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"Our rocks are rough, but smiling there
Th' acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less
For flowering in a wilderness.

"Our sands are bare, but down their slope The silvery-footed antelope

As gracefully and gayly springs

As o'er the marble courts of kings.

"Then come, thy Arab maid will be
The loved and lone acacia-tree,
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loneliness.
"Oh

there are looks and tones that dart An instant sunshine through the heart, As if the soul that minute caught

Some treasure it through life had sought;

"As if the very lips and eyes
Predestined to have all our sighs,
And never be forgot again,
Sparkled and spoke before as then!

"So came thy every glance and tone,

When first on me they breathed and shone ;
New, as if brought from other spheres,
Yet welcome as if loved for years!

"Then fly with me, if thou hast known
No other flame, nor falsely thrown
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn
Should ever in thy heart be worn.

"Come, if the love thou hast for me
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,
Fresh as the fountain underground,
When first 't is by the lapwing found.

"But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worshipped image from its base,
To give to me the ruined place;

"Then, fare thee well! - I'd rather make
My bower upon some icy lake
When thawing suns begin to shine,
Than trust to love so false as thine!"

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As if 't were fixed by magic there, And naming her, so long unnamed, So long unseen, wildly exclaimed, "O Nourmahal! O Nourmahal! Hadst thou but sung this witching strain, I could forget-forgive thee all,

And never leave those eyes again."

The mask is off, - the charm is wrought,
And Selim to his heart has caught,
In blushes, more than ever bright,
His Nourmahal, his Harem's Light!
and well do vanished frowns enhance
The charm of every brightened glance;
And dearer seems each dawning smile
For having lost its light awhile;
And, happier now for all her sighs,

As on his arm her head reposes,
She whispers him, with laughing eyes,
Remember, love, the Feast of Roses !"

66

THOMAS MOORE.

COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD.

COME into the garden, Maud,

For the black bat, night, has flown! Come into the garden, Maud,

I am here at the gate alone;

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the roses blown.

For a breeze of morning moves,

And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves, On a bed of daffodil sky,

To faint in the light of the sun that she loves, To faint in its light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard

The flute, violin, bassoon;

All night has the casement jessamine stirred
To the dancers dancing in tune,
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.

I said to the lily, "There is but one

With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play."
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;

Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose, The brief night goes

In babble and revel and wine.

O young lord-lover, what sighs are those
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,
"For ever and ever mine!"

And the soul of the rose went into my blood,

As the music clashed in the hall;

And long by the garden lake I stood,

For I heard your rivulet fall

And the best of all ways

To lengthen our days

Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, Now all the world is sleeping, love, Our wood, that is dearer than all;

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet

That whenever a March-wind sighs,

He sets the jewel-print of your feet

In violets blue as your eyes,

To the woody hollows in which we meet,
And the valleys of Paradise.

The slender acacia would not shake

One long milk-bloom on the tree ;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ;

But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;

The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sighed for the dawn and thee.

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither! the dances are done;
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;

Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear

From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear;

She is coming, my life, my fate!

The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near";
And the white rose weeps, "She is late";

The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear";
And the lily whispers, "I wait."

She is coming, my own, my sweet!

Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthly bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE YOUNG MAY MOON.

THE young May moon is beaming, love,
The glowworm's lamp is gleaming, love,
How sweet to rove

Through Morna's grove,
While the drowsy world is dreaming, love!
Then awake!-the heavens look bright, my dear!
'Tis never too late for delight, my dear!

But the sage, his star-watch keeping, love, And I, whose star,

More glorious far,

Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.
Then awake! - till rise of sun, my dear,
The sage's glass we'll shun, my dear,
Or, in watching the flight

Of bodies of light,

He might happen to take thee for one, my dear !

THOMAS MOORE.

AH, SWEET KITTY NEIL!

"AH, Sweet Kitty Neil ! rise up from your wheel, Your neat little foot will be weary from spin

ning;

Come, trip down with me to the sycamore-tree; Half the parish is there, and the dance is beginning.

The sun is gone down; but the full harvest moon Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened

valley;

While all the air rings with the soft, loving things

Each little bird sings in the green shaded alley."

With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the while,

Her eye in the glass, as she bound her hair, glancing;

'Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues,

So she could n't but choose to go off to the dancing.

And now on the green the glad groups are seen, Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choos

ing;

And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty Neil,— Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought

of refusing.

Now Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee, And, with flourish so free, sets each couple in motion;

With a cheer and a bound, the lads patter the ground,

The maids move around just like swans on the

ocean.

Cheeks bright as the rose, -feet light as the doe's, Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing; Search the world all around from the sky to the ground,

No such sight can be found as an Irish lass

dancing!

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WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU,
MY LAD.

O WHISTLE and I'll come to you, my lad,
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad;
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad,
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.

But warily tent, when ye come to court me,
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee;
Syne up the back stile, and let naebody see,
And come as ye were na' comin' to me.
And come, &c.

O whistle, &c.

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me,
Gang by me as tho' that ye cared nae a flie;
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e,
Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me.
Yet look, &c.

O whistle, &c.

Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me,
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee;
But court nae anither, tho' jokin' ye be,
For fear that she wile your fancy frae me.
For fear, &c.

O whistle, &c.

ROBERT BURNS.

THE NYMPH'S REPLY.

IF that the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb,
And all complain of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields ;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee, and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then those delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

COME, live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods or steepy mountains, yields.
There we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
There will I make thee beds of roses
With a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair-lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw, and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come, live with me, and be my love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning,
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.

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