I LOVE it, I love it! and who shall dare I've bedewed it with tears, I've embalmed it with sighs. 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart; In childhood's hour I lingered near Say it is folly, and deem me weak, ELIZA COOK. WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. WOODMAN, spare that tree! And I'll protect it now. Whose glory and renown And wouldst thou hew it down? Now towering to the skies! When but an idle boy I sought its grateful shade ; In all their gushing joy Here too my sisters played. My mother kissed me here; My father pressed my hand Forgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand! My heart-strings round thee cling, And still thy branches bend. GEORGE PERKINS MORRIS SEVEN TIMES TWO. ROMANCE. You bells in the steeple, ring out your changes, How many soever they be, And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges Come over, come over to me. Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling No magical sense conveys, And bells have forgotten their old art of telling The fortune of future days. "Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily While a boy listened alone: Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily All by himself on a stone. Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over, And mine, they are yet to be; No listening, no longing, shall aught, aught discover: You leave the story to me. The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather, Preparing her hoods of snow; She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather: O, children take long to grow. I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster, Nor long summer bide so late; And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, For some things are ill to wait. I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, I wait for my story - the birds cannot sing it, Not one, as he sits on the tree; The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O, bring it! Such as I wish it to be. JEAN INGELOW. THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST. LITTLE Ellie sits alone Mid the beeches of a meadow, She has thrown her bonnet by, Little Ellie sits alone, Fills the silence like a speech, While she thinks what shall be done, And the sweetest pleasure chooses Little Ellie in her smile Chooses. . . "I will have a lover, Riding on a steed of steeds! He shall love me without guile, And to him I will discover The swan's nest among the reeds. "And the steed shall be red-roan, And the lover shall be noble, With an eye that takes the breath. And the lute he plays upon Shall strike ladies into trouble, As his sword strikes men to death. "And the steed it shall be shod All in silver, housed in azure, And the mane shall swim the wind; And the hoofs along the sod Shall flash onward and keep measure, Till the shepherds look behind. "But my lover will not prize All the glory that he rides in, When he gazes in my face. He will say, 'O Love, thine eyes Build the shrine my soul abides in, And I kneel here for thy grace.' "Then, ay then - he shall kneel low, With the red-roan steed anear him, Which shall seem to understand Till I answer, 'Rise and go! For the world must love and fear him Whom I gift with heart and hand.' "Then he will arise so pale, I shall feel my own lips tremble "Then he'll ride among the hills Which the wicked bear along. "Three times shall a young foot-page Swim the stream and climb the mountain And kneel down beside my feet; "And the first time, I will send A white rosebud for a guerdon, And the second time, a glove; She did not say to the sun, "Good night!" The tall pink foxglove bowed his head ; And, while on her pillow she softly lay, She knew nothing more till again it was day; And all things said to the beautiful sun, "Good morning, good morning! our work is begun." RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. (LORD HOUGHTON.) THREE YEARS SHE GREW. THREE years she grew in sun and shower; On earth was never sown : "Myself will to my darling be In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, To kindle or restrain. “She shall be sportive as the fawn Or up the mountain springs; Of mute insensate things. "The floating clouds their state shall lend E'en in the motions of the storm "The stars of midnight shall be dear Where rivulets dance their wayward round, "And vital feelings of delight Her virgin bosom swell; Here in this happy dell." |