THE MILKING-MAID. THE year stood at its equinox, And bluff the North was blowing, A bleat of lambs came from the flocks, Green hardy things were growing; I met a maid with shining locks Where milky kine were lowing. She wore a kerchief on her neck, Her bare arm showed its dimple, Her apron spread without a speck, Her air was frank and simple. She milked into a wooden pail, And sang a country ditty, An innocent fond lovers' tale, That was not wise nor witty, Pathetically rustical, Too pointless for the city. She kept in time without a beat, As true as church-bell ringers, Unless she tapped time with her feet, Or squeezed it with her fingers; Her clear, unstudied notes were sweet As many a practised singer's. I stood a minute out of sight, Stood silent for a minute, To eye the pail, and creamy white The frothing milk within it, To eye the comely milking-maid, She turned her head to see me. "Good day!" she said, with lifted head; Her eyes looked soft and dreamy. And all the while she milked and milked But not a sweeter, fresher maid Seven springs have passed since then, as I Seven springs have come and passed me by, I've half a mind to shake myself To set my work upon the shelf, And leave it done or undone ; To run down by the early train, And spy the scarce-blown violet banks, Alas! one point in all my plan My serious thoughts demur to: Seven years have passed for maid and man, Seven years have passed for her too. Perhaps my rose is over-blown, Not rosy or too rosy; - CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. SHE walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies, And all that's best of dark and bright Meets in her aspect and her eyes, Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress Or softly lightens o'er her face, Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek and o'er that brow So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent. CASTARA. LORD BYRON LIKE the violet, which alone Prospers in some happy shade, My Castara lives unknown, To no ruder eye betrayed; For she's to herself untrue Who delights i' the public view. She obeys with speedy will Her grave parents' wise commands; And so innocent, that ill She nor acts, nor understands. Women's feet run still astray If to ill they know the way. She sails by that rock, the court, Where oft virtue splits her mast; And retiredness thinks the port, Where her fame may anchor cast. She holds that day's pleasure best Sweetly spends a winter's night. O'er that darkness whence is thrust Prayer and sleep, oft governs lust. She her throne makes reason climb, While wild passions captive lie; And each article of time, Her pure thoughts to heaven fly; All her vows religious be, And she vows her love to me. AT THE CHURCH GATE. ALTHOUGH I enter not, Ofttimes I hover; And near the sacred gate, Expectant of her. The minster bell tolls out And noise and humming; She's coming, coming! My lady comes at last, And hastening hither, Kneel undisturbed, fair saint! Meekly and duly; I will not enter there, But suffer me to pace Lingering a minute, Like outcast spirits, who wait, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. Guard well thy soul, beloved; Truth, dwelling there, Then shall I deem, beloved, And there'll be naught, beloved, ANONYMOUS. HER LIKENESS. A GIRL, who has so many wilful ways She would have caused Job's patience to for. sake him ; Yet is so rich in all that's girlhood's praise, A little better she would surely make him. Therefore I wish that she may safely keep This womanhede, and change not, only grow; From maid to matron, youth to age, may creep, And in perennial blessedness, still reap On every hand of that which she doth sow. DINAH MARIA MULOCK. BLACK AND BLUE EYES. THE brilliant black eye May in triumph let fly All its darts without caring who feels 'em ; But the soft eye of blue, Though it scatter wounds too, Is much better pleased when it heals 'em! Dear Fanny! The black eye may say, "Come and worship my ray; By adoring, perhaps you may move me!" But the blue eye, half hid, Says, from under its lid, "I love, and am yours, if you love me !" Dear Fanny! Then tell me, O why, In that lovely blue eye, Not a charm of its tint I discover; Or why should you wear The only blue pair That ever said "No" to a lover? |