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What, of all things, midst the heap,
Should I light on, fast asleep,
But the little desperate elf,
The tiny traitor, Love himself!

By the wings I pinched him up

Like a bee, and in a cup

Of my wine I plunged and sank him;

And what d' ye think I did?--I drank him!
Faith, I thought him dead. Not he!

There he lives with tenfold glee;
And now this moment, with his wings
I feel him tickling my heart-strings.

LOVE AND TIME.

LEIGH HUNT.

Two pilgrims from the distant plain
Come quickly o'er the mossy ground.
One is a boy, with locks of gold

Thick curling round his face so fair;
The other pilgrim, stern and old,
Has snowy beard and silver hair.
The youth with many a merry trick
Goes singing on his careless way;
His old companion walks as quick,

But speaks no word by night or day. Where'er the old man treads, the grass

Fast fadeth with a certain doom; But where the beauteous boy doth pass Unnumbered flowers are seen to bloom. And thus before the sage, the boy Trips lightly o'er the blooming lands, And proudly bears a pretty toy,

A crystal glass with diamond sands.
A smile o'er any brow would pass
To see him frolic in the sun,
To see him shake the crystal glass,
And make the sands more quickly run.

And now they leap the streamlet o'er,
A silver thread so white and thin,
And now they reach the open door,
And now they lightly enter in :

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"And thus together on we go,

Where'er I chance or wish to lead;
And Time, whose lonely steps are slow,
Now sweeps along with lightning speed.
Now on our bright predestined way

We must to other regions pass;
But take this gift, and night and day
Look well upon its truthful glass.

"How quick or slow the bright sands fall Is hid from lovers' eyes alone,

If you can see them move at all,

Be sure your heart has colder grown. 'T is coldness makes the glass grow dry, The icy hand, the freezing brow; But warm the heart and breathe the sigh, And then they 'll pass you know not how.'

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What delight in some sweet spot
Combining love with garden plot,
At once to cultivate one's flowers
And one's epistolary powers!
Growing one's own choice words and fancies
In orange tubs, and beds of pansies;
One's sighs, and passionate declarations,
In odorous rhetoric of carnations;
Seeing how far one's stocks will reach,
Taking due care one's flowers of speech
To guard from blight as well as bathos,
And watering every day one's pathos !
A letter comes, just gathered. We
Dote on its tender brilliancy,
Inhale its delicate expressions
Of balm and pea, and its confessions
Made with as sweet a maiden's blush
As ever morn bedewed on bush :
('T is in reply to one of ours,
Made of the most convincing flowers.)

Then, after we have kissed its wit,
And heart, in water putting it
(To keep its remarks fresh), go round
Our little eloquent plot of ground,
And with enchanted hands compose
Our answer, all of lily and rose,

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To paint that living light I see,
And fix the soul that sparkles there."

His prayer as soon as breathed was heard ;
His pallet touched by Love grew warm,
And painting saw her thus transferred
From lifeless flowers to woman's form.
Still, as from tint to tint he stole,

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

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

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

Blest be Love, to whom we owe
All that bright and fair below;
Song was cold and painting dim,

Till song and painting learned from him.

THOMAS MOORE.

UP! QUIT THY BOWER.

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

Up, maiden fair! and bind thy hair,
And rouse thee in the breezy air!
The lulling stream that soothed thy dream
Is dancing in the sunny beam.

Waste not these hours, so fresh, so gay :
Leave thy soft couch, and haste away!

Up! Time will tell the morning bell
Its service-sound has chiméd well;
The aged crone keeps house alone,
The reapers to the fields are gone.
Lose not these hours, so cool, so gay:
Lo! while thou sleep'st they haste away!

JOANNA BAILLIE.

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In

me, which, though forbidden yet to shine, I feel was lighted at thy God's and thine. It may be hidden long: death and decay Our mother Eve bequeathed us, but my heart Defies it; though this life must pass away, Is that a cause for thee and me to part? Thou art immortal; so am I: I feel

I feel my immortality o'ersweep

All pains, all tears, all time, all fears, and peal,
Like the eternal thunders of the deep,
Into my ears this truth,-"Thou liv'st forever !"

BYRON

FOR LOVE'S SWEET SAKE.

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

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

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

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

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