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THOMAS MOURE.

And the soul of the rose went into my blood, And the best of all ways
As the music clashed in the hall ;

To lengthen our days
And long by the garden lake I stood,

Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear ! For I heard your rivulet fall 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 ;

But the sage, his star-watch keeping, love,

And I, whose star, From the meadow your walks have left so sweet More glorious far, That whenever a March-wind sighs,

Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. Hle sets the jewel-print of your feet

Then awake!- till rise of sun, my dear, In violets blue as your eyes,

The sage's glass we'll shun, my dear, To the woody hollows in which we meet,

Or, in watching the flight And the valleys of Paradise.

Of bodies of light,

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

AH, SWEET KITTY NEIL !
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;

“Ah, sweet Kitty Neil ! rise up from your wheel, The lilies and roses were all awake,

Your neat little foot will be weary from spinThey sighed for the dawn and thee.

ning;

Come, trip down with me to the sycamore-tree ; Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,

Half the parish is there, and the dance is Come hither! the dances are done;

beginning In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, Queen lily and rose in one ;

The sun is gone down ; but the full harvest moon Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,

Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened

valley ; To the flowers, and be their sun.

While all the air rings with the soft, loving things There has fallen a splendid tear

Each little bird sings in the green shaded alley." From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear;

With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the

while, She is coming, my life, my fate ! The red rose cries, “She is near, she is near" ;

Her eye in the glass, as she bound her hair, And the white rose weeps, “She is late";

glancing;
'T is hard to refuse when a young

lover sues, The larkspur listens, “I hear, I hear”; And the lily whispers, “I wait."

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

dancing. She is coming, my own, my sweet !

And now on the green the glad groups are seen, Were it ever so airy a tread,

Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choosMy heart would hear her and beat,

ing; Were it earth in an earthly bed ;

And Pat, without fail, leadsoutsweet Kitty Neil, – My dust would hear her and beat,

Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought Had I lain for a century dead ;

of refusing
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

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 THE YOUNG MAY MOON.

ground,

The maids move around just like swans on the The young May moon is beaming, love, The glowworm's lamp is gleaming, love, Cheeks bright as the rose, — feet light as the doe's, How sweet to rove

Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing ; Through Morna's grove,

Search the world all around from the sky to the While the drowsy world is dreaming, love !

ground, Then awake !- the heavens look bright, my dear!

No such sight can be found as an Irish lass "T is never too late for delight, my dear!

dancing!

ALFRED TENNYSON.

Ocean.

71

love ;

Sweet Kate! who could view your bright eyes

BEDOUIN LOVE-SONG.
of deep blue,
Beaming humidly through their dark lashes From the Desert I come to thee,
so mildly,

On a stallion shod with fire ; Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded And the winds are left behind form,

In the speed of my desire. Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses throb Under thy window I stand, wildly?

And the midnight hears my cry:
Poor Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart,

I love thee, I love but thee!
Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet

With a love that shall not die

Till the sun grous cold, The sight leaves his eye as he cries with a

And the stars are old, sigh,

And the leaves of the Judgment
“Dance light, for my heart it lies under your

Book unfold !
feet, love !"
DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY.

Look from thy window, and see

My passion and my pain !
I lie on the sands below,

And I faint in thy disdain.

Let the night-winds touch thy brow O NANCY, WILT THOU GO WITH ME?

With the heat of my burning sigh,

And melt thee to hear the vow
O NANCY, wilt thou go with me,

Of a love that shall not die
Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town?

Till the sun grows cold,
Can silent glens have charms for thee,

And the stars arc old,
The lonely cot and russet gown ?

And the leaves of the Judgment
No longer drest in silken sheen,

Book unfold !
No longer decked with jewels rare,
Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene

My steps are nightly driven,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?

By the fever in my breast,

To hear from thy lattice breathed
O Nancy! when thou 'rt far away,

The word that shall give me rest.
Wilt thou not cast a wish behind ?

Open the door of thy heart,
Say, canst thou face the parching ray,

And open thy chamber door,
Nor shrink before the wintry wind ?

And my kisses shall teach thy lips
O, can that soft and gentle mien

The love that shall fade no more
Extremes of hardship learn to bear,

Till the sun grou's cold,
Nor sad regret cach courtly scene

And the stars are old,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?

And the leares of the Judgment

Book unfold ! O Nancy ! canst thou love so true,

Through perils keen with me to go, Or when thy swain mishap shall rue, To share with him the pang of woe ?

COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM.
Say, should disease or pain befall,

IRISH MELODIES."
Wilt thou assume the nurse's care,
Nor wistful those gay scenes recall

COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home

is still here;

Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, And when at last thy love shall die, Wilt thou receive his parting breath ?

And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,

And cheer with smiles the bed of death? Oh! what was love made for, if ’t is not the same And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay,

Through joy and through torment, through glory

and shame? Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear, Nor then regret those scenes so gay

I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,

I but know that I love thee, whatever thou Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?

art.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

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FROM

THOMAS PERCY, D.D.

IV.

Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss,

So come in the evening, or come in the morning; And thy Angel I 'll be, mid the horrors of Come when you're looked for, or come without this,

warning; Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to Kisses and welcome you 'll find here before you, pursue,

And the oftener you come here the more I 'll adore And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there

you !
too!

Light is my heart since the day we were plighted ;
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ;
The green of the trees looks fargreener than ever,

And the linnets are singing, “ True lovers don't
THE WELCOME.

sever!"

THOMAS MOORE.

THOMAS DAVIS.

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73

WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU,

MY LAD.

THE NYMPH'S REPLY.

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.

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.

ROBERT BURNS.

THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH

GO, HAPPY ROSE.

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.

Go, happy Rose ! and, interwove
With other flowers, bind my love !

Tell her, too, she must not be
Longer flowing, longer free,

That so oft hath fettered me.
Say, if she's fretful, I have bands
Of pearl and gold to bind her hands;

Tell her, if she struggle still,
I have myrtle rods at will,

For to tame, though not to kill. Take then my blessing thus, and go, And tell her this, — but do not so !

Lest a handsome anger fly,
Like a lightning from her eye,
And burn thee up, as well as I.

ROBERT HERRICK.

THE GROOMSMAN TO HIS MISTRESS.

I.

Every wedding, says the proverb,

Makes another, soon or late; Never yet was any marriage

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.

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