IT IS NOT BEAUTY I DEMAND.

And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft,
That wave hot youth to fields of blood?
Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft,
Do Greece or Ilium any good?

Eyes can with baleful ardor burn,

Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed; There's many a white hand holds an urn, With lovers' hearts to dust consumed.

For crystal brows, there's naught within:
They are but empty cells for pride;
He who the Siren's hair would win
Is mostly strangled in the tide.

Give me, instead of beauty's bust,
A tender heart, a loyal mind,
Which with temptation I would trust,
Yet never linked with error find;

One in whose gentle bosom I

Could pour my secret heart of woes, Like the care-burdened honey-fly,

That hides his murmurs in the rose;

My earthly comforter! whose love
So indefeasible might be,

That when my spirit won above,
Hers could not stay, for sympathy.

THOMAS CAREW.

WILLIE WINKIE.

WEE Willie Winkie rins through the town,
Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown,

Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock,

"Are the weans in their bed?-for it's now ten o'clock."

Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben?

The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen,

The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep; But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa' asleep.

Onything but sleep, ye rogue!-glow'rin' like the moon,
Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon,

Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a cock,
Skirlin' like a kenna-what-wauknin' sleepin' folk!

Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean's in a creel!
Wamblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel,

Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravelin' a' her thrums:
Hey, Willie Winkie! - See, there he comes!

Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean,

A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his lane,
That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he'll close an ee;
But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me.

WILLIAM MILLER.

THE CHESS-BOARD.

My little love, do you remember,
Ere we were grown so sadly wise,
Those evenings in the bleak December,
Curtained warm from the snowy weather,
When you and I played chess together,
Checkmated by each other's eyes?

Ah! still I see your soft white hand Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight. Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand; The double Castles guard the wings; The Bishop, bent on distant things, Moves, sidling, through the fight.

Our fingers touch; our glances meet, And falter; falls your golden hair Against my cheek; your bosom sweet Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen Rides slow, her soldiery all between, And checks me unaware.

Ah me! the little battle's done:

Disperst is all its chivalry.

Full many a move, since then, have we

'Mid life's perplexing checkers made, And many a game with Fortune played:

THE ROYAL GUEST.

What is it we have won ?

This, this at least if this alone:
That never, never, nevermore,
As in those old still nights of yore,

(Ere we were grown so sadly wise,)
Can you and I shut out the skies,
Shut out the world, and wintry weather,
And eyes exchanging warmth with eyes,
Play chess, as then we played together!

ROBERT BULWER LYTTON.

THE ROYAL GUEST.

THEY tell me I am shrewd with other men ;
With thee I'm slow, and difficult of speech.
With others I may guide the car of talk;
Thou wing'st it oft to realms beyond my reach.

If other guests should come, I'd deck my hair,
And choose my newest garment from the shelf;
When thou art bidden, I would clothe my heart
With holiest purpose, as for God himself.

For them I while the hours with tale or song,
Or web of fancy, fringed with careless rhyme;
But how to find a fitting lay for thee,
Who hast the harmonies of every time?

THINK ON ME.

O friend beloved! I sit apart and dumb,
Sometimes in sorrow, oft in joy divine;

My lip will falter, but my prisoned heart
Springs forth to measure its faint pulse with thine.

Thou art to me most like a royal guest,

Whose travels bring him to some lowly roof
Where simple rustics spread their festal fare

And, blushing, own it is not good enough.

Bethink thee then, whene'er thou com'st to me

From high emprise and noble toil to rest,

My thoughts are weak and trivial, matched with thine; But the poor mansion offers thee its best.

JULIA WARD HOWE.

THINK ON ME.

Go where the water glideth gently ever,
Glideth through meadows that the greenest be;
Go, listen to our own beloved river,

And think on me.

Wander in forests, where the small flower layeth
Its fairy gem beneath the giant tree;

List to the dim brook, pining as it playeth,

And think on me.