game,

the tame;

Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the

vale,

My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid! It will not waken me, Mary!

Dale!

Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight, Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright;

Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord,

Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his

word;

And the best of our nobles his bonnet will

veil,

The grief that clouds thy lovely brow; I dare not think upon thy vow,

And all it promised me, Mary. No fond regret must Norman know; When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe, His heart must be like bended bow, His foot like arrow free, Mary.

A time will come with feeling fraught! For, if I fall in battle fought,

Allen-a-Dale.

Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. ·

And if return'd from conquer'd foes,
How blithely will the evening close,
How sweet the linnet sing repose
To my young bride and me, Mary !

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Love not! oh, warning vainly said

In present hours as in years gone by; Love flings a halo round the dear one's head,

Faultless, immortal, till they change or die.

SIGH NO MORE, LADIES.
SIGH no more, ladies, sigh no more;
Men were deceivers ever;
One foot in sea, and one on shore,
To one thing constant never:
Then sigh not so,
But let them go,

And be you blythe and bonny;
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into, Hey nonny, nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no mo
Of dumps so dull and heavy;
The fraud of men was ever so,
Since summer first was leavy:
Then sigh not so,
But let them go,

And be you blythe and bonny;
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into, Hey nonny, nonny.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

Love not!

CAROLINE NORTON.

A WOMAN'S QUESTION. BEFORE I trust my Fate to thee, Or place my hand in thine, Before I let thy Future give Color and form to mine, Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul to-night for me.

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel
A shadow of regret:

Is there one link within the Past
That holds thy spirit yet?

Or is thy Faith as clear and free as that which I can pledge to thee?

Does there within thy dimmest dreams
A possible future shine,
Wherein thy life could henceforth
breathe,

Untouch'd, unshared by mine?

If so, at any pain or cost, oh tell me before all is lost.

Look deeper still. If thou canst feel
Within thy inmost soul,

That thou hast kept a portion back,
While I have staked the whole;

Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy tell me so.

Is there within thy heart a need That mine cannot fulfil? One chord that any other hand Could better wake or still? Speak now-lest at some future day my whole life wither and decay.

Lives there within thy nature hid The demon-spirit Change, Shedding a passing glory still On all things new and strange? It may not be thy fault alone-but shield my heart against thy own.

Shut up within their petals close and fast:

You have forgotten, dear; but they and I Keep every fragment of the golden past.

I love, too, to be loved; all loving praise Seems like a crown upon my life,-to

make

It better worth the giving, and to raise Still nearer to your own the heart you take.

I love all good and noble souls;-I heard One speak of you but lately, and for days,

Only to think of it, my soul was stirr'd In tender memory of such generous praise.

I love all those who love you: all who owe Comfort to you; and I can find regret Even for those poorer hearts who once could know,

And once could love you, and can now forget.

Well, is my heart so narrow,-I, who spare Love for all these? Do I not even hold

My favorite books in special tender care, And prize them as a miser does his gold?—

The poets that you used to read to me While summer twilights faded in the sky;

But most of all I think Aurora Leigh, Because-because-do you remember why?

Will you be jealous? Did you guess before

I loved so many things?-Still you the best:

Dearest, remember that I love you more, Oh more a thousand times, than all the rest!

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER

MAUDE CLARE.

OUT of the church she follow'd them
With a lofty step and mien:
His bride was like a village maid,
Maude Clare was like a queen.

"Son Thomas," his lady mother said,
With smiles, almost with tears:
"May Nell and you but live as true
As we have done for years;

"Your father thirty years ago
Had just your tale to tell;
But he was not so pale as you,
Nor I so pale as Nell.”

My lord was pale with inward strife,
And Nell was pale with pride;
My lord gazed long on pale Maude Clare
Or ever he kiss'd the bride.

"Lo, I have brought my gift, my lord,

Have brought my gift," she said: "To bless the hearth, to bless the board, To bless the marriage-bed.

"Here's my half of the golden chain
You wore about your neck,
That day we waded ankle-deep
For lilies in the beck:

"Here's my half of the faded leaves
We pluck'd from budding bough,
With feet amongst the lily-leaves,—
The lilies are budding now."

He strove to match her scorn with scorn,
He falter'd in his place:

"Lady," he said,-"Maude Clare," he

said,

"Maude Clare:"-and hid his face.

She turn'd to Nell: "My Lady Nell,
I have a gift for you;

Though were it fruit, the bloom were gone,
Or, were it flowers, the dew."

"Take my share of a fickle heart,

Mine of a paltry love:

Take it or leave it as you will,
I wash my hands thereof."

"And what you leave," said Nell," I'll take,
And what you spurn, I'll wear;
For he's my lord for better and worse,
And him I love, Maude Clare.

"Yea, though you're taller by the head,
More wise, and much more fair;
I'll love him till he loves me best,
Me best of all, Maude Clare."

CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI.

A SERENADE.

AH! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea,
The orange-flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.

The lark, his lay who trill'd all day,

Sits hush'd his partner nigh;

Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour, But where is County Guy?

The village maid steals through the shade,
Her shepherd's suit to hear;
To beauty shy, by lattice high,

Sings high-born cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above,
Now reigns o'er earth and sky,
And high and low the influence know,
But where is County Guy?

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

TO A VERY YOUNG LADY.
AH, Chloris! could I now but sit
As unconcern'd as when
Your infant beauty could beget
No happiness or pain!
When I the dawn used to admire,
And praised the coming day,

I little thought the rising fire
Would take my rest away.

Your charms in harmless childhood lay Like metals in a mine;

Age from no face takes more away

Than youth conceal'd in thine.
But as your charms insensibly

To their perfection prest,
So love as unperceived did fly,
And centred in my breast.

My passion with your beauty grew.
While Cupid at my heart
Still as his mother favor'd you

Threw a new flaming dart;
Each gloried in their wanton part;
To make a lover he
Employ'd the utmost of his art-
To make a beauty, she.

Though now I slowly bend to love
Uncertain of my fate,

If your fair self my chains approve,
I shall my freedom hate.

mournful dove;

A RENUNCIATION.

IF women could be fair, and yet not fond,

I

Or that their love were firm, not fickle still,

would not marvel that they make men

bond

By service long to purchase their good

will,

But when I see how frail those creatures are,

I muse that men forget themselves so far.

they change,

How oft from Phoebus they do flee to Pan,

Unsettled still, like haggards wild they

range,

These gentle birds that fly from man to

man;

Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist,

And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list.

Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both, To pass the time when nothing else can And train them to our lure with subtle please, oath,

Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we

ease;

And then we say when we their fancy try,

To play with fools, oh, what a fool was I! EDWARD VERE, Earl of Oxford.

BLAME NOT MY LUTE.

BLAME not my Lute! for he must sound
Of this or that as liketh me;
For lack of wit the Lute is bound
To give such tunes as pleaseth me;