queen of Heaven. 
 
 In hours of sport that mood gave way 
 
 To fancy's light and frolic play ; 
 
 And when the dance, or tale, or song. 
 
 In harmless mirth sped time along. 
 
 Full oft her doating sire would call 
 
 His Maud the merriest of them all. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 From "Rokeby." 
 
 MAUD. 
 
 A VOICE by the cedar tree, 
 
 In the meadow under the Hall ! 
 She is singing an air that is known to me, 
 A passionate ballad gallant and gay, 
 A martial song like a trumpet's call ! 
 Singing alone in the morning of life, 
 In the happy morning of life and of May, 
 Singing of men that in battle array. 
 Ready in heart and ready in hand, 
 March with banner and bugle and fife 
 To the death, for their native land. 
 
284 Mn^ 
 
 II. 
 
 Maud with her exquisite face, 
 And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky, 
 And feet like sunny gems on an English green, 
 Maud in the light of her youth and grace, 
 Singing of Death, and of Honor that cannot die, 
 Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and 
 
 mean. 
 And myself so languid and base. 
 
 III. 
 Silence, beautiful voice, 
 Be still, for you only trouble the mind 
 With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, 
 A glory I shall not find. 
 Still ! I will hear you no more, 
 For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice 
 But to move to the meadow and fall before 
 Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore. 
 Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind, 
 Not her, not her, but a voice. 
 
 Alfred (I^ord) Tennyson. 
 
 MAY. 
 
 /^ LUVE will venture in, where it daur na weel 
 ^^^ be seen ; 
 
 O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has 
 been ; 
 
/IRai2 285 
 
 But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood 
 sae green, 
 And a* to pu' a Posie to my ain dear May. 
 
 The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, 
 And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my 
 
 dear, 
 For she 's the pink o' womankind, and blooms 
 
 without a peer ; 
 And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May. 
 
 I '11 pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps 
 in view, 
 
 For it 's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonny 
 mou ; 
 
 The hyacinth 's for constancy, wi' its unchang- 
 ing blue, 
 And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May. 
 
 The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair. 
 
 And in her lovely bosom I '11 place the lily 
 
 there ; 
 The daisy 's for simplicity and unaffected air. 
 And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May. 
 
 The hawthorn I will pu' wi' its locks o' siller 
 
 gray. 
 Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o* 
 
 day. 
 
286 /Iftean^rea 
 
 But the songster's nest within the bush I winna 
 tak' away ; 
 And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May. 
 
 The woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star 
 
 is near, 
 And the diamond drops o' dew shall be her een 
 
 sae clear ; 
 The violet 's for modesty which weel she fa's to 
 
 wear, 
 And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May. 
 
 I '11 tie the Posie round wi' the silken band o' 
 
 luve, 
 And I '11 place it in her breast, and I '11 swear, 
 
 by a' above, 
 That to my latest draught o' life the band shall 
 
 ne'er remove, 
 And this will be a Posie to my ain dear May. 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 "The Posie." 
 
 MEANDREA. 
 
 jVAEANDREA'S bonnet on a peg !— it wakes 
 My heart to beat till it nigh breaks — 
 With bows pinned on ; ah me ! 
 What woman ever pinned them on as she ?— 
 
/IReanDrea 287 
 
 And hollyhocks like any garden : 
 I dare to gaze and ask no pardon : 
 
 I vow, oh yes, I vow it — 
 
 My love, I will avow it. 
 
 She may toss back her sweet head, having on it 
 A pile of feathers, or its bonnet, 
 And strike quite through poor me 
 With her rash eyes ; — could she so cruel be ? 
 And yet, when I turn crimson trying 
 With IvOrd MarifF to be a-vieing, 
 Close to his ear she twitters 
 Behind her fan, and titters. 
 
 I will Meandrea marry, that I will ; 
 And strut about in fluted frill, 
 And cut a dash, and see 
 Her titter back behind her fan with me : 
 And I bow off Mariff so finely — 
 She can but own I bow divinely — 
 I vow, I vow I will it : 
 I vow and will fulfil it. 
 
 Meandrea's face I see within the bonnet 
 As if the thing were on it ; 
 I practise, so you see ; 
 I bow ; I bow before it gracefully ; 
 Surely when I am dressed in filagree 
 She will smile now on me, 
 
288 /iBelanie 
 
 Now I have caught the knack, 
 Who peeps at yonder crack ? 
 
 Meandrea entering at the door, ah sakes ! 
 And now she upon me breaks 
 With Ivord MarifF, ^h me ! 
 Strutting in all his high-flown majesty 
 In froth and fluff of senseless jargon — 
 It was a pretty, pretty bargain 
 I drove with Fate, for now 
 Too late I learn to bow. 
 
 Meandrea giggles outright ; bother on it ! 
 Had I practised toward some other bonnet 
 Elsewhere, she had never 
 Dreamed, although so mighty deft and clever, 
 How I became so very polished, 
 Nor had my heart been so demolished : 
 It is demolished, oh I vow it — 
 My love ? dare I avow it ? 
 
 George Klingle. 
 "Ah Me!" 
 
 MBLANIB. 
 
 ■\A7HBN first I heard thy soft, Gallian name, 
 I pictured thee before my dreaming eyes 
 In some such lovely shape as sudden came 
 With sound of syllables in Gascon guise. 
 
/Ilbelissa 289 
 
 But when I saw thee first, — when first thy 
 mouth 
 
 Yielded its rosy curves in amorous smile, 
 Revealed the vagrant dimples ambushed there, — 
 
 The vision I had conjured erst awhile 
 Was lost in mortal form so laughing fair 
 That it might symbolize the Maenad South : 
 
 A glowing maiden with dishevelled hair 
 Fleeing a low, white forehead, shading eyes 
 Within whose depths the warmth of summer 
 
 lies 
 Steeped in the melting blue of Garonne skies ! 
 
 w. ly. Brigham. 
 
 MELISSA. 
 
 A N open-hearted maiden, true and pure. 
 
 If I could love, w^hy this were she : how 
 pretty 
 Her blushing was, and how she blush' d again, 
 As if to close with Cyril's random wish : 
 Not like your Princess cramm'd with erring 
 
 pride, 
 Nor like poor Psyche whom she drags in tow. 
 
 Alfred (IvOrd) Tennyson. 
 From " The Princess." 
 
290 /!fteli56a 
 
 MF.I.ISSA. 
 
 /^F time and nature eldest born, 
 
 Bmerge, thou rosy-finger' d morn, 
 Bmerge, in purest dress array'd, 
 And chase from Heaven night's envious shade 
 That I once more may, pleased, survey 
 And hail Melissa's natal day. 
 
 Of time and nature eldest born, 
 Emerge, thou rosy-finger'd morn ; 
 In order at the eastern gate 
 The Hours to draw thy chariot wait ; 
 Whilst Zephyr, on his balmy wings, 
 Mild nature's fragrant tribute brings, 
 With odours sweet to strew thy way. 
 And grace the bland revolving day. 
 
 But as thou lead'st the radiant sphere, 
 
 That gilds its birth, and marks the year, 
 
 And as his stronger glories rise. 
 
 Diffused around th' expanded skies. 
 
 Till clothed with beams serenely bright. 
 
 All Heaven's vast concave flames with light; 
 
 So, when, through life's protracted day, 
 Melissa still pursues her way, 
 Her virtues with thy splendor vie. 
 Increasing to the mental eye : 
 
^ignon 291 
 
 Though, less conspicuous, not less dear, 
 
 Long may they Biou's prospect cheer ; 
 
 So shall his hea/t no more repine, 
 
 Bless'd with her ra^-s, though robb'd of thine. 
 
 Thomas Blacklock. 
 "Ode to Aurora, on Melissa's Birthday. " 
 
 MIGNON. 
 
 A CROSS the gloom the gray moth, speeds 
 
 To taste the midnight brew. 
 The drowsy lilies tell their beads 
 On rosaries of dew. 
 The stars seem kind, 
 And e'en the wind 
 Hath pity for my woe, 
 Ah, must I sue in vain, 7na belle ? 
 Say no, Mignon, say no ! 
 
 Ere long the dawn will come to break 
 
 The web of darkness through ; 
 Let not my heart unanswered ache 
 That beats alone for you. 
 Your casement ope, 
 And bid me hope. 
 Give me one smile to bless, 
 A word will ease my pain, ma belle ; 
 Say yes, Mignon, say yes ! 
 
 Samuel Minturn Peck. 
 
292 /Iftignonue 
 
 MIGNONNE. 
 
 AT morning, from the sunlight 
 I shall miss your sunny face 
 Leaning, laughing, on my shoulder 
 With its careless infant grace ; 
 And your hand there, 
 
 With its rosy, inside color, 
 
 And the sparkle of its rings ; 
 And your soul from this old chamber 
 
 Missed in fifty little things, 
 When I stand there. 
 
 And the roses in the garden 
 
 Droop stupid all the day, — 
 Red, thirsty mouths wide open, 
 
 With not a word to say ! 
 Their last meaning 
 
 Is all faded, like a fragrance 
 
 From the languishing late flowers, 
 
 With 3'our feet, your slow white movements, 
 And 3'our face, in silent hours. 
 O'er them leaning. 
 
 And, in long, cool, summer evenings, 
 
 I shall ever see you, drest 
 In those pale violet colors 
 
 Which suit your sweet face best. 
 Here 's your glove, child, 
 
/Ilbicjnonne 293 
 
 Soiled and empty, as you left it, 
 
 Yet your hrnd's warmth seems to stay 
 
 In it still, as though this moment 
 You had drawn your hand away. 
 Like your love, child, 
 
 Which still stays about my fancy. 
 
 See this little, silken boot, — 
 What a plaything ! Was there ever 
 
 Such a slight and slender foot ? 
 It is strange, now, 
 
 How that, when your lips are nearest 
 
 To the lips they feed upon 
 For a summer time, till bees sleep, 
 
 On a sudden you are gone ? 
 
 What new change, now, 
 
 Sets you sighing . . . eyes uplifted 
 
 To the starry night above ? 
 " God is great . . . the soul 's immortal — 
 
 Must we die, though ? . . . Do you love? 
 One kiss more, then : 
 
 " Life might end now ! " . . . And next 
 moment 
 With those wicked little feet 
 You have vanished, — like a Fairy 
 From a fountain in the heat, 
 And all's o'er, then. 
 
294 /Iftianonne 
 
 Well, no matter ! . . . hearts are break- 
 ing 
 Bvery day, but not for 3'ou, 
 lyittle wanton, ever making 
 
 Chains of rose, to break them through. 
 I would mourn you, 
 
 But your red smile was too warm, Sweet, 
 
 And your little heart too cold, 
 And your blue eyes too blue merely. 
 
 For a strong, sad man to scold, 
 Weep, or scorn you. 
 
 For that smile's soft, transient sunshine 
 At my hearth, when it was chill, 
 
 I shall never do your name wrong. 
 
 But think kindly of you still ; 
 
 And each moment 
 
 Of your pretty infant angers, 
 
 (Who could help but smile at . . . when 
 Those small feet would stamp our love out?) 
 
 Why, I pass them now, as then, 
 Without comment. 
 
 Only, here, when I am searching 
 
 For the book I cannot find, 
 I must sometimes pass your boudoir, 
 
 Howsoever disinclined ; 
 
 And must meet there 
 
/Ifti^nonne 295 
 
 The gold bird-cage in the window, 
 
 Where no bird is singing now ; 
 The small sofa. and the footstool, 
 
 Where I miss ... I know not how . . . 
 Your young feet there, 
 
 Silken-soft in each quaint slipper ; 
 
 And the jewelled writing-case, 
 Where you never more will write now ; 
 
 And the vision of 3^our face, 
 Just turned to me : — 
 
 I would save this, if I could, child, 
 
 But that 's all , . . September 's here ! 
 
 I must write a book : read twenty : 
 
 lycarn a language . . . what 's to fear? 
 Who grows gloomy 
 
 Being free to work, as I am ? 
 
 Yet these autumn nights are cold. 
 How I wonder how you '11 pass them ! 
 
 Ah . . . could all be as of old ! 
 But 'tis best so. 
 
 All good things must go for the better, 
 
 As the primrose for the rose. 
 Is love free? why so is life, too ! 
 
 Holds the grave fast ? . . . I suppose 
 Things must rest so. 
 
 Robert Bulwer Lytton. 
 
296 /Iftignonne 
 
 MIGNONNE. 
 
 FOURTEENTH CENTURY FORM. 
 
 IWIIGNONNK, whose face bends low for my 
 caressing, 
 New and unknown to-night thy beauty 
 
 seemeth ; 
 Dimly I read thine eyes as one who 
 dreameth. 
 The moonlight yester-eve fell soft in blessing, 
 That coldly now across thy bright hair 
 gleam eth : 
 Mignonne, whose face bends low for my caress- 
 inor 
 
 New and unknown to-night thy beauty 
 seemeth. 
 
 As penitent, low-voiced, his sins confessing, 
 Pleads where the light of the high altar 
 
 streameth, 
 I speak to thee, whose love my love re- 
 deem eth. 
 Mignonne, whose face bends low for my caress- 
 ing, 
 New and unknown to-night thy beauty 
 
 seemeth ; 
 Dimly I read thine eyes as one who 
 dreameth. 
 
 Sophie Jewett. 
 
 I 
 
/nbil^reD 297 
 
 MIIvDRED. 
 
 ■\ A/B laughed at Mildred's laugh, which made 
 
 All melancholy wrong ; its mood 
 Such sweet self-confidence display'd, 
 
 So full a sense of present good. 
 Her faults my fancy fired ; 
 
 My loving will, so thwarted, grew ; 
 And, bent on worship, I admired 
 
 All that she was, with partial view. 
 
 Coventry Patmore. 
 From " The Ang-el in the House. '' 
 
 MIIvDRED. 
 
 \A/HERE Mildred moves, come clouldless 
 * skies, 
 
 And airs with perfume filled, 
 Or, if a cloud perchance should rise, 
 
 Her glance its gloom will gild. 
 
 She goes, and bleaker blows the wind, 
 
 The flowers less sweetly spring. 
 The vine with sadder leaf is twined, 
 
 The birds less gaily sing. 
 
 The river glides by marge and isle. 
 The cliffs look beetling down ; 
 
298 /nbimi 
 
 On yesterday they seemed to smile, 
 And now they wear a frown. 
 
 By tender retrospect upborne, 
 Parting should have no pain ; 
 
 But still our yearning hearts will mourn 
 Till Mildred come again. 
 
 William Preston Johnston. 
 
 MIMI. 
 
 |Vy\ IMI, do you remember — 
 
 Don't get behind your fan — 
 That morning in September 
 
 On the cliflFs of Grand Manan ; 
 Where to the shock of Fundy 
 
 The topmast harebells sway, 
 (Campanula rotundi- 
 
 foli: cf. Gray)? 
 
 On the pastures high and level, 
 
 That overlook the sea. 
 Where I wondered what the devil 
 
 Those little things could be 
 That Mimi stooped to gather, 
 
 As she strolled across the down, 
 
/iRimi 299 
 
 And held her dress skirt rather — 
 Oh, now, you need n't frown. 
 
 For you know the dew was heavy, 
 And your boots, I know, were thin ; 
 
 So a little extra brevi- 
 ty in skirts was, sure, no sin. 
 
 Besides, who minds a cousin ? 
 First, second, even third — 
 
 I 've kissed 'em by the dozen, 
 And they never once demurred. 
 
 *' If one 's allowed to ask it," 
 
 Quoth I, " ma belle cousine, 
 What have you in your basket ? " 
 
 (Those baskets white and green 
 The brave Passamaquoddies 
 
 Weave out of scented grass, 
 And sell to tourist bodies 
 
 Who through Mount Desert pass.) 
 
 You answered, slightly frowning, 
 
 " Put down your stupid book — 
 That everlasting Browning ! — 
 
 And come and help me look. 
 Mushroom you spik him English, 
 
 I call him champignon ; 
 I '11 teach you to distinguish 
 
 The right kind from the wrong." 
 
 Henry A. Beers. 
 
30O /nbinnie 
 
 MINNIE. 
 
 r\ CRYSTAL Well, 
 
 Play daintily on golden sands, 
 When she comes at morning lonely, 
 Followed by her shadow only, 
 To bathe those little tender hands, 
 All aweary gathering 
 Seeds to make her blue bird sing. 
 O crystal Well ! 
 
 O Forest brown, 
 
 Breathe thy richest twilight balm, 
 As she wanders, pulling willow 
 Leaflets for her fragrant pillow. 
 Which wnth snowy cheek and calm 
 She shall press with half-closed eyes 
 While the great stars o'er thee rise, 
 O Forest brown ! 
 
 O Lady Moon, 
 
 Light her, as she mounts the stair 
 To her little sacred chamber. 
 Like a mother ; and remember 
 While she slumbers full of prayer, 
 Sweetly then to fill her heart 
 With dreams of heaven, where thou art, 
 O Lady Moon ! 
 
 Thomas Caulfield Irwin. 
 
/IRinnle 301 
 
 MINNIE. 
 
 A PICTURE-FRAME for you to fill, 
 
 A paltry setting for your face, 
 A thing that has no worth until 
 You lend it something of your grace, 
 
 I send (unhappy I that sing 
 Laid by awhile upon the shelf) 
 
 Because I would not send a thing 
 
 Less charming than you are yourself. 
 
 And happier than I, alas ! 
 
 (Dumb thing, I envy its delight) 
 'T will wish you well, the looking-glass, 
 
 And look you in the face to-night. 
 
 Robert Louis Stevenson. 
 " To Minnie, with a Hand-Glass." 
 
 MIRANDA. 
 
 CERD IN AND.— Admired Miranda ! 
 
 Indeed, the top of admiration ; worth 
 What 's dearest to the world ! Full many a 
 
 lady 
 I have eyed with best regard ; and many a time 
 
302 /IRiranDa 
 
 The harmony of their tongues hath into bond- 
 age 
 Brought my too diligent ear : For several vir- 
 tues 
 Have I liked several women ; never any 
 With so full soul, but some defect in her 
 Did quarrel with the noblest grace she ow'd, 
 And put it to the foil : But you, O you, 
 So perfect, and so peerless, are created 
 Of every creature's best. 
 
 William Shakespeare. 
 "The Tempest." 
 
 MIRANDA. 
 
 C OME other clime you knew, 
 Some foreign laud knew 3^ou 
 When first you shook your curls upon the wind ; 
 In Grecian meadows sweet, 
 You set your girlish feet. 
 Or laughed in lakes Italian as the parted grass 
 you thinned. 
 
 No daughter of the snow, 
 No northern bud could blow 
 Into a gold-crowned blossom, lace-enswathed ; 
 The soft and sunny South 
 Has surely framed that mouth, 
 
/nbiran^a 303 
 
 The fervid East that glowing skin, those lan- 
 guid limbs, has bathed. 
 
 Although your hair be gold, 
 It holds no hint of cold. 
 But rather guards a bright and secret flame ; 
 I see from my low place 
 A curl lie on the lace — 
 It harbors light and warmth that put yon brazen 
 bowl to shame ! 
 
 S. Frances Harrison. 
 From "To Miranda." 
 
 MIRANDA. 
 
 T^HE smiling plains, profusely gay. 
 
 Are drest in all the pride of May ; 
 The birds on every spray above 
 To rapture wake the vocal grove ; 
 
 But ah ! Miranda, without thee. 
 
 Nor spring nor summer smiles on me ; 
 
 All lonely in the secret shade 
 
 I mourn thy absence, charming maid ! 
 
 O soft as love ! as honor fair ! 
 Serenely sweet as vernal air ! 
 Come to my arms ; for you alone 
 Can all my absence past atone. 
 
304 /nbiriam 
 
 O come ! and to my bleeding heart 
 Thy sovereign balm of love impart ; 
 Thy presence lasting joy shall bring, 
 And give the year eternal spring ! 
 
 William Falconer. 
 "Address to Miranda." 
 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 I MMORTAL name ! Recalling to our thoughts 
 
 Victorious aflthems sung by maidens fair ; 
 Music of harp and timbrel sounding forth 
 Triumphant strains upon the desert air. 
 
 " Miriam ! " One of the illustrious three 
 Chosen by God to lead his people forth 
 
 From Egypt's bondage to a fruitful land, 
 
 ' ' The glory and the praise of the whole 
 earth." 
 
 "Miriam," sweet friend, glor}-, and praise, and 
 
 Ne'er dreamed of in those morning twilight 
 hours. 
 E'en by those favored ones, these Gospel days 
 Resplendent shed on Zion's holy towers. 
 
/HbOlIS 305 
 
 The Moslem, with his face towards the East, 
 May pray where Juda's gold-domed temple 
 stood ; 
 
 The wandering Bedouin may pitch his tent 
 By Jordan's stream or Galilee's fair flood. 
 
 Yet shall the Church, God's temple here below, 
 Stand fair and beautiful before the world, 
 
 A glory and a joy, — from her high towers, 
 The conquering banner of our Christ un- 
 furled ! 
 
 And lofty praises still, with harp and voice 
 Sound from her altars to Immanuel's name, 
 
 And still, 'mid those who love her, I behold, 
 Inscribed on her fair records, " Miriam." 
 
 Sarah Milligan Kimball. 
 
 MOLLY 
 
 r\ MOLLY BAWN, why leave me pining, 
 ^^^ All lonely waiting here for you ? 
 The stars above are brightly shining 
 
 Because — they 've nothing else to do. 
 The flowers, late, were open keeping. 
 
 To try a rival blush with you. 
 But their mother, Nature, set them sleeping. 
 
 With their rosy faces wash 'd — with dew. 
 
3o6 /libera 
 
 Now the pretty flowers were made to bloom, dear, 
 
 And the pretty stars were made to shine, 
 And the pretty girls were made for the boys, dear. 
 
 And maybe you were made for mine ! 
 The wicked watch-dog here is snarling — 
 
 He takes me for a thief, you see ; 
 He knows I 'd steal you, Molly darling — 
 
 And then transported I should be. 
 
 Samuel I^over. 
 "Molly Bawn." 
 
 MYRA. 
 
 T WITH whose colors Myra dress'd her head, 
 ' I, that wore posies of her own hand-making, 
 I, that mine own name in the chimneys read 
 
 By Myra finely wrought ere I was waking : 
 Must I look on, in hope time coming may 
 "With change bring back my turn again to play ? 
 
 I that on Sunday at the church-stile found 
 
 A garland sweet with true-love-knots in 
 flowers. 
 Which I to wear about mine arms was bound 
 That each of us might know that all was 
 ours ; 
 Must I lead now an idle life in wishes, 
 And follow Cupid for his waves and fishes ? 
 
/Iftvirtilla 307 
 
 I, that did wear the ring her mother left, 
 
 I, for whose love she gloried to be blamed, 
 I, with whose eyes her eyes committed theft, 
 I, who did make her blush when I was 
 named : 
 Must I lose ring, flowers, blush, theft, and go 
 
 naked, 
 Watching with sighs till dead love be awaked ? 
 
 Was it for this that I might Myra see 
 
 Washing the water with her beauties 
 white ? 
 Yet would she never write her love to me. 
 
 Thinks wit of change when thoughts are in 
 delight ! 
 Mad girls may safely love as they may leave ; 
 No man can print a kiss : lines may deceive. 
 
 FuLKE Greville, Lord Brooke. 
 
 MYRTIIvLA. 
 
 •THIS is the difference, neither more nor less, 
 
 Between Medusa's and Myrtilla's face : 
 The former slays us with its awfulness, 
 The latter with its grace. 
 
 Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 
 
3o8 Tttatic^ 
 
 NANCY. 
 
 A^/E have dark lovely looks on the shores 
 where the Spanish 
 From their gay ships came gallantly forth, 
 And the sweet shrinking violets sooner v/ill 
 vanish 
 Than modest blue eyes from our north ; 
 But oh ! if the fairest of fair-daughtered Brin 
 
 Gathered round at her golden request, 
 There 's not one of them all that she 'd think 
 worth comparing 
 With Nancy, the pride of the west. 
 
 You 'd suspect her the statue the Greek fell in 
 love with, 
 If you chanced on her musing alone, 
 Or some goddess great Jove was offended above 
 with, 
 And chilled to a sculpture of stone ; 
 But you 'd think her no colorless, classical 
 statue. 
 When she turned from her pensive repose, 
 With her glowing grey eyes glancing timidly at 
 you, 
 And the blush of a beautiful rose. 
 
 Have you heard Nancy sigh ? then you Ve 
 caught the sad echo 
 From the wind harp enchantingly borne. 
 
IFlancs 309 
 
 Have you heard the girl laugh ? then you 've 
 heard the first cuckoo 
 Carol summer's delightful return ; 
 And the songs that poor, ignorant, country folk 
 fancy 
 The lark's liquid raptures on high, 
 Are just old Irish airs from the sweet lips of 
 Nancy, 
 Flowing up and refreshing the sky. 
 
 And though her foot dances so soft from the 
 heather 
 To the dew-twinkling tussocks of grass, 
 It but warns the bright drops to slip closer to- 
 gether 
 To image the exquisite lass ; 
 We 've no men left among us so lost to 
 emotion, 
 Or scornful, or cold to her sex. 
 Who 'd resist her, if Nancy once took up the 
 notion 
 To set that soft foot on their necks. 
 
 Yet, for all that the bee flies for honey-dew 
 fragrant 
 To the half-opened flower of her lips. 
 And the butterfly pauses, the purple-eyed 
 vagrant. 
 To play with her pink finger-tips ; 
 
3IO IRanie 
 
 From all human lovers she locks up the treasure 
 
 A thousand are striving to taste, 
 And the fairies alone know the magical measure 
 
 Of the ravishing round of her waist. 
 
 Alfred Perceval Graves. 
 " Nancy, the Pride of the West." 
 
 NANIB. 
 
 OED rowes the Nith 'tween bank and brae, 
 
 Mirk is the night and rainie-o, 
 Though heaven and earth should mix in storm, 
 
 I '11 gang and see my Nanie-o ; 
 My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o ; 
 
 My kind and winsome Nanie-o, 
 She holds my heart in love's dear bands, 
 
 And nane can do 't but Nanie-o. 
 
 In preaching time sae meek she stands, 
 
 Sae saintly and sae bonnie-o, 
 I cannot get ae glimpse of grace, 
 
 For thieving looks at Nanie-o ; 
 My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o ; 
 
 The world 's in love with Nanie-o ; 
 That heart is hardly worth the wear 
 
 That wadna love mv Nanie-o. 
 
1Ranni2 311 
 
 My breast can scarce contain my heart, 
 
 When dancing she moves finely-o ; 
 I guess what heaven is by her eyes, 
 
 They sparkle sae divinely-o ; 
 My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o ; 
 
 The flower o' Nithsdale 's Nanie-o ; 
 Love looks frae 'neath her long brown hair, 
 
 And says, I dwell with Nanie-o. 
 
 Tell not, thou star at gray daylight 
 
 O'er Tinwald-top so bonnie-o, 
 My footsteps 'mang the morning dew 
 
 When coming frae my Nanie-o ; 
 My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o ; 
 
 Nane ken o' me and Nanie-o ; 
 The stars and moon may tell 't aboon, 
 
 They winna wrang my Nanie-o. 
 
 Allan Cunningham, 
 'My Nanie-o." 
 
 NANNY. 
 
 'XHEJRE 's mony a flower beside the rose, 
 
 And sweets beside the honey ; 
 But laws maun change ere life disclose 
 
 A flower or sweet like Nanny. 
 Her ee is like the summer sun. 
 
 When clouds can no conceal it, 
 
312 IWatalic 
 
 Ye 're blind if it ye look upon, 
 Oh ! mad if ere ye feel it. 
 
 I 've mony bonnie lassies seen, 
 
 Baith blythesome, kind, an' canny ; 
 But oh ! the day has never been 
 
 I 've seen another Nanny ! 
 She 's like the mavis in her sang, 
 
 Amang the brakens bloomin' ; 
 Her lips ope to an angel's tongue. 
 
 But kiss her, oh ! she's woman. 
 
 Alexander Hume. 
 
 NATALIK. 
 
 I SIT beside the singing stream, 
 
 And watch the laughing ripples play, 
 And as I dream youth's golden dream, 
 
 I hearken to the words they say ; 
 For ever sing they unto me 
 In joyous cadence, " Natalie." 
 
 Hid deep within the leafy tree, 
 The thrush is singing to his mate. 
 
 And well I know the melody 
 
 Which thrills his happy soul elate ; 
 
 For e'er he warbles in his glee 
 
 One sweet name only, " Natalie." 
 
IRell 313 
 
 I wander in the grove alone, 
 
 And breathe the fullness of the spring, 
 And ever}^ tree, responsive grown 
 
 To my heart's throb, is whispering 
 Within m}' ear — full soft, full free — 
 That one dear name of " Natalie.'' 
 
 And evermore, where 'er I be, 
 
 A fairy presence draweth near ; 
 She fills my soul with ecstasy, 
 
 And each sweet sound that greats m}- ear 
 Doth guess my heart's felicity 
 And answers fondly, " Natalie." 
 
 How'ELL Stroud Exgland. 
 
 NELL. 
 
 M BLL ! Nell ! 
 
 There is a poem in the very name, 
 One of those chance-born, soulful dreams 
 
 w'hich start 
 To sudden being in a poet's heart 
 And leave him wondering from whence it came. 
 
 Nell ! Nell ! 
 The air is murmurous with the silvery sound ; 
 The song-birds trill it, and the southern breeze 
 
314 IRell^ 
 
 Which blows from sunny isles in sunny seas 
 Blends with and bears it onward, perfume 
 crowned. 
 
 Nell ! Nell ! 
 
 The flowers whisper it unto the grass 
 (But only whisper it) ; the river's heart 
 Beats to the music, and the waves impart 
 
 Its melody unto the banks they pass. 
 
 Nell ! Nell ! 
 The sunbeams trace it on the glinting leaves, 
 And the old forest-kings are minded when 
 Beneath their branches rode the mail-clad men 
 Of that dead age which sad-voiced Romance 
 grieves. 
 
 Nell ! Nell ! 
 All nature echoes back thy name to me ; 
 Yet thou art but the memory of a dream, 
 A far-off vision which doth ever seem 
 Half real and half an idle phantasy. 
 
 Ottomar H. Roth acker. 
 
 NEIvLY. 
 
 DY Pinkie House oft let me walk. 
 
 While, circled in my arms, 
 I hear my Nellie sweetly talk, 
 And gaze on all her charms. 
 
IRells 315 
 
 O let me ever fond behold 
 
 Those graces void of art, 
 Those cheerful smiles that sweetly hold, 
 
 In willing chains, my heart ! 
 
 O come, my love ! and bring anew 
 
 That gentle turn of mind ; 
 That gracefulness of air, in you 
 
 By nature's hand designed. 
 That beauty like the blushing rose 
 
 First lighted up this flame 
 Which, like the sun, forever glows 
 
 Within my breast the same. 
 
 Ye light coquettes ! ye airy things ! 
 
 How vain is all your art, 
 How seldom it a lover brings, 
 
 How rarely keeps a heart ! 
 O gather from my Nelly's charms ; 
 
 That sweet, that graceful ease. 
 That blushing modesty that warms, 
 
 That native art to please ! 
 
 Come then, my love ! O, come along ! 
 
 And feed me with thy charms ; 
 Come, fair inspirer of my song ! 
 
 Oh, fill my louging arms ! 
 A flame like mine can never die 
 
 While charms so bright as thine. 
 
3i6 IRina 
 
 So heavenly fair, both please the eye 
 And fill the soul divine ! 
 
 Joseph Mitchell. 
 "Pinkie House." 
 
 NINA. 
 
 "X IS summer time ; the year 's at noon 
 In this bright leafy month of June, 
 But spring I see, methinks its grace 
 I read in this fair maiden's face. 
 So pure, so fresh, with limpid eyes 
 As brown and clear as streams that rise 
 In northern glens ; her locks have caught 
 The ruddy hue of pine-stems sought 
 By merry squirrels in their play. 
 Oh, what recalls sweet spring to-day 
 As this smooth brow with thoughts untold, 
 Which later days shall all unfold. 
 As these soft lips not yet compressed 
 With hidden griefs ? Her heart, at rest, 
 Is like a quiet pool at dawn ; 
 She is in her shy grace a fawn, 
 Unstartled j'et by stranger's gaze 
 It greets the world with glad amaze. 
 We who have felt life's dust and heat 
 Are quick this breathing Spring to greet, 
 
IRora 317 
 
 As travelers tread with joy the grass, 
 With eyes refreshed we onward pass. 
 
 B. L,. TOLLEMACHE. 
 
 'To Nina (In June)." 
 
 NORA. 
 
 r BSBIA hath a beaming eye, 
 
 But no one knows for whom it beameth ; 
 Right and left its arrows fly. 
 
 But what they aim at no one dreameth. 
 Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon 
 
 My Nora's lid that seldom rises ; 
 Few its looks, but ever}' one 
 
 Like unexpected light surprises ! 
 Oh, my Nora Creina, dear! 
 
 My gentle, bashful Nora Creina ! 
 Beauty lies 
 In many eyes, 
 But love in yours, my Nora Creina! 
 
 Lesbia wears a robe of gold. 
 
 But all so close the nymph hath laced it, 
 Not a charm of beauty's mould 
 
 Presumes to stay where nature placed it. 
 Oh ! m\' Nora's gown for me. 
 
 That floats as wild as mountain breezes, 
 
3t8 IRorma 
 
 Leaving every beauty free 
 
 To sink or swell as Heaven pleases ! 
 Yes, my Nora Creina, dear, 
 
 My simple, graceful Nora Creina ! 
 Nature's dress 
 Is loveliness — 
 The dress yoii wear, my Nora Creina ! 
 
 Lesbia hath a wit refined. 
 
 But, when its points are gleaming round us, 
 Who can tell if they 're designed 
 
 To dazzle merely, or to wound us ? 
 Pillowed on my Nora's heart. 
 
 In safer slumber Love reposes — 
 Bed of peace ! whose roughest part 
 Is but the crumpling of the roses. 
 Oh, my Nora Creina, dear ! 
 
 My mild, my artless Nora Creina ! 
 Wit, tho' bright, 
 Hath no such light 
 As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina ! 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 NORMA. 
 
 MORMA, of the sea-deep eyes, 
 
 Full of loving magicries, 
 Prithee, sweeting, do not wear 
 Poppies in thy twilight hair — 
 
Olive 319 
 
 Poppies through whose veins there run 
 
 Juices of oblivion — 
 
 Lest, perchance, thou shouldst forget 
 
 Love and all his deathless vows ! 
 Rather would I have thee set 
 
 Rosemary above thy brows 
 In the shadows of thy hair, 
 Keeping sweet remembrance there ! 
 
 Clinton Scollard. 
 
 OLIVE. 
 
 r\ SUNSHINE in profoundest gloom. 
 
 To know that on the earth there dwells, 
 Somewhere, unseen, one woman whom 
 
 No noblest thought excels ; 
 And that by valor to resign, 
 I make her more than ever mine. 
 
 Too late, too late, I learn how sweet 
 'T would be to reach a noble aim, 
 
 And then fling fondly at your feet 
 The fullness of my fame. 
 
 Now — now, — I scarce know which is best, 
 
 To strive, or lay me down and rest. 
 
 O winter in the sunless land ! 
 
 O narrowed day ! O darker night ! 
 
320 Olivia 
 
 loss of all that let me stand 
 A giant in the fight ! 
 
 1 dwindle ; for I see, and sigh, 
 A mated bird is more than I. 
 
 Alfred Austin, 
 From "The Human Tragedy." 
 
 OIvIVIA. 
 
 r^UKE. — O, when mine eyes did see Olivia 
 
 ^ first, 
 
 Methought she purged the air of pestilence ; 
 
 That instant was I turned into a hart : 
 
 And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, 
 
 E'er since pursue me. 
 
 William Shakespeare, 
 From " Twelfth Night. " 
 
 PAMEIvA. 
 
 "THE fair Pamela came to town. 
 
 To London town in early summer. 
 And up and down and round about 
 
 The beaux discussed the bright new-comer. 
 With " Gadzooks, sir," and " Ma'am, my duty," 
 And " Odds my life, but 't is a Beauty ! " 
 
Ipamela 321 
 
 To Ranelagh went Mistress Pam, 
 
 Sweet Mistress Pam so fair and merry, 
 
 With cheek of cream and roses blent, 
 With voice of lark and lip of cherry. 
 
 Then all the beaux vow'd 't was their duty 
 
 To win and wear this country Beautv. 
 
 And first Frank Lovelace tried his wit. 
 With whispers bold and eyes still bolder ; 
 
 The warmer grew his saucy flame, 
 
 Cold grew the charming fair and colder. 
 
 'T was " icy bosom " — " cruel beaut\" " — 
 
 "To love, sweet Mistress, 't is a duty." 
 
 Then Jack Carew his arts essayed. 
 
 With honeyed sighs and feigned weeping. 
 
 Good lack ! his billets bound the curls 
 That pretty Pam she wore a-sleeping. 
 
 Next day these curls had richer beauty, 
 
 So well Jack's fervor did its duty. 
 
 Then Cousin Will came up to view 
 The way Pamela ruled the fashion ; 
 
 He watched the gallants crowd about. 
 And flew into a rustic passion. 
 
 Left " Squire, his mark," on divers faces, 
 
 And pinked Carew beneath his laces. 
 
 Alack ! one night at Ranelagh 
 
 The pretty Sly-boots fell a-blushing ; 
 
322 Pamela 
 
 And all the mettled bloods look'd round 
 
 To see what caused that telltale flushing. 
 Up stepp'd a grizzled Poet Fellow 
 To dance with Pani a saltarello. 
 
 Then Jack and Frank and Will resolved, 
 With hand on sword and cutting glances, 
 
 That they would lead that Graybeard forth 
 To livelier tunes and other dances. 
 
 But who that saw Pam's eyes a-shining 
 
 With love and joy would see her pining? 
 
 And — oons ! Their wrath cool'd as they looked — 
 
 That Poet stared as fierce as any ! 
 He was a mighty proper man, 
 
 With blade on hip and inches many. 
 The beaux all vow'd it was their duty 
 To toast some newer, softer Beauty. 
 
 Sweet Pam she bridled, blush'd, and smiled — 
 The wild thing loved, and could but show it I 
 
 Mayhap some day you '11 see in town 
 Pamela and her grizzled Poet. 
 
 For sooth he taught the rogue her duty. 
 
 And won her faith, her love, her beaut3\ 
 
 Ellen M. Hutchinson. 
 "Pamela in Town." 
 
Ipanste 323 
 
 PANSIE. I 
 
 /^^AMK, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet, 
 ^^ lu white, to find her lover. 
 The grass grew proud beneath her feet, 
 The green elm leaves above her — 
 Meet we no angels, Pansie ? 
 
 She said, "We meet no angels now," 
 And soft lights streamed upon her ; 
 
 And with white hand she touched a bough, 
 She did it that great honor — 
 
 What — meet no angels, Pansie ? 
 
 O, sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes, 
 Down-dropp'd brown eyes so tender ; 
 
 Then what, said I? gallant replies 
 Seem flattery and offend her ; 
 
 But — meet no angels, Pansie ? 
 
 Thomas Ashe. 
 
 PAULINE. 
 
 r\ THE smell of the coming Spring ! 
 
 And O the blue of the sky ! 
 As we wandered through the meadow-lands, 
 Pauline and I. 
 
324 Ipauline 
 
 The golden curls on her girlish brow 
 
 Blew wild in the April breeze, 
 As she picked from the slopes that faced the 
 south 
 
 The early anemonies. 
 
 And her little hand was in my hand, 
 And her spring-time, childish words, 
 
 Seemed more the voice of the coming Spring, 
 Than the vernal song of birds. 
 
 Yet, O the note of the hermit-thrush. 
 
 And the whistle of the quail ! 
 And O the flute of the robin's throat, 
 
 That swelled from a lowland vale ! 
 
 And a blue-bird flitted across our path, 
 
 And sang from a swinging vine ; 
 But never a voice, O child of Spring, 
 
 As sweet to me as thine ; 
 
 And never the sound of a lilting stream, 
 
 And never a waterfall. 
 So light and soft as your childhood laugh, 
 
 Where the quail and the robin call. 
 
 For the golden air was dim with dreams, 
 And the world grew young with love, 
 
 And your childish heart felt the subtle touch 
 Of the blue, blue sky above. 
 
Ipearl 325 
 
 Ah ! child, I love, as I love the Spring ; 
 
 Though lightly I laughed with you, 
 I felt the wedge of the fleeting years 
 
 Cleave deep between us two, — 
 
 A tinge of the autumn-time, I knew, — 
 
 The prescience of its rime ; 
 But your own child-lips were still untouched 
 
 By the withering lip of Time. 
 
 Far off, it seemed, were the singing birds, 
 
 As I felt your hand's caress. 
 Till the spring awoke in my troubled breast 
 
 The old child-beartedness. 
 
 Then, O the song of the hermit-thrush, 
 And the flute from the robin's throat ! 
 
 And O the wind on the meadow grass. 
 And the blue-bird's distant note ! 
 
 Arthur J. Stringer. 
 
 PBARIv. 
 
 pEARL, O Pearl! 
 
 Naught but a lissom English girl, 
 
 So sweet and simple : 
 Naught but the charm of golden curl, 
 
 Of blush and dimple — 
 Pearl, O Pearl ! 
 
326 Ipeggs 
 
 Sweet, ah, sweet ! 
 'T is pleasant lolling at your feet 
 
 lu summer playtime; 
 Ah, how the moments quickly fleet 
 In sunny hay-time — 
 Sweet, ah, sweet ! 
 
 Dream, ah, dream ! 
 The sedges sing by swirling stream 
 
 A lovely brief song ; 
 The poplars chant in sunny gleam 
 A lulling leaf-song — 
 Dream, ah, dream ! 
 
 Stay, O stay ! 
 We cannot dream all through the day, 
 
 Demure and doubtful : 
 When shines the sun we must make hay, 
 When lips are poutful — 
 Stay, O stay ! 
 
 J. Ashby-Sterry. 
 
 PEGGY. 
 
 JVA Y Peggy's face, my Peggy's form. 
 
 The frost of hermit age might warm ; 
 My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, 
 Might charm the first of human kind. 
 
Ipenelope 327 
 
 I love my Peggy's angel air, 
 Her face so truly, heavenly fair, 
 Her native grace so void of art, 
 But I adore my Peggy's heart. 
 
 The lily's hue, the rose's dye, 
 The kindling lustre of an eye ; 
 Who but owns their magic sway. 
 Who but knows they all decay ! 
 The tender thrill, the pitying tear, 
 The generous purpose, nobly dear, 
 The gentle look that rage disarms. 
 These are all immortal charms. 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 " My Peggy's Face." 
 
 PENELOPE. 
 
 pENELOPE, O witching maiden ! 
 So partial to the meadow lanes, 
 Her pouting lips are richly laden 
 
 With kisses dipped in berry stains ; 
 She laughs and frowns — there 's nothing in it !- 
 
 Uncertain as an April day. 
 Her moods they change 'most every minute, 
 Adorable Penelope ! 
 
328 Ipcpita 
 
 Penelope, O witching maiden ! 
 
 She roams beneath the rural skies, 
 Amid the woods all violet laden, 
 
 Reflections of her azure eyes ! 
 A careless swing she gives her basket, 
 
 When from her lips a kiss I pray. 
 And mocks me thus : " Why do you ask it ? " 
 Adorable Penelope ! 
 
 Penelope is very heartless, 
 
 Of sighing swains she has a score ; 
 
 And yet she is so ver}- artless 
 I can not scorn — I must adore ! 
 
 I '11 ask her, by the stars above me, 
 If all is well or lack-a-da}' ; 
 
 And if she whispers this : " I love thee ! " — 
 Adorable Penelope ! 
 
 Harold McGrath. 
 "Penelope: A Pastoral." 
 
 PEPITA. 
 
 I TP in her balcony where 
 
 Vines through the lattices run 
 Spilling a scent on the air, 
 Setting a screen to the sun. 
 
Ipepita 329 
 
 Fair as the morning is fair, 
 
 Sweet as the blossom is sweet, 
 Dwells in her rosy retreat 
 Pepita. 
 
 Often a glimpse of her face. 
 
 When the wind rustles the vine 
 Parting the leaves for a space, 
 
 Gladdens this window of mine. — 
 Pink in its leafy embrace, 
 
 Pink as the morning is pink, 
 Sweet as a blossom I think 
 Pepita. 
 
 I who dwell over the way 
 
 Watch where Pepita is hid — 
 Safe from the glare of the day 
 
 Like an eye under its lid : 
 Over and over I say, — 
 
 Name like the song of a bird, 
 Melody shut in a word, — 
 "Pepita." 
 
 Look where the little leaves stir ! 
 
 Look, the green curtains are drawn ! 
 There in a blossomy blur 
 
 Breaks a diminutive dawn ; 
 
330 perDlta 
 
 Dawn and the pink face of her, — 
 Name like a lisp of the south, 
 Fit for a rose's small mouth, 
 Pepita ! 
 
 Frank Dempstkr Sherman. 
 
 PERDITA. 
 
 CLORIZEL.— What you do 
 
 Still betters what is done. When you 
 speak, sweet, 
 I 'd have you do it ever : when you sing, 
 I 'd have you buy and sell so ; so give alms ; 
 Pray so ; and, for the ordering your affairs, 
 To sing them too : When you do dance, I wish 
 
 you 
 A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do 
 Nothing but that ; move still, still so, and own 
 No other function. Each your doing, 
 So singular in each particular. 
 Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds, 
 That all your acts are queens. 
 
 William Shakespeare. 
 
 From "A Winter's Tale." 
 
IPerMta 33 1 
 
 PERDITA. 
 
 DBRDITA stole my heart, she did! she 
 ^ did! 
 
 Aud whirled and twirled me as she bid, 
 She did ; and stamped her silken clogs at me 
 
 just when she would, 
 And shook her saucy head — you know she could. 
 And can, 
 Compel the heart of any man. 
 
 Perdita vowed she loved me. Mortal man 
 May doubt Perdita if he can. 
 He can ; I could not, would not if I could, and 
 
 humbly vowed 
 To love her even in my sleety shroud. 
 And do. 
 And so, you know, would you. 
 
 Perdita's fancies have half driven me mad. 
 She really, truly is too bad, 
 Too bad, but so enchantingly, bewitchingly di- 
 vine. 
 And quite entirely mine 
 
 You see : — 
 I know you envy me. 
 
 Perdita's maid must twirl and quirl her hair 
 Like any pyramid in air : 
 
332 perDita 
 
 Take care to twist it out again, and have it 
 
 spread to bleach 
 On pasteboard circle, where the sun may reach 
 And bake — 
 Gold locks of black locks make. 
 
 Perdita's clogs must be the richest kind 
 Of satin ones ; before, behind, 
 Soft-lined, and covered well with twists of fili- 
 gree ; 
 Her petticoats of satin must agree 
 With them 
 From waist to hem. 
 
 Perdita's fluffy skirts embroidered round, 
 Sleeves big enough for any gown, 
 I found must from Damascus come, or some far 
 
 heathen place, 
 Alack ! and then there was her corsage lace — 
 And is ; 
 Truly a shame it is ! 
 
 If all San Marco's riches were but mine ; 
 
 If I with ducats did but shine. 
 And twine my fingers into gold at every lapping 
 
 fold 
 Where doublets could a single ducat hold. 
 
lperC)lta 333 
 
 I yet 
 Perdita's needs bad never met. 
 
 Perdita scores my heart she does, she does ; 
 My ears are deaf with such a buzz, 
 A buzz, aud when I would be sleeping sweetly 
 
 in my bed, 
 I must be twirling in some dance instead, 
 And smile 
 As if I liked the style. 
 
 Perdita yet will have me dead, she will ; 
 My limbs are lank ; I stoop until. 
 Until my breath it goes so weasened, when I 
 
 try to sing. 
 She tosses back her head, and laughs — the 
 wicked thing — 
 
 My hair ?— 
 A dozen spears stand in the air. 
 
 Perdita vows if I should dare to die 
 She would detain me from the sky. 
 And fly beside me, but I know, for all, she 
 
 would not go. 
 She likes it mighty well below, 
 And soon 
 Would chant a different tune. 
 
 George Klingle. 
 
334 Ipbilira 
 
 PHILIRA. 
 
 ULY, fly, you happy shepherds, fly ! 
 
 Avoid Philira's charms ; 
 The rigor of her heart denies 
 
 The heaven that 's in her arms. 
 Ne'er hope to gaze, and then retire, 
 
 Nor yielding, to be blessed : 
 Nature, who formed her e37es of fire, 
 
 Of ice composed her breast. 
 
 Yet, lovely maid, this once believe 
 
 A slave whose zeal you move ; 
 The gods, alas, your youth deceive. 
 
 Their heaven consists in love. 
 In spite of all the thanks you owe. 
 
 You may reproach 'em this. 
 That where they did their form bestow 
 
 They have denied their bliss. 
 
 Sir John Vanbrugh. 
 From " The Provoked Wife." 
 
 PHILLIS. 
 
 VXI HIIvE larks with little wing 
 
 Fanned the pure air. 
 Tasting the breathing spring. 
 Forth I did fare ; 
 
IP bee be 335 
 
 Gay the sun's golden eye 
 Peeped o'er the mountains high ; 
 Such thy morn ! did I cry, 
 Phillis the fair. 
 
 In each bird's careless song 
 
 Glad I did share, 
 While yon wild flowers among, 
 
 Chance led me there : 
 Sweet to the opening day, 
 Rosebuds bent the dewy spray ; 
 Such thy bloom ! did I say, 
 
 Phillis the fair. 
 
 Down in a shady walk. 
 
 Doves cooing were ; 
 I marked the cruel hawk 
 
 Caught in a snare ; 
 So kind may fortune be, • 
 
 Such make his destiny, 
 He who would injure thee, 
 
 Phillis the fair ! 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 "Phillis the Fair." 
 
 PHCEBB. 
 
 • HCEBBsat, 
 Sweet she sat, 
 Sweet sat Phcebe when I saw her, 
 
336 Ipbcebe 
 
 White her brow, 
 Coy her eye ; 
 
 Brow aud eye how much you please me ! 
 Words I spent, 
 Sighs I sent ; 
 
 Sighs and words could never draw her. 
 Oh, my love, 
 Thou art lost, 
 
 Since no sight could ever ease thee. 
 
 Phoebe sat 
 By a fount, 
 
 Sitting by a fount I spied her : 
 Sweet her touch, 
 Rare her voice : 
 
 Touch aud voice what may distaiu you ? 
 As she sang, 
 p I did sigh. 
 
 And by sighs whilst that I tried her, 
 Oh, mine eyes, 
 You did lose 
 
 Her first sight, whose want did pain 3'ou. 
 
 Phoebe's flocks 
 White as wool, 
 
 Yet were Phoebe's locks more whiter. 
 Phoebe's eyes 
 Dove-like mild, 
 
 Dove-like eyes, both mild and cruel ; 
 
ipb^lliDa 337 
 
 Montan swears, 
 In your lamps, 
 
 He will die for to delight her. 
 Phcebe, yield 
 Or I die : 
 
 Shall true hearts be fancy's fuel ? 
 
 Thomas I,odge. 
 " Montanus' Sonnet." 
 
 PHYIvIvIDA. 
 
 *THE ladies of St. James's 
 
 Go swinging to the play ; 
 Their footmen run before them, 
 
 With a " Stand by ! Clear the way ! " 
 But Phyllida, my Phyllida ! 
 
 She takes her buckled shoon, 
 When we go out a-courting 
 
 Beneath the harvest moon. 
 
 The ladies of St. James's 
 
 Wear satin on their backs ; 
 They sit all night at Ombre, 
 
 With candles all of wax : 
 But Pnyllida, my Phyllida ! 
 
 She dons her russet gown, 
 And runs to gather May dew 
 
 Before the world is down. 
 
338 IPbglli^a 
 
 The ladies of St. James's 
 
 They are so fine and fair, 
 You 'd think a box of essences 
 
 Was broken in the air ; 
 But Phyllida, my Phyllida, 
 
 The breath of heath and furze, 
 "When breezes blow at morning, 
 
 Is not so fresh as hers. 
 
 The ladies of St. James's 
 
 They're painted to the eyes ; 
 Their white it stays for ever, 
 
 Their red it never dies : 
 But Phyllida, my Phyllida, 
 
 Her color comes and goes ; 
 It trembles to a lily, — 
 
 It wavers to a rose. 
 
 The ladies of St. James's 
 
 You scarce can understand 
 The half of all their speeches, 
 
 Their phrases are so grand : 
 But Phyllida, my Phyllida ! 
 
 Her sh3' and simple words 
 Are clear as after raindrops 
 
 The music of the birds. 
 
 The ladies of St. James's 
 
 They have their fits and freaks ; 
 
iPb^IliS 339 
 
 They smile on you — for seconds, 
 
 They frown on you — for weeks : 
 
 But Phyllida, my Phyllida ! 
 
 Come either storm or shine, 
 
 From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide, 
 Is always true — and mine. 
 
 My Phyllida ! my Phyllida ! 
 
 I care not though they heap 
 The hearts of all St. James's, 
 
 And give me all to keep ; 
 I care not whose the beauties 
 
 Of all the w^orld may be, 
 For Phyllida— for Phyllida 
 
 Is all the world to me ! 
 
 Austin Dobson. 
 The I,adies of St. James's." 
 
 PHYIvLIS. 
 
 W 
 
 HEN Phyllis laughs, in sw^eet surprise 
 
 My heart asks if my dazzled eyes 
 Or if my ears take more delight 
 In luscious sound or beauty bright, 
 When Phyllis laughs. 
 
340 IPOII^ 
 
 In crinkled eyelids hid, Love lies ; 
 In the soft curving lips I prize, 
 Promise of rapture infinite, 
 
 When PhylHs laughs. 
 
 Far to the Orient fancy flies. 
 
 I see beneath Italian skies. 
 Clad only in the golden light, 
 Calm in perfection's peerless might — 
 
 The laughter-loving Venus rise, 
 When Phyllis laughs. 
 
 JOHN Hay. 
 
 POLLY. 
 
 A A/ HO will show us any good ? 
 
 Said a fool once in his folly ; 
 If he knows what thing is good. 
 
 Let him come and see my Polly ! 
 Who is Polly ? Blithe and gay 
 
 Polly is the parson's daughter ; 
 
 You may see her any day 
 
 On the banks of Cluny water. 
 
 Who will show us any good ? 
 Said a fool once in his folly, 
 
Ipolls 341 
 
 In a sullen, sceptic mood, 
 
 Sulky and self-centred wholly. 
 If he had an eye to see 
 
 Sights that banish melancholy, 
 Let him come and feast with me 
 
 On the blithe face of my Polly. 
 
 With a fairy foot she dances 
 
 On the green, the parson's daughter, 
 Like a sunbeam when it glances 
 
 On the face of Cluny water ; 
 Sweet as meadow hay in hay-time, 
 
 Fresh and fair as Christmas holly, 
 Light as birds that sing in May-time 
 
 Is the sweet young soul of Polly ! 
 
 Scholars seek for bliss in books, 
 
 Gray and dry, and bloodless wholly ; 
 I peruse the rosy looks 
 
 And the sunny smiles of Polly. 
 When she leaps with bounding glee. 
 
 Like a trout in Cluny water. 
 All the soul of joy in me 
 
 Flows to meet the parson's daughter. 
 
 Balls and parties make a din, 
 
 Pleasure trips a sounding clatter, 
 
 But my triumph is to win 
 
 A bright smile from the parson's daughter. 
 
342 iPOllL^ 
 
 With much labor men prepare 
 Pills to purge all melancholy ; 
 
 I am wise to banish care 
 With a single look at Polly. 
 
 When my heart is sick with babble 
 
 Of the M.P.'s in the papers, 
 Where the Whig and Tory rabble 
 
 Mad with faction cut their capers, 
 I, like bird that knows his nest 
 
 On the bank of Cluny water, 
 Drown my sorrow on the breast 
 
 Of the parson's blooming daughter. 
 
 Some will pant for money, some 
 
 Posted high in public station, 
 Love with trutnpet and with drum 
 
 To parade before the nation ; 
 Some will dice their lives away, 
 
 Some with wine are wildly jolly. 
 But I am happy all the day, 
 
 When I earn a kiss from Polly. 
 
 Who will show us any good ? 
 
 Look around and own your folly ; 
 In your veins nurse kindly blood, 
 
 And all you see is goodness wholly. 
 Nature loves the ruddy hue, 
 
 Hates pale-blooded melancholy, 
 
Iportia 343 
 
 Somewhere grows a rose for you, 
 As my rose I found in Poi^i^Y ! 
 
 John vStuart Blackie. 
 
 PORTIA. 
 
 ( ON HER PORTRAIT. ) 
 
 OASSANIO.— What find I here ? 
 
 Fair Portia's counterfeit ? What demi-god 
 Hath come so near creation ? Move these eyes ? 
 Or whether, riding on the balls of mine, 
 Seem they in motion ? Here are severed lips, 
 Parted with sugar breath ; so sweet a bar 
 Should sunder such sweet friends : Here in 
 
 her hairs 
 The painter plays the spider, and hath woven 
 A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men 
 Faster than gnats in cobwebs : But her eyes — 
 How could he see to do them ? Having made one, 
 Methinks it should have power to steal both his, 
 And leave itself unfurnished : Yet look, how far 
 The substance of my praise doth wrong this 
 
 shadow 
 In underprising it, so far this shadow 
 Doth limp behind the substance. 
 
 William Shakespeare. 
 From "Merchant of Venice." 
 
344 priecilla 
 
 PRISCILLA. 
 
 "/^FT in my lonely hours have I thought of 
 
 the maiden Priscilla. 
 She is alone in the world ; her father and 
 
 mother and brother 
 Died in the winter together ; I saw her going 
 
 and coming, 
 Now to the grave of the dead, and now to the 
 
 bed of the dying, 
 Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to 
 
 myself, that if ever 
 There were angels on earth, as there are angels 
 
 in heaven, 
 Two have I seen and known ; and the angel 
 
 whose name is Priscilla 
 Holds in my desolate life the place which the 
 
 other abandoned. 
 Long have I cherished the thought, but never 
 
 have dared to reveal it, 
 Being a coward in this, though valiant enough 
 
 for the most part. 
 Go to the damsel Priscilla, the loveliest maiden 
 
 of Plymouth, 
 Say that a blunt old Captain, a man not of 
 
 words but of actions. 
 Offers his hand and his heart, the hand and 
 
 heart of a soldier. 
 Not in these words, 5'ou know, but this in short 
 
 is my meaning ; 
 
Ipri6cilla 345 
 
 I am a maker of war, and not a maker of 
 phrases. 
 
 You, who are bred as a scholar, can say it in 
 elegant language, 
 
 Such as you read in your books of the plead- 
 ings and wooings of lovers, 
 
 Such as you think best adapted to win the heart 
 of a maiden." 
 
 Henry Wadsworth IvOngfellcw. 
 
 From "The Courtship of Miles Standish." 
 
 PRISCILLA. 
 
 A S trippingly as any bird in spring 
 
 She speeds across the newly fallen snow ; 
 I see the wanton wintry breezes blow 
 Her fair brown locks that round her forehead 
 
 cling, 
 And kiss her dewy lips, sweet murmuring. 
 And touch each cheek, a budding Jacque- 
 minot. 
 The dreary earth takes on a brighter glow, 
 Her presence is a joy to everything. 
 
 Yet seems she meek and shy and so demure, 
 With air of noble breeding, chaste and fine. 
 That they who chance her peaceful face 
 to scan, 
 
346 lI^ru^ence 
 
 Declare her one whose every thought is pure. 
 Not stern like those of her unbending line, 
 But a time-tempered, lovely Puritan. 
 
 Clinton Scollard. 
 
 PRUDENCE. 
 
 pvEAR Mr. Brown " — I know she meant 
 ^ " Dear Jack " ; that D with sentiment 
 
 Is overweighted. 
 Shy little love ! she did not dare ; 
 That flutter in the M shows where 
 
 She hesitated. 
 
 The darling girl ! what loving heed 
 She gives the strokes ; it does not need 
 
 Great penetration 
 To note the lingering, trusting touch ; 
 As if to write to me were such 
 
 A consolation. 
 
 " The flowers came ; so kind of you. 
 
 A thousand thanks ! " Oh, fie ! Miss Prue, 
 
 The line betrays you. 
 You know just there you sent a kiss ; 
 You meant that blot to tell me this, 
 
 And it obeys you. 
 
IpruDence 347 
 
 *' They gave me such a happy day. 
 I love them so.'''' She meant to say, 
 
 " Because you sent them." 
 But then, you see, the page is small ; 
 She wrote in haste — the words — and all, — 
 
 I know she meant them. 
 
 *^ At night I kept them near me, too, 
 
 And dreamt of them,'''' she wrote, " and you," 
 
 But would erase it. 
 Did she but have one tender thought 
 That perished with the blush it brought. 
 
 My love would trace it. 
 
 " This morning all the buds have blown. ^^ 
 That flourish surely is "Your own " ; 
 
 'T is written queerly ; 
 She meant it so. Ah, useless task 
 To hide your love 'neath such a mask 
 
 As that "Sincerely." 
 
 " Prudence.'''' Those tender words confess 
 As much to me as a caress ; 
 
 And, Prue, you know it. 
 But then, to tease me, you must add 
 Your other name, although you had 
 
 Scarce space to do it. 
 
348 pS^CbC 
 
 A dash prolonged across the sheet 
 To close the note ? — the little cheat, — 
 
 No. When she penned it 
 She meant its quavering length to say, 
 That she could write to me for aye, 
 
 And never end it. 
 
 Prue ! Love is like the flame that glows 
 Unseen till, lightly fanned, it grows 
 
 Too fierce to quell it. 
 And mine ! Ah, mine is unconfessed ; 
 But now, — that dash and all the rest, — 
 
 I '11 have to tell it. 
 
 H. C. Faulkner. 
 " Between the I^ines." 
 
 PSYCHE. 
 
 LJER cheekes, the wonder of what eye beheld 
 
 Begott betwixt a lily and a rose, 
 In gentle rising plaines devinely swelled, 
 
 Where all the graces and the loves repose. 
 Nature in this peece all her workes excelled, 
 Yet shewd herselfe imperfect in the close, 
 For she forgott (when she soe faire did rayse 
 
 her) 
 To give the world a witt might duly prayse her. 
 
lp6\?CbC 349 
 
 When that she spoake, as at a voice from 
 
 heaven 
 On her sweet words all ears and hearts 
 
 attended ; 
 When that she sung, they thought the planetts 
 
 seaven 
 By her sweet voice might well their tunes 
 
 have mended ; 
 When she did sighe, all were of joye be- 
 
 reaven ; 
 And when she smyld, heaven had them all 
 
 befriended ; 
 If that her voice, sighes, smiles, soe many 
 
 thrilled ; 
 O, had she kissed, how many had she killed ! 
 
 Her slender fingers (neate and worthy made 
 To be the servants to soe much perfection) 
 
 Joyned to a palme whose touch woulde streigh 
 invade 
 And bring a sturdy heart to lowe subjection. 
 
 Her slender wrists two diamond braceletts 
 lade. 
 Made richer by soe sweet a soule's election. 
 
 O happy braceletts ! but more happy he 
 
 To whom those arms shall as a bracelett be ! 
 
 William Brow^ne. 
 
350 IRacbel 
 
 RACHEL. 
 
 VOU loved her, and would lie all night 
 
 Thinking how beautiful she was, 
 And what to do for her delight. 
 
 Now both are bound with alien laws : 
 Be patient ; put your heart to school ; 
 
 Weep if you will, but not despair : 
 The trust that nought goes wrong by rule 
 
 Makes light a load the many bear, 
 lyove, if heav'n's heav'n, shall meet his dues, 
 
 Though here unmatch'd, or match'd amiss ; 
 Meanwhile, the gentle cannot choose 
 
 But learn to love the lips they kiss. 
 Ne'er hurt the homely sister's ears 
 
 With Rachel's beauties : secret be 
 The lofty mind whose lonely tears 
 
 Protest against mortality. 
 
 Coventry Patmore. 
 From " The Angel in the House." 
 
 REBECCA. 
 
 )\AY soul was sitting weary by the well 
 
 When your small feet came twinkling to 
 the brink ; 
 I craved a draught, you curved your cool, white 
 arm, 
 And gave my soul to drink. 
 
 G. T. lyANIGAN. 
 
IRboDa 351 
 
 RHODA. 
 
 A PLEASANT thing on a sunny day 
 
 Has set her a-thinking, 
 As Rhoda merrily on her way 
 
 Goes winking, blinking, 
 Mindful of Asa raking down 
 The hillside rowen outside the town. 
 
 A drop of the aether's pure serene 
 
 Is Rhoda's thinking — 
 Akin to the blueness sometimes seen 
 
 Behind her winking, 
 Wonderful lashes that conceal 
 More of her heaven than they reveal. 
 
 Asa, finding the labor long 
 
 Of the hot hay-making. 
 Whiles the hour with an old, old song, 
 
 Timed to his raking — 
 A wooing song of that pleasant kind 
 Which the soul sends out for an absent mind. 
 
 Into the meadow Rhoda turns 
 
 And hears the singing ; 
 The blue drop under the blue deep burns, 
 
 And soft gates swinging, 
 Spite of the maiden's art, reveal 
 More of her heaven than they conceal. 
 
352 IRoblna 
 
 Flash of the silver dust of stars 
 
 Is Rhoda's thinking, 
 Now that it shines beyond the bars 
 
 Of her happy winking, 
 Merrily blinking, lovelit eyes, 
 That cannot hide their new surprise. 
 
 Through the meadow into the wood 
 
 Now Rhoda fleeing 
 With bounding feet, in the solitude 
 
 Beyond his seeing 
 Would disentangle a soul ensnared, 
 That could not now be free, if it cared. 
 
 James Herbert Morse. 
 
 ROBINA. 
 
 F I had known Robina had been there- 
 That charming, wicked fair, 
 With high and mighty air — 
 If I had guessed 
 She would be so possessed 
 To have me dance 
 And prance 
 In such fantastic styles, 
 I had instead walked forty miles ! 
 
IRobiiia 353 
 
 If I had known Robina ha^ glanced round 
 
 Intent until she found, 
 
 And liad me surely bound 
 
 To twirl about, 
 To whirl around, in doubt 
 At every jirk 
 And quirk 
 They pulled me dumbW through, 
 I had iu running worn away each shoe ! 
 
 If I had guessed Robina could have slid 
 Me, as she truly did, 
 To meshes neatly hid ; 
 To twnst me so 
 From dizzy heel to toe, 
 And look askance, 
 And dance 
 Like shuttlecock blown round, 
 I would have flown above the ground ! 
 
 If I had dreamed Robina could have twirled 
 Me helplessly, and curled 
 Her pretty lip to see me whirled, 
 As any leaf 
 Blown round, beyond belief 
 Through such a maze, 
 
 Ablaze 
 As any wick of flame. 
 She had not played her pretty game ! 
 
354 IRobina 
 
 But, if Robin^vhirled tne to her will» 
 And saw nie twirled, until 
 They all had had their fill 
 
 Of sport so fine, 
 
 To-day the laugh is mine, 
 
 For I can dance, 
 
 Yes, prance 
 
 In such fantastic style 
 
 They stand aghast the while. 
 
 If then Robina laughed behind her fan. 
 To-day she sighs ; "That man 
 Can dance as any can : 
 Ten days ago 
 He played us false : ah, woe ! 
 Surely he knew 
 Our cue 
 And seemed a very clown. 
 My heart, it aches beneath my gown ! " 
 
 I was quite sure Robina would be there 
 Last nighty and did prepare 
 To stab her to despair — 
 
 The wicked dear — 
 Determined to appear 
 Skilled in the art, 
 Apart 
 Whirled round, with will and might 
 By Chickabini taught through day and night \ 
 
IRobina 355 
 
 I was quite sure Robina would be there, 
 And every jilty fair : 
 I do, indeed, declare 
 I was elate 
 To choose a maid in state, 
 And lead her by. 
 To fly 
 In such enchanting style, 
 Forgetful of all else the while ! 
 
 I knew Robina would, behind her fan 
 
 Sigh then ; but heart of man 
 
 Must have, when yet it can. 
 
 Such sweet revenge : 
 
 I did myself avenge. 
 
 And strut and dance, 
 
 Nor glance 
 To let her know at all 
 I loved her spite of all ! 
 
 And now I must Robina find, you see ; 
 
 Ivove of such quality 
 
 Defies authority 
 
 And stirs the mind. 
 
 I must Robina find 
 
 And make amends. 
 
 Be friends ; 
 
 For I would surely die 
 
 If she, in turn should pass me by ! 
 
 George Klingle. 
 "Robina's Meshes." 
 
356 IRomaine 
 
 ROMAINK. 
 
 ** |V] O verse I 've sent you " — is this your 
 
 ^^ plaint?— 
 
 "Since those dear, early days." I breathe 
 them yet ! 
 Do you recall those rhymes, how sorrow's taint 
 
 Touched every line ? Or do you. Love, forget ? 
 "While life is sweet, and hope flies on before, 
 
 Here, read your poems in my eager eyes. 
 Is love to fail, and hope be mine no more ? 
 
 A wounded soul may rend the world with 
 cries. 
 Thus, if no melting verses you receive, 
 
 Count it not loss, but rather happy gain : 
 It is enough to live when w^e believe. 
 
 The deathless poem is the voice of pain. 
 
 Cora Stuart Wheeler. 
 
 ROMOLA. 
 
 C HE rose and sadly left Love's 'chanted land, 
 But one deep, searching gaze a-backward 
 tm-ned, 
 Then onward with her pallid face of woe. 
 
 And eyes in which the fire of anguish burned. 
 Eut ever and anon she paused and stood, 
 
 Compelled to seek with eyes the fading land ; 
 
TRomoIa 357 
 
 And ever and anon grief's burning crept 
 Into the face new-born resolve made grand. 
 
 She saw the once great place where only now 
 
 A mocking ghost rose up within the throne ; 
 She saw the air with fleeing spirits filled, 
 
 The phantoms following laughing L/Ove alone ; 
 She saw a lovely ship on Truth's clear lake 
 
 Sail down the waves and vanish into mist ; 
 She saw a figure, Trust, in violet robes, 
 
 Stand there alone, sole keeper of a tryst. 
 
 She saw two goblets of a shadowy gold 
 
 Stand emptied of their draughts of flashing 
 wine ; 
 She saw the birds, all drooping and unvoiced, 
 
 The dewdrops once, now crystallized to brine ; 
 She saw the flowers change into ashes gray, 
 
 And two sweet harps, devoid of glittering 
 strings ; 
 She saw the fountains, once so plashing bright, 
 
 Rush dreary by o'er dark and rocky springs. 
 
 And whiter grew her face, more shuddering 
 seemed 
 Her form, whilst pathos of a heart's despair 
 Gathered to cloud her pathway like to night. 
 And stifling make the new-found cheerless 
 air. 
 
358 IRomola 
 
 She onward sped, till with a last resolve, 
 
 Stood calm, and, gazing with hot, tearless eyes, 
 
 Swept back her glance, as lovely Eve once did. 
 When fleeing from her radiant Paradise. 
 
 Lo ! with a clash the gates of Love's land closed, 
 
 And falling on her knees, she bitter moaned : 
 "Mocked, mocked by lyove, whose Queen so 
 late I reigned ; 
 
 Now, exiled, I, all crownless and dethroned ; 
 And he, my former King, lies low in dust, 
 
 A fallen god, who charged with golden glow, 
 Who but deceived my eyes, won my deep heart 
 
 With arts which treacherous Fancy loves to 
 throw. 
 
 "Mocked, mocked," she cried, " my joy and 
 youth all gone, 
 
 Exiled I wander from lyove's sunny land ; 
 But, lo," uplifting proud her dusky eyes, 
 
 "Is there no goal less beautiful, more grand — 
 Is there no goal whose silver stars point out 
 
 True inspirations from each self apart. 
 Whose hopes and aims lead on to holier things 
 
 Than housing only each a selfish heart ? 
 
 "Farewell, dear land, the mist is deepening 
 o'er 
 Your space. I go — farewell — all self-exiled, 
 
IRosa 359 
 
 But not to seek the river dark Despair, — 
 
 Rather to find a haven uudefiled." 
 Uprose she then in queenly majesty, 
 
 And on her crownless head she clasped her 
 hands, 
 Poor, trembling hands ; but passed she stately 
 on. 
 
 Heavy, but brave, to seek those other lands. 
 And travellers, treading the same dreary road, 
 
 A woman saw in silent, holy guise. 
 In whose calm face peace symbolized itself, 
 
 But wore a twilight in the dusky eyes. 
 
 Bertha May Ivory. 
 " Romola— Self-Exiled." 
 
 ROSA. 
 
 'X'HE wisest soul, by anguish torn. 
 
 Will soon unlearn the lore it knew ; 
 And when the shining casket 's worn. 
 The gem within will tarnish too. 
 
 But love 's an essence of the soul. 
 
 Which sinks not with this chain of clay ; 
 
 Which throbs beyond the chill control 
 Of with'ring pain or pale decay. 
 
 And surely, when the touch of Death 
 Dissolves the spirit's earthly ties, 
 
36o IRosa 
 
 Love still attends th' immortal breath, 
 And makes it purer for the skies ! 
 
 Oh Rosa, when, to seek its sphere, 
 My soul shall leave this orb of men, 
 
 That love which form'd its treasure here, 
 Shall be its best of treasures then ! 
 
 And as, in fabled dreams of old. 
 
 Some air-born genius, child of time. 
 
 Presided o'er each star that roll'd, 
 
 And track 'd it through its path sublime ; 
 
 So thou, fair planet, not unled. 
 
 Shall through thy mortal orbit stray ; 
 
 Thy lover's shade, to thee still wed. 
 Shall linger round thy earthly way. 
 
 I/Ct other spirits range the sky. 
 And play around each starry gem ; 
 
 I '11 bask beneath this lucid eye, 
 Nor envy worlds of suns to them. 
 
 And when that heart shall cease to beat. 
 And when that breath at length is free, 
 
 Then, Rosa, soul to soul we '11 meet. 
 And mingle to eternity ! 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 "To Rosa." Written during illness. 
 
IRosalinD 361 
 
 ROSALIND. 
 
 CROM the east to western Ind, 
 
 No jewel is like Rosalind. 
 Her worth, being mounted on the wind, 
 Through all the world bears Rosalind. 
 All the pictures, fairest lined, 
 Are but black to Rosalind. 
 Let no face be kept in mind, 
 But the fair of Rosalind. 
 
 Tongues I '11 hang on every tree. 
 
 That shall civil sayings show. 
 Some, how brief the life of man 
 
 Runs his erring pilgrimage ; 
 That the stretching of a span 
 
 Buckles in his sum of age. 
 Some, of violated vows, 
 
 'Twixt the souls of friend and friend : 
 But upon the fairest boughs, 
 
 Or at every sentence' end, 
 Will I Rosalinda write ; 
 
 Teaching all that read to know 
 The quintessence of every sprite 
 
 Heaven would in little show. 
 Therefore Heaven Nature charged 
 
 That one body should be filled 
 With all graces wide enlarged : 
 
 Nature presently distilled 
 
362 TRosalinD 
 
 Helen's cheek, but not her heart, 
 
 Cleopatra's majesty, 
 Atalanta's better part, 
 
 Sad Lucretia's modest}-. 
 Thus Rosalind of many parts 
 
 By heavenly synod was devised ; 
 Of many faces, eyes, and hearts, 
 
 To have the touches dearest prized. 
 
 William Shakespeare. 
 "As Youlvikelt." 
 
 ROSALIND. 
 
 I. 
 
 IVA Y Rosalind, my Rosalind, 
 
 My frolic falcon, with bright eyes, 
 Whose free delight, from any height of rapid 
 
 flight, 
 Stoops at all game that wing the skies, 
 My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 
 My bright-eyed, wild-eyed falcon, whither, 
 Careless both of wind and weather. 
 Whither fly ye, what game spy ye. 
 Up or down the streaming wind ? 
 
IRosalinO 363 
 
 II. 
 
 The quick lark's closest-carolled strains, 
 
 The shadow rushing up the sea, 
 
 The lightning flash atween the rains, 
 
 The sunlight driving down the lea, 
 
 The leaping stream, the very wind, 
 
 That will not stay, upon his way, 
 
 To stoop the cowslip to the plains. 
 
 Is not so clear and bold and free 
 
 As 3'ou, my falcon Rosalind. 
 
 You care not for another's pains, 
 
 Because you are the soul of joy. 
 
 Bright metal all without alloy. 
 
 Ivife shoots and glances thro' your veins, 
 
 And flashes off" a thousand ways. 
 
 Through lips and eyes in subtle rays. 
 
 Your hawk-eyes are keen and bright. 
 
 Keen with triumph, watching still 
 
 To pierce me through with pointed light ; 
 
 But oftentimes they flash and glitter 
 
 Ivike sunshine on a dancing rill, 
 
 And 5'our words are seeming-bitter. 
 
 Sharp and few, but seeming-bitter 
 
 From excess of swift delight. 
 
 III. 
 
 Come down, come home, my Rosalind, 
 My gay young hawk, my Rosalind : 
 
364 IRosaline 
 
 Too long you keep the upper skies ; 
 
 Too long you roam and wheel at will ; 
 
 But we must hood ^-our random eyes, 
 
 That care not whom the}^ kill, 
 
 And your cheek, whose brilliant hue 
 
 Is so sparkling-fresh to view, 
 
 Some red heath-flower iu the dew, 
 
 Touched with sunrise. We must bind 
 
 And keep you fast, my Rosalind, 
 
 Fast, fast, m\- wild-eyed Rosalind, 
 
 And clip your wings, and make you love : 
 
 "When we have lured you from above, 
 
 And that delight of frolic flight, by day or night. 
 
 From North to South ; 
 
 Will bind you fast in silken cords, 
 
 And kiss away the bitter words 
 
 From off your rosy mouth. 
 
 Alfred (I^ord) Tennyson. 
 
 ROSALINE. 
 
 L 
 
 IKE to the clear iu highest sphere 
 Where all imperial glory shines : 
 Of selfsame color is her hair, 
 
 Whether unfolded, or in twines : 
 Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline ! 
 Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, 
 Resembling heaven b}^ every wink ; 
 
IRosaline 365 
 
 The gods do fear them as they glow, 
 And I do tremble when I think, 
 Heigh-ho, would she were mine ! 
 
 Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud 
 
 That beautifies Aurora's face, 
 Or like the silver crimson shroud 
 
 That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace : 
 Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline ! 
 Her lips are like two budded roses 
 
 Whom ranks of lilies neighbor nigh, 
 Within whose bounds she balm encloses, 
 
 Apt to entice a deity : 
 
 Heigh-ho, would she were mine ! 
 
 Her neck is like a statel}- tower 
 
 Where Love himself imprisoned lies, 
 To watch for glances every hour 
 
 From her divine and sacred eyes ; 
 Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline ! 
 Her paps are centres of delight, 
 
 Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame, 
 Where Nature moulds the dew of light 
 To feed perfection with the same : 
 
 Heigh-ho, would she were mine ! 
 
 With orient pearl, with ruby red. 
 
 With marble white, with sapphire blue. 
 
366 IRose 
 
 Her body everj' way is fed, 
 Yet soft of touch aud sweet in view : 
 Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline ! 
 Nature herself her shape admires ; 
 
 The Gods are wounded in her sight ; 
 And Love forsakes his heavenly fires 
 And at her eyes his brand doth light : 
 Heigh-ho, would she were mine ! 
 
 Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan 
 
 The absence of fair Rosaline, 
 Since for a fair there 's fairer none. 
 
 Nor for her virtues so divine : 
 
 Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline ! 
 
 Heigh-ho, my heart ! would God that she were 
 
 mine ! 
 
 Thomas I^odge. 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 D OSE, in the hedgerow grown, 
 
 Where the scent of the fresh sweet hay 
 Comes up from the fields new-mown. 
 You know it — you know it — alone, 
 So I gather you here to-day ! 
 
 For here — was it not here, say ? — 
 That she came by the woodland way. 
 And my heart with a hope unknown 
 Rose ? 
 
IRosie 367 
 
 Ah, yes ! — with her bright hair blown, 
 And her eyes like the skies of May, 
 
 And her steps like the rose-leaves strown 
 When the winds in the rose-trees play, — 
 
 It was here, — O my love, my own 
 Rose ! 
 
 Austin Dobson. 
 
 ROSIE. 
 
 pvOWN on the sands there strolls a merry 
 maid, 
 
 Aglow with ruddy health and gladsome glee; 
 
 She breasts the breezes of the summer sea, 
 And lets each zephyr trifle with each braid ; 
 Laughs gaily as her petticoats evade 
 
 Her girlish grasp and wildly flutter free. 
 
 As, bending to some boisterous decree, 
 The neatest foot and ankle are displayed. 
 
 Her youthful rounded figure you may trace, 
 Half pouting, as rude Boreas unfurls 
 
 A wealth of snowy frillery and lace, 
 
 A glory of soft golden-rippled curls. 
 
 Comes, blushing with a rare unconscious grace, 
 The bonniest of England's bonny girls ! 
 
 J. ashby-Sterry. 
 
368 IRowena 
 
 ROWENA. 
 
 A HEAP of mortar, brick, and stone, 
 
 O'ergrown with shrubs, o'errun with 
 vines : 
 That here was once a house and home, 
 How ill the careless sense divines, 
 Rowena Darling. 
 
 Not careless his, my friend's, who loves 
 
 To wander in familiar ways, 
 To talk of olden times, and — yes — 
 
 To celebrate your simple praise, 
 
 Rowena Darling. 
 
 Here, once upon a time, he tells, 
 
 There lived a girl unknown to fame ; 
 
 The country-side no sweeter knew ; 
 It could not know a sweeter name, — 
 Rowena Darling ! 
 
 Here, where the birches' silver gleam 
 
 Shines where the hearth-fire used to blaze. 
 
 The hearth-stone still you can descry, 
 As smooth as in your loveliest days, 
 Rowena Darling. 
 
 Here whisks about the squirrel brown ; 
 Here thrush or robin comes and sings ; 
 
IRowena 369 
 
 But standing here, I can but think 
 Of other days and sweeter things, 
 Rowena Darling. 
 
 Here baked the apples in a row ; 
 
 Here cracked the chestnuts, ripe and sweet ; 
 Here — ah, I seem to see them now — 
 
 You warmed your pretty buskined feet, 
 Rowena Darling. 
 
 And here, when burned the embers low, 
 And old folks long had been asleep, 
 
 Your heart stood still to hear a voice 
 
 That whispered — Oh ! how warm and deep — 
 Rowena — Darling ! 
 
 Alas, how many years have fled 
 
 Since hearth and heart were warm and bright. 
 And all the room and all the world 
 
 Glowed with your love's supreme delight, 
 Rowena Darling. 
 
 This rose-bush growing by the door, 
 
 'Perha-ps you planted long ago ; 
 I pluck and kiss, for your dear sake. 
 
 Its fairest, be it so or no, 
 
 Rowena Darling ! 
 
 John W. Chadwtck. 
 "Rowena Darling." 
 
370 IRutb 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 'T'AI/Iv and erect the maiden stands, 
 
 Like some young priestess of the wood. 
 
 The freebom child of Solitude, 
 
 And bearing still the wild and rude, 
 Yet noble trace of Nature's hands. 
 Her dark brown cheek has caught its stain 
 More from the sunshine than the rain ; 
 Yet, -where her long fair hair is parting, 
 A pure white brow into light is starting ; 
 And, where the folds of her blanket sever, 
 Are a neck and bosom as white as ever 
 The foam-wreaths rise on the leaping river. 
 But in the convulsive quiver and grip 
 Of the muscles around her bloodless lip. 
 
 There is something painful and sad to see ; 
 And her eye has a glance more sternly wild 
 Than even that of a forest child 
 
 In its fearless and untamed freedom should be. 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier. 
 Frora " Mogg Megone." 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 C HE stood breast-high amid the corn, 
 
 Clasped by the golden light of morn, 
 Ivike the sweetheart of the sun, 
 Who many a glowing kiss had won. 
 
Sai^a 371 
 
 On her cheek au autumn flush 
 Deeply ripened ; — such a blush 
 In the midst of brown was born, 
 Ivike red poppies grown with corn. 
 
 Round her eyes her tresses fell, 
 Which were blackest none could tell, 
 But long lashes veiled a light, 
 That had else been all too bright. 
 
 And her hat, with shady brim, 
 Made her tressy forehead dim ; 
 Thus she stood amid the stocks, 
 Praising God with sweetest looks : — 
 
 Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean, 
 Where I reap thou shouldst but glean, 
 Lay thy sheaf adown and come, 
 Share my harvest and my home. 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 SAIDA. 
 
 /^H, loved for other charms than those 
 That mould thy faultless face ; 
 
 Oh, fairer than the mystic rose, 
 That o'er thy bosom plays ! 
 
 Sweet maid, whose soul in beauty breaks. 
 
 As amber light the water wakes. 
 
372 SaiDa 
 
 Not mine the joy that others know, 
 Who drink th}? loveliness, 
 
 Or wrapt in music, languid grow 
 Beneath thy song's caress ; 
 
 Not mine through every vein to feel 
 
 The trembling flame of passion steal ; 
 
 Yet, Saida, who of all the throng. 
 That whisper thee divine, 
 
 "Would dare so much thy spirit wrong, 
 As match his love with mine, 
 
 Who know no other heaven than thee, 
 
 Yet never hope that heaven to see ? 
 
 Perforce with sorrow's subtle art 
 
 Bach cloistering feeling pure, 
 
 Each hidden thought that moves thy heart. 
 Within my night I lure. 
 
 Until, through mist of blinding tears, 
 
 Thy sacred self of self appears. 
 
 Oh, airy step, as burdensome 
 
 As morning's budding beam 
 
 To hopeless haunter of the tomb, 
 Again into my dream, 
 
 Enchanted vision, creep again. 
 
 And look in sorrow on my pain. 
 
 William T. Washburn. 
 
Sallg 373 
 
 SAIvIvY. 
 
 \A/HOSB loveliness sing I? Why, Sally's, 
 
 sure. 
 Find me a little maid with brow more fair 
 And white, o'ertopped with such a crown of 
 
 sunny hair, 
 Well trained one ardent lover to allure ; 
 Yet eyebrow, ringlet, lovely forehead pure. 
 Must with her other charms the honor share, 
 O'ershadowing, not hiding beauties rare 
 Enough to make a siren's name endure. 
 I sing the splendor of her dark brown eyes 
 Whose every glance my bosom thrills. 
 Ye liquid deeps, ye orbs that look so wise, 
 I do adore you quite. Though passion fills 
 You now, yet not for me your beauty dies ; 
 And when a tear doth start, your sweetness kills. 
 
 Frank Mortimer Hawes. 
 
 SAMELA. 
 
 T IKE to Diana in her summer weed. 
 
 Girt with a crimson robe, of brightest dye, 
 
 Goes fair Samela. 
 Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed. 
 When wash'd by Arethusa fount they lie, 
 
 Is fair Samela. 
 
374 Sara 
 
 As fair Aurora in her morning grey, 
 Deck'd with the ruddy glister of her love 
 
 Is fair Samela ; 
 Like lovely Thetis on a calmed day, 
 When as her brightness Neptune's fancies move, 
 
 Shines fair Samela. 
 Her tresses gold, her e3'es like glassy streams, 
 Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory 
 
 Of fair Samela. 
 Her cheeks like rose and lily yield forth gleams ; 
 Her brows bright arches framed of ebony : 
 
 Thus fair Samela 
 Passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue, 
 And Juno in the show of majesty : 
 
 For she 's Samela. 
 Pallas in wit, — all three, if you will view, 
 For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity, 
 
 Yield to Samela. 
 
 Robert Greene. 
 
 SARA. 
 
 /^NE kiss, dear maid ! I said and sighed- 
 ^^^ Your scorn the little boon denied. 
 Ah, why refuse the blameless bliss ? 
 Can danger lurk within a kiss ? 
 
 Yon viewless wanderer of the vale, 
 The spirit of the western gale, 
 
Sara 375 
 
 At morning's break, at evening's close, 
 Inhales the sweetness of the rose, 
 And hovers o'er tb' uninjured bloom 
 Sighing back the soft perfume. 
 Vigor to the zephyr's wing 
 Her nectar-breathing kisses fling ; 
 And he the glitter of the dew 
 Scatters on the rose's hue. 
 Bashful, lo ! she bends her head. 
 And darts a blush of deeper red ! 
 
 Too well those lovely lips disclose 
 
 The triumphs of the op'ning rose : 
 
 O fair ! O graceful ! bid them prove 
 
 As passive to the breath of love. 
 
 In tender accents, faint and low, 
 
 Well pleased I hear the whispered " No ! " 
 
 The whispered " No " — how little meant ! 
 
 Sweet falsehood, that endears consent ! 
 
 For on those lovely lips the while 
 
 Dawns the soft relenting smile, 
 
 And tempts with feigned dissuasion coy 
 
 The gentle violence of joy. 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 
 
376 Sib^l 
 
 SIBYIv. 
 
 'THIS is the glamour of the world antique : 
 
 The tbyme-scents of Hymettus fill the air, 
 And in the grass narcissus-cups are fair. 
 The full brook wanders through the ferns to 
 
 seek 
 The amber haunts of bees ; and on the peak 
 Of the soft hill, against the gold-marged sky, 
 She stands, a dream from out the days gone by. 
 Bntreat her not. Indeed, she will not speak ! 
 Her eyes are full of dreams ; and in her ears 
 There is the rustle of immortal wings ; 
 And ever and anon the slow breeze bears 
 The mystic murmur of the songs she sings. 
 Bntreat her not ; she sees thee not, nor hears 
 Aught but the sights and sounds of bygone 
 springs. 
 
 John Payne. 
 
 SIIvVIA. 
 
 T AM holy while I stand 
 
 Circum-crossed by thy pure hand : 
 But when that is gone, again 
 I, as others, am profane. 
 
 Robert Herrick, 
 
Silvia 377 
 
 SILVIA. 
 
 AA/HO is Silvia ? What is she, 
 
 That all our swains commend her ? 
 Holy, fair, and wise is she ; 
 
 The heavens such grace did lend her, 
 That she might admired be. 
 
 Is she kind as she is fair ? 
 
 For beauty lives with kindness : 
 Love doth to her eyes repair. 
 
 To help him of his blindness ; 
 And, being helped, inhabits there. 
 
 Then to Silvia let us sing, 
 
 That Silvia is excelling ; 
 She excels each mortal thing 
 
 Upon the dull earth dwelling : 
 To her let us garlands bring. 
 
 William Shakespeare. 
 I^^rom " Two Gentlemen of Verona." 
 
 STELLA. 
 
 C^TELLA, whence doth these new assults arise, 
 . con qui 
 winne, 
 
 A conquered, yeelding, ransackt heart to 
 
378 Stella 
 
 Whereto long since, through my long-battred 
 
 eyes, 
 Whole armies of thy beauties entred in ? 
 And there, long since, Loue, thy lieutenant^ 
 
 lies ; 
 My forces razde, thy banners raised within : 
 Of conquest do not these effects sufl&ce. 
 But wilt new warre upon thine owne begin ? 
 With so sweet voyce, and by sweet Nature so 
 In sweetest strength, so sweetly skild withal 
 In all sweet stratagems sweet Art can show. 
 That not my soule, which at thy foot did fall 
 Long since, forc'd by thy beames, but stone 
 
 nor tree. 
 By Sence's priuiledge, can scape from thee ! 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney. 
 From " Astrophel and Stella." 
 
 STBLLA. 
 
 \A7HETHER Stella's eyes are found 
 
 Fixed on earth or glancing round. 
 If her face with pleasure glow, 
 If she sigh at others' woe. 
 If her easy air express 
 Conscious worth, or soft distress, 
 Stella's eyes, and air, and face, 
 Charm with undiminished grace. 
 
Sue 379 
 
 If on her we see displayed 
 Pendant gems and rich brocade ; 
 If her chintz with less expense 
 Flows in easy negligence ; 
 Still she lights the conscious flame, 
 Still her charms appear the same. 
 If she strikes the vocal strings, 
 If she 's silent, speaks, or sings, 
 If she sit, or if she move. 
 Still we love, and still approve. 
 
 Vain the casual, transient glance, 
 Which alone can please by chance, 
 Beauty which depends on art. 
 Changing with the changing art, 
 Which demands the toilet's aid, 
 Pendant gems and rich brocade. 
 I those charms alone can prize, 
 Which from constant nature rise. 
 Which nor circumstance, nor dress, 
 E'er can make or more or less. 
 
 Samuel Johnson. 
 "An Ode to Stella." 
 
 SUE. 
 
 CHE was a freak of Nature's joy, 
 
 And flow' ret wonder-pied, — 
 As startling as a pansy found 
 Black-leaved and golden-eyed. 
 
38o Sue 
 
 Her voice was borrowed from the choir 
 That rings the vernal years ; 
 
 Her temper was ethereal fire 
 That calmed itself in tears. 
 
 Some nameless touch of God's delight 
 
 Fell on her, as she lay 
 An infant, dreaming heavenly dreams, 
 
 And never passed away. 
 
 Her laughter, many- voiced and full. 
 Had not one scornful strain : 
 
 Her eyes, that flashed defiant mirth. 
 Were tender and humane. 
 
 She wore the radiance of her youth 
 
 As though she felt it not ; 
 And while she held you with her speech, 
 
 Her beauty was forgot. 
 
 For soul to outward Beauty is 
 
 As Sun to dawning Day, 
 The rosy drapery vanish'd 
 
 Before the conqueriug ray. 
 
 'T was hers to move in fearlessness, 
 And throne herself at ease : 
 
 Too royal were her gifts, that she 
 Should condescend to please. 
 
 Julia Ward Howe. 
 
Susan 381 
 
 SUSAN. 
 
 A LL in the Downs the fleet was moored, 
 
 The streamers waving in the wind, 
 When black-eyed Susan came aboard, 
 
 " Oh ! where shall I my true love find? 
 Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, 
 If my sweet William sails among the crew?" 
 
 William, who high upon the yard 
 Rocked with the billow to and fro. 
 
 Soon as her well-known voice he heard, 
 He sighed, and cast his eyes below : 
 
 The cord slides swiftly through his glowing 
 hands. 
 
 And, quick as lightning, on the deck he stands. 
 
 So sweet the lark, high poised in air, 
 Shuts close his pinions to his breast — 
 
 If chance his mate's shrill call he hear — 
 And drops at once into her nest. 
 
 The noblest captain in the British fleet 
 
 Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet. 
 
 "O Susan, Susan, lovely dear, 
 
 My vows shall ever true remain ; 
 Let me kiss off that falling tear ; 
 
 We only part to meet again. 
 Change as ye list, ye winds ! my heart shall be 
 The faithful compass that still points to thee. 
 
382 Susan 
 
 *' Believe not what the landsmen say, 
 
 Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind ; 
 
 They '11 tell thee, sailors, when away. 
 In every port a mistress find ; 
 
 Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, 
 
 For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. 
 
 *' If to fair India's coast we sail, 
 Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright. 
 
 Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, 
 Thy skin is ivory so white. 
 
 Thus every beauteous object that I view. 
 
 Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. 
 
 *' Though battle call me from thy arms, 
 
 Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; 
 Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms, 
 
 William shall to his dear return. 
 Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, 
 Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's 
 eye." 
 
 The boatswain gave the dreadful word, 
 The sails their swelling bosom spread ; 
 
 No longer must she stay aboard ; 
 
 They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. 
 
 Her lessening boat unwilling rowed to land, 
 
 " Adieu ! " she cried, and waved her lily hand. 
 
 John Gay. 
 
Susctte 383 
 
 SUSETTE. 
 
 'T'HEY tell me that thy witching smiles 
 
 A shallow soul conceal, 
 That thou art skilled in varied wiles 
 
 The hearts of men to steal. 
 But when I view thy glances gay, 
 
 Thine orbs of limpid blue — 
 Ah, let them prate ! Whate'er they say, 
 
 I know it can't be true, 
 Susette, 
 
 I know it can't be true. 
 
 They tell me when thy soft refrains 
 
 The soul of music thrill. 
 That they are but a syren's strains 
 
 To work the stranger ill. 
 But when I see the old folks throng 
 
 And little children, too, 
 To drink the sweetness of thy song, 
 
 I know it can't be true, 
 Susette, 
 
 I know it can't be true. 
 
 They tell me that thy beauty blows, 
 
 A fair and baleful flower ; 
 That 'neath an evil star he goes 
 
 Who e'er hath felt thy power. 
 
384 SlSbil 
 
 But when I see thy lashes shine 
 
 With pity's gentle dew 
 My heart repels the charge malign, 
 
 I know it can't be true, 
 Susette, 
 
 I know it can't be true. 
 
 Samuel Minturn Peck. 
 
 SYBIL. 
 
 ER face uplifted, and she looked — 
 
 The mirrors spake. 
 
 Not — not to me ; 
 But, to see her eyne so grand and bright, 
 Enough — enough for my delight, 
 
 1 blessed her for another's sake, 
 
 As the slave blesseth the free : 
 
 Her face uplifted, and she smiled — 
 
 Her soul a smile. 
 
 Not — not for me ; 
 Yet, to see her face so heavenly bright, 
 Enough — enough for my delight, 
 I blessed her who could so beguile. 
 
 As the slave blesseth the free ; 
 
 Her face uplifted, and she blushed — 
 The heart a blush ! 
 Not — not for me ; 
 
Teresa 385 
 
 Yet, to see such sight of pink and white, 
 Enough — enough for my delight, 
 I blessed the face one else could flush. 
 As the slave blesseth the free. 
 
 Joseph Ellis. 
 
 TERESA. 
 
 FN OWN the garden pathway singing. 
 Comes a lithesome form I know ; 
 Fleet bright butterflies are winging 
 To and fro 
 
 On the hillsides where the ox-eyed daisies 
 grow. 
 
 Round her flutter thrush and sparrow, 
 
 Warbling joyous, unafraid. 
 And sly Cupid with his arrow 
 
 'Neath the shade 
 
 Of the rose-tree lurks to greet the laughing 
 maid. 
 
 Should he find her there, the charmer. 
 
 With his bended bow and dart. 
 Pierce the never-shattered armor 
 
 Round her heart, 
 
 Evermore my tongue would bless his subtle 
 art. 
 
386 ^evesa 
 
 See ! she wanders where the roses, 
 
 Jealous, hide her from my view ; 
 Now an opening fair discloses 
 
 The soft hue 
 
 Of her flitting fleecy garments, skyey blue. 
 
 Ah, she pauses ! but 't is only 
 
 By a rose-tree climbing high, 
 There to pluck a blossom lonely. 
 
 Is he by ? 
 
 Is the love-compelling goddess' son a-nigh ? 
 
 Who can tell ? for on she strayeth 
 
 Toward an arbor cool and green, 
 There a splashing fountain playeth 
 
 Soft, serene, 
 
 And beyond in golden wheat-fields reapers 
 glean. 
 
 Here, amid the vines entwining, 
 
 Sits she as the moments pass, 
 While I gaze with sad repining 
 
 At the mass 
 
 Of the shining clouds, sun-smit like burnished 
 brass. 
 
 Still I wait, my soul a-quiver, 
 Till she comes — ah, fate be kind ! — 
 
 To my heart a jo3'Ous giver, 
 Where enshrined 
 Love will hide beyond the power of ill to find ; 
 
"Ulna 387 
 
 Or as calm and cold and stately 
 
 As a statue, marble-born, 
 Passing with white face sedately, 
 
 Not in scorn, 
 
 Yet to show me how my hopes are all forlorn. 
 
 Now the hanging vines are parted 
 
 And I see her draw a-near. 
 Will she leave me broken hearted ? 
 
 Vanish, Fear ! 
 
 In thine eyes I read my answer, thou most 
 
 dear ! 
 
 Clinton Scollard. 
 *' Teresa in the Garden." 
 
 UNA. 
 
 A GENTlvB knight was pricking on the 
 
 plain, 
 Yclad in mighty arms and silver shield, 
 Wherein old dints of deep wounds did re- 
 main. 
 The cruel marks of many a bloody field ; 
 Yet arms till that time did he never wield ; 
 His angry steed did chide his foaming bit. 
 As much disdaining to the curb to yield : 
 Full jolly knight he seemed, and fair did sit, 
 As one for knightly jousts and fierce encounters 
 fit. 
 
388 lana 
 
 A lovely lady rode him fair beside, 
 Upon a lowly ass more white than snow ; 
 Yet she much whiter, but the same did hide 
 Under a veil that wimpled was full low, 
 And over all a black stole she did throw, 
 As one that inly mourned : so was she sad, 
 And heavy sat upon her palfrey slow ; 
 Seemed in heart some hidden care she had. 
 And by her in a line a milk-white lamb she 
 led. 
 
 So pure and innocent, as that same lamb. 
 She was in life and every virtuous lore, 
 And by descent from royal lineage came 
 Of ancient kings and queens, that had of yore 
 Their scepters stretcht from east to western 
 
 shore. 
 And all the world in their subjection held ; 
 Till that infernal fiend with foul uproar 
 Forwasted all their land, and then expelled. 
 Whom to avenge, she had this knight from far 
 
 compelled. 
 
 Edmund Spenser. 
 From "The Faerie Queen." 
 
Illrania 389 
 
 URANIA. 
 
 OHK smiles and smiles, and will not sigh, 
 
 While we for hopeless passion die ; 
 Yet she could love, those eyes declare, 
 Were but men nobler than they are. 
 
 Eagerly once her gracious ken 
 
 Was turn'd upon the sons of men ; 
 
 But light the serious visage grew — 
 
 She looked, and smiled, and saw them through. 
 
 Our petty souls, our strutting wits. 
 Our labored, puny passion-fits — 
 Ah, may she scorn them still, till we 
 Scorn them as bitterly as she ! 
 
 Yet show her once, ye heavenly Powers, 
 One of some worthier race than ours ! 
 One for whose sake she once might prove 
 How deeply she who scorns can love. 
 
 His eyes be like the starry lights. 
 His voice like sounds of summer nights, 
 In all his lovely mien let pierce 
 The magic of the universe ! 
 
 And she to him will reach her hand, 
 And gazing in his eyes will stand, 
 
390 IHrsula 
 
 And know her friend, and weep for glee, 
 And cry : Long, long Pve looked for thee. 
 
 Then will she weep ; with smiles, till then, 
 Coldly she mocks the sons of men, 
 Till then, her lovely eyes maintain 
 Their pure, unwavering, deep disdain. 
 
 Matthew Arnold. 
 
 URSULA. 
 
 T ADY, whose peerless loveliness 
 
 Consenting day and night confess. 
 In the gentle wedded hour. 
 When twilight breathes its magic power, 
 And stealthy from their noontide sleep. 
 Beauty's hidden spirits creep, 
 No lofty rhyme of beaten gold 
 The blossom of thy name shall hold : 
 But the pine leaf answering 
 The robin's note shall sweetly sing 
 Thee, as dreaming sunbeam fair. 
 And holy as pale evening's prayer. 
 
 William T. Washburn. 
 
Dictoria 391 
 
 VICTORIA. 
 
 '\X7HAR Dee comes doon through heather 
 ^^ bells, 
 
 An' shelterin' glens the roses woo ; 
 Whar freedom dances ower the dells, 
 
 Whar love is leal an' hearts are true — 
 A bonnie lass adorns her bouir 
 
 In charms whase like time never saw, 
 An' Scotia names her sweetest flow'r 
 Victoria, Victoria ! 
 
 Her smile of love gaes ower the Ian', 
 Till grief and pain are turned to glee ; 
 
 The shadows 'neath her milk-white han' 
 Like clouds afore the morning flee ; 
 
 An' whar she comes, for evermair, 
 To muir or mead, to hoose or ha', 
 
 The blooms and birds keep lilting there — 
 Victoria, Victoria ! 
 
 Oh ! wha wud chuse but loe a lass 
 
 Wi' spells which fancy's wings enchain, 
 Wi' graces queen did ne'er surpass, 
 
 Wha 's made a nation's heart her aiu ? 
 The rolls o' fame embalm nae name, 
 
 Which honor's finger springs to shaw, 
 Can heat, like thine, affection's flame, 
 Victoria, Victoria ! 
 
 A. Stephen Wilson. 
 
392 \DiOlCt 
 
 VIOLET. 
 
 WIOLET, delicate, sweet, 
 
 Down in the deep of the wood, 
 Hid in thy still retreat, 
 Far from the sound of the street, 
 Man and his merciless mood : — 
 
 Safe from the storm and the heat, 
 Breathing of beauty and good. 
 Fragrantly, under thy hood, 
 Violet. 
 
 Beautiful maiden, discreet, 
 Where is the mate that is meet, 
 Meet for thee — strive as he could — 
 Yet will I kneel at thy feet. 
 Fearing another one should, 
 Violet ! 
 
 W. C. MONKHOUSE. 
 
 WII.HBLMEIN. 
 
 T 
 
 HE poet raptured, gazing wifeward, said : 
 Thou art the self of beauty to my sight ; 
 From dainty feet to glory-crowned head. 
 Thy figure shapen is in lines of light ; 
 
2^ara 393 
 
 With perfect rhyme those lithe arms upward 
 
 spread 
 
 A pulsing couplet form in rhythm night ; 
 
 And o'erthy bosom drape the vestments white, 
 
 Tenderly, as words by music vestured. 
 
 If verse now had the graphic warmth of sun, 
 
 If Ivove would body what his heart would hide. 
 
 If thou wert less than very vestal 'd nun, 
 
 Dear love, of thee might yield to Art's fond 
 
 pride, 
 
 And, dressed in poet's breath — these veils 
 
 aside — 
 
 Thou shouldst be wife and poem merged in 
 
 one." 
 
 Clifford Lanier. 
 " Love's Reserve." 
 
 ZARA. 
 
 T THINK but of thee when with ruby and rose 
 The sun on the mountains has tinted the 
 snows. 
 
 And wakened thine eyes from their dreamy 
 repose. 
 
 I think but of thee when the fountains plash. 
 
 sweet 
 And cool in the noontide amid the still heat, 
 Like the soft music made by thy two tinj' feet. 
 
394 2^ara 
 
 I think but of thee when the daylight grows 
 
 pale 
 On valley and vineyard, on garden and vale, 
 When warbles so sadly the lorn nightingale. 
 
 I think but of thee when the moonbeams out- 
 shine. 
 And kiss so divinely each temple and shrine, 
 And play 'mid the boughs of the citron and 
 pine. 
 
 In daylight or darkness, on land or on sea. 
 
 In green-girt Granada or far Araby, 
 
 My darling, my Zara, I think but of thee ! 
 
 Clinton Scollard. 
 "Moorish Ivove Song." 
 

 
 ., <?r:i 
 
 ■^. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
--■> ' ]••:=::' 
 
 
 
 
 °o 
 
 : '■^'^o^ f 
 
 *' 
 
 4 O 
 
 °^!^IP!* .^' "•^-.. •- 
 
 x^' 
 
 
 ^^-n^ 
 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 llllliliilllllllllllilllL. 
 
 015 973 503 5 % 
 
 •■. •:,„•;'•*■: ^■. ■'■■ 
 
 iili? 
 
 mm-: 
 
 ■*.,,.'•■■ . c . r