Not the lute only felt her hands, but she
Played on my heart-strings, till the sounds be-

came

Incarnate in the pulses of my frame.

Speech left my tongue, and in my tears alone Found utterance. With stretched arms I implored

Continuance, whereat her fingers poured

A tenderer music, answering the tone

Her parted lips released, the while her throat Throbbed, as a heavenly bird were fluttering there,

And gave her voice the wonder of his note.

His brow,' she sang, is white beneath his hair;

The fertile beard is soft upon his chin,
Shading the mouth that nestles warm within,
As a rose nestles in its leaves; I see

His eyes, but cannot tell what hue they be,
For the sharp eyelash, like a sabre, speaks
The martial law of Passion; in his cheeks

The quick blood mounts, and then as quickly goes,

Leaving a tint like marble when a rose

Is held beside it ;- bid him veil his eyes,
Lest all my soul should unto mine arise,
And he behold it!' As she sang, her glance
Dwelt on my face; her beauty, like a lance,
Transfixed my heart. I melted into sighs,
Slain by the arrows of her beauteous eyes.
'Why is her bosom made' (I cried) 'a snare?
Why does a single ringlet of her hair
Hold my heart captive?'

she said;

Would you know?'

It is that you are mad with love, and chains Were made for madmen.' Then she raised her

head

With answering love, that led to other strains, Until the lute, which shared with her the smart,

Rocked as in storm upon her beating heart.
Thus to its wires she made impassioned cries:
I swear it by the brightness of his eyes;
I swear it by the darkness of his hair;

By the warm bloom his limbs and bosom wear;
By the fresh pearls his rosy lips enclose ;
By the calm majesty of his repose;
By smiles I coveted, and frowns I feared,
And by the shooting myrtles of his beard,
I swear it, that from him the morning drew
Its freshness, and the moon her silvery hue,
The sun his brightness, and the stars their
fire,

And musk and camphor all their odorous breath:
And if he answer not my love's desire,
Day will be night to me, and Life be Death!'"

BAYARD TAYLOR.

I ARISE FROM DREAMS OF THEE.

SERENADE.

I ARISE from dreams of thee

In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright. I arise from dreams of thee,

And a spirit in my feet
Has led me - who knows how?-

To thy chamber-window, sweet!

The wandering airs they faint

On the dark, the silent stream, The champak odors fail

Like sweet thoughts in a dream; The nightingale's complaint,

It dies upon her heart,

As I must die on thine,

O, beloved as thou art !

O, lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain

On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast:
Oh! press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last!

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

HER SHADOW.

BENDING between me and the taper,

While o'er the harp her white hands strayed, The shadows of her waving tresses

Above my hand were gently swayed.

With every graceful movement waving,
I marked their undulating swell;

I watched them while they met and parted,
Curled close or widened, rose or fell.

I laughed in triumph and in pleasure -
So strange the sport, so undesigned !
Her mother turned and asked me, gravely,
"What thought was passing through my mind?"

'Tis Love that blinds the eyes of mothers;

'Tis Love that makes the young maids fair! She touched my hand; my rings she counted; Yet never felt the shadows there.

Keep, gamesome Love, beloved Infant,
Keep ever thus all mothers blind;
And make thy dedicated virgins,
In substance as in shadow, kind!

AUBREY DE VERE.

Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead,
Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine?
And would the sun for thee more coldly shine,
Because of grave-damps falling round my head?
I marvelled, my Belovéd, when I read
Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine-
But... so much to thee? Can I pour thy wine
While my hands tremble? Then my soul, instead
Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower
range.
Then, love me, Love! look on me...
breathe on
me!

As brighter ladies do not count it strange,
For love, to give up acres and degree,
I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange
My nearsweet view of Heaven, for earth with thee!

My letters! all dead paper, ... mute and white!
And yet they seem alive and quivering

Against my tremulous hands which loose the string
And let them drop down on my knee to-night.
This said,... he wished to have me in his sight
Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring
To come and touch my hand... a simple thing,
Yet I wept for it! this, ... the paper's light . . .
Said, Dear, I love thee; and I sank and quailed
As if God's future thundered on my past.
This said, I am thine, and so its ink has paled
With lying at my heart that beat too fast.
And this... O Love, thy words have ill availed,
If what this said, I dared repeat at last!

I THINK of thee! my thoughts do twine and bud
About thee, as wild vines, about a tree,
Put out broad leaves, and soon there's naught to see
Except the straggling green which hides the wood.
Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood

I will not have my thoughts instead of thee

Who art dearer, better! rather instantly
Renew thy presence. As a strong tree should,
Rustle thy boughs and set thy trunk all bare,
And let these bands of greenery which insphere thee
Drop heavily down,... burst, shattered, every-
where !

Because, in this deep joy to see and hear thee
And breathe within thy shadow a new air,
I do not think of thee, I am too near thee.

THE first time that the sun rose on thine oath
To love me, I looked forward to the moon
To slacken all those bonds which seemed too soon
And quickly tied to make a lasting troth.
Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly
loathe;

And, looking on myself, I seemed not one
For such man's love! more like an out of tune
Worn viol, a good singer would be wroth
To spoil his song with, and which, snatched in haste
Is laid down at the first ill-sounding note,
I did not wrong myself so, but I placed
A wrong on thee. For perfect strains may float
Neath master-hands, from instruments defaced,
And great souls, at one stroke, may do and doat.

FIRST time he kissed me, he but only kissed
The fingers of this hand wherewith I write;
And, ever since, it grew more clean and white,
Slow to world-greetings, quick with its “O list!”
When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst
I could not wear here, plainer to my sight
Than that first kiss. The second passed in height.
The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed,
Half falling on the hair. O, beyond meed !
That was the chrism of love, which love's own

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

BURD HELEN.

["This beautiful tale of woman's love," wrote Dr. Robert Chainbers in 1829, "beautiful in the pathos of its simple and touching narrative, and equally beautiful in the pathos of its simple and touching language, was first published by Percy, as an English ballad, under the title of "Childe Waters."]

LORD JOHN stood in his stable door,

Said he was boun' to ride:
Burd Helen stood in her bouir door,

Said she'd run by his side.

"The corn is turning ripe, Lord John;

The nuts are growing fu':

An' ye are boun' for your ain countrie;
Fain wad I go with you."

"Wi' me, Helen! wi' me, Helen!
What wad ye do wi' me?
I've mair need o' a little foot-page,
Than of the like o' thee."

"O, I will be your little foot-boy,
To wait upon your steed;
And I will be your little foot-page,
Your leish of hounds to lead.'

"But my hounds will eat the breid o' wheat, And ye the dust and bran;

Then will ye sit and sigh, Helen,

That e'er ye lo'ed a man."

"O, your dogs may eat the gude wheat-breid, And I the dust and bran;

Yet will I sing and say, weel's me,
That e'er I lo'ed a man!"

"O, better ye'd stay at hame, Helen,
And sew your silver seam;
For my house is in the far Hielands,
And ye'll ha'e puir welcome hame."

"I winna stay, Lord John," she said,
"To sew my silver seam;
Though your house is in the far Hiclands,
And I'll ha'e puir welcome hame."

“Then if you'll be my foot-page, Helen, As you tell unto me,

Then you must cut your gown of green
An inch abune your knee.

"So you must cut your yellow locks
An inch abune your e'e;

You must tell no man what is my name :
My foot-page then you'll be."

Then he has luppen* on his white steed,
And straight awa' did ride;
Burd Helen, dressed in men's array,
She ran fast by his side.

* Leapt

And he was ne'er sae lack* a knicht,
As ance wad bid her ride;
And she was ne'er sae mean a May,
As ance wad bid him bide.

Lord John he rade, Burd Helen ran,
A livelong summer-day;
Until they cam to Clyde-water,
Was filled frae bank to brae.

"Seest thou yon water, Helen," said he, "That flows from bank to brim?" "I trust to God, Lord John," she said, "You ne'er will see me swim!"

But he was ne'er sae lack a knicht,
As ance wad bid her ride;

Nor did he sae much as reach his hand,
To help her ower the tide.

The firsten step that she wade in, She wadit to the knee; "Ochone, alas," quo' that ladye fair, "This water's no for me!"

The second step that she wade in,

She steppit to the middle:
Then, sighing, said that fair ladye,
"I've wet my gowden girdle."

The thirden step that she wade in,
She steppit to the neck;

When that the bairn that she was wi'.
For cauld began to quake.

"Lie still, my babe; lie still, my babe; Lie still as lang's ye may :

Your father, that rides on horseback high, Cares little for us twae."

And when she cam to the other side,
She sat down on a stane;
Says, "Them that made me, help me now,
For I am far frae hame!

"O, tell me this, now, good Lord John; In pity tell to me;

How far is it to your lodging,

Where we this nicht maun be?"

"O, dinna ye see yon castle, Helen,
Stands on yon sunny lea?
There ye'se get ane o' my mother's men:
Ye'se get nae mair o' me."

"O, weel see I your bonnie castell
Stands on yon sunny lea;

But I'se hae nane o' your mother's men, Though I never get mair o' thee."

* Little.

"But there is in yon castle, Helen, That stands on yonder lea,

There is a lady in yon castle,

Will sinder* you and me."

"I wish nae ill to that ladye,

She comes na in my thocht:

But I wish the maid maist o' your love, That dearest has you bocht."

When he cam to the porter's yett,+

He tirled at the pin ; ‡

And wha sae ready as the bauld porter, To open and let him in?

Many a lord and lady bright

Met Lord John in the closs;
But the bonniest lady among them a'
Was hauding Lord John's horse.

Four and twenty gay ladyes

Led him through bouir and ha'; But the fairest lady that was there Led his horse to the sta'.

Then up bespak Lord John's sister;
These were the words spak she:

"You have the prettiest foot-page, brother, My eyes did ever see

"But that his middle is sae thick,
His girdle sae wond'rous hie:
Let him, I pray thee, good Lord John,
To chamber go with me."

"It is not fit for a little foot-page,
That has run through moss and mire,
To go into chamber with any ladye
That wears so rich attire.

"It were more meet for a little foot-page, That has run through moss and mire, To take his supper upon his knee,

And sit doun by the kitchen fire."

When bells were rung, and mass was sung,
And a' men boun' to meat,
Burd Helen was, at the bye-table, §

Amang the pages set.

"O, eat and drink, my bonnie boy,

The white breid and the beer." "The never a bit can I eat or drink; My heart's sae fu' o' fear."

"O, eat and drink, my bonnie boy, The white breid and the wine."

"O the never a bit can I eat or drink ; My heart's sae fu' o' pyne." ||

But out and spak Lord John his mother,

And a skeely * woman was she : "Where met ye, my son, wi' that bonnie boy, That looks sae sad on thee?

"Sometimes his cheek is rosy red,

And sometimes deidly wan: He's liker a woman grit wi' child,

Than a young lord's serving man."

“O, it maks me laugh, my mother dear, Sic words to hear frae thee;

He is a squire's ae dearest son,

That for love has followed me.

“Rise up, rise up, my bonnie boy;
Gi'e my horse corn and hay."
"O that I will, my master deir,
As quickly as I may."

She took the hay aneath her arm,
The corn intill her hand;

But atween the stable door and the sta'
Burd Helen made a stand.

"O room ye round, my bonnie broun steids; O room ye near the wa';

For the pain that strikes through my twa sides,
I fear, will gar me fa'."

She leaned her back again' the wa';
Strong travail came her on;
And, e'en among the great horse' feet,
She has brought forth her son.

When bells were rung, and mass was sung,
And a' men boun' for bed,
Lord John's mother and sister gay

In ae bouir they were laid.

Lord John hadna weel got aff his claes,
Nor was he weel laid doun,
Till his mother heard a bairn greet,
And a woman's heavy moan.

"Win up, win up, Lord John," she said;
"Seek neither stockings nor shoen:
For I ha'e heard a bairn loud greet,
And a woman's heavy moan!"

"Richt hastilie he rase him up,

Socht neither hose nor shoen;
And he's doen him to the stable door,
By the lee licht o' the mune.

"O, open the door, Burd Helen," he said,
"O, open and let me in ;

I want to see if my steed be fed,
Or my greyhounds fit to rin."

* Skilful.