“God save all here,” – that kind wish flies

Still sweeter from his lips so sweet ; “God save you kindly," Norah cries,

“Sit down, my child, and rest and eat.”

Growing on 's cheek (but rfone knows how);
With these the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin,
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes ;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love ! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas ! become of me?

JOHN LYLY.

“Thanks, gentle Norah, fair and good,

We'll rest awhile our weary feet; But though this old man needeth food,

There 's nothing here that he can eat. flis taste is strange, he eats alone,

Beneath some ruined cloister's cope, Or on some tottering turret's stone,

While I can only live on — Hope !

CUPID SWALLOWED.

T OTHER day, as I was twining
Roses for a crown to dine in,
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.

" A week ago, ere you were wed,

It was the very night before, Upon so many sweets I fed

While passing by your mother's door, -It was that dear, delicious hour

When Owen here the nosegay brought, And found you in the woodbine bower,

Since then, indeed, I've needed naught."

LEIGH HUXT.

A blush steals over Norah's face,

A smile comes over Owen's brow, A tranquil joy illumes the place,

As if the moon were shining now; The boy beholds the pleasing pain,

The sweet confusion he has done, And shakes the crystal glass again,

And makes the sands more quickly run.

LOVE AND TIME.

“Dear Norah, we are pilgrims, bound

Upon an endless path sublime; We pace the green earth round and round,

And mortals call us Love and TIME; He seeks the many, I the few;

I dwell with peasants, he with kings. We seldom meet; but when we do,

I take his glass, and he my wings.

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 :

“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 more 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.'

She took the glass where Love's warm hands

A bright impervious vapor cast, She looks, but cannot see the sands,

Although she feels they ’re falling fast. But cold hours came, and then, alas !

She saw them falling frozen through, Till Love's warm light suffused the glass, And hid the loos'ning sands from view!

DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY.

DEATH AND CUPID.

Ah! who but oft hath marvelled why

The gods, who rule above, Should e'er permit the young to die,

The old to fall in love?

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, Of tuberose and of violet, And little darling (mignonette) ; Of look at me and call me to you (Words, that while they greet, go through you; Of thoughts, of flames, forget-me-not, Bridexort, in short, the whole blest lot Of vouchers for a lifelong kiss, And literally, breathing bliss !

Ah! why should hapless human kind

Be punished out of season? Pray listen, and perhaps you 'll find

My rhyme may give the reason.

Death, strolling out one summer's day,

Met Cupid, with his sparrows; And, bantering in a merry way,

Proposed a change of arrows.

' Agreed !" quoth Cupid. “I foresee

The queerest game of errors ;
For you the King of Hearts will be,

And I'll be King of Terrors ! ”

LEIGH HUNT.

And so 't was done ; — alas, the day

That multiplied their arts !
Each from the other bore away

A portion of his darts.
And that explains the reason why,

Despite the gods above,
The young are often doomed to die,
The old to fall in love !

JOHN GODFREY SAXE.

THE BIRTH OF PORTRAITURE.

As once a Grecian maiden wove

Her garland mid the summer bowers, There stood a youth, with eyes of love,

To watch her while she wreathed the flowers. The youth was skilled in painting's art,

But ne'er had studied woman's brow, Nor knew what magic hues the heart

Can shed o'er Nature's charm, till now.

LOVE LETTERS MADE OF FLOWERS.

CHORUS.

Blest be Love, to whom we owe All that's fair and bright below.

An exquisite invention this,
Worthy of Love's most honeyed kiss, –
This art of writing billet-doux
In buds, and odors, and bright hues !
In saying all one feels and thinks
In clever daffodils and pinks;
In puns of tulips ; and in phrases,
Charming for their truth, of daisies ;
Uttering, as well as silence may,
The sweetest words the sweetest way.
How fit too for the lady's bosom !
The place where billet-doux repose 'em.

His hand had pictured many a rose,

And sketched the rays that lit the brook ; But what were these, or what were those,

To woman's blush, to woman's look ? “Oh ! if such magic power there be,

This, this," he cried, “is all my prayer,

Awake !-- soft dews will soon arise

From daisied mead and thorny brake :
Then, sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes,
And like the tender morning break !

Awake! awake!
Dawn forth, my love, for Love's sweet sake !

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's bright and fair below;
song was cold and painting dim,
Till song and painting learned from him.

Awake ! -- within the musk-rose bower

I watch, pale flower of love, for thee. Ah, come ! and show the starry hour What wealth of love thou hid'st from me!

Awake! awake!

Show all thy love, for Love's sweet sake! Awake! - ne'er heed though listening night

Steal music from thy silver voice ;
Uncloud thy beauty, rare and bright,
And bid the world and me rejoice !

Awake! awake ! --
She comes at last, for Love's sweet sake.

BARRY CORNWALL

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.

Samiasa!
I call thee, I await thee, and I love thee;

Many may worship thee, that will I not ;
If that thy spirit down to mine may move thee,
Descend and share my lot !
Though I be formed of clay,

And thou of beams
More bright than those of day

On Eden's streams,
Thine immortality cannot repay

With love more warm than mine
My love. There is a ray

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.

FLY TO THE DESERT, FLY WITH ME.

SONG OF NOURMAHAL IN "THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM.

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,
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But oh ! the choice what heart can doubt
Of tents with love or thrones without?