And in the empire of thine heart,
Where I should solely be,
If others do pretend a part,
Or dare to vie with me,
Or if committees thou erect,
And go on such a score,
I'll laugh and sing at thy neglect,
And never love thee more.

But if thou wilt prove faithful then,
And constant of thy word,
I'll make thee glorious by my pen,

And famous by my sword;

I'll serve thee in such noble ways

Was never heard before,

I'll crown and deck thee all with bays,
And love thee more and more.

JAMES GRAHAM, MARQUESS

OF MONTROSE.

LOVE AND TIME.

Two pilgrims from the distant plain Come quickly o'er the mossy ground. One is a boy, with locks of gold

Thick curling round his face so fair;
The other pilgrim, stern and old,
Has snowy beard and silver hair.

The youth with many a merry trick
Goes singing on his careless way;
His old companion walks as quick,

But speaks no word by night or day. Where'er the old man treads, the grass

Fast fadeth with a certain doom; But where the beauteous boy doth pass Unnumbered flowers are seen to bloom.

But though this old man needeth food,
There's nothing here that he can eat.
His taste is strange, he eats alone,
Beneath some ruined cloister's cope,
Or on some tottering turret's stone,
While I can only live on - Hope!
"A week ago, ere you were wed, -
It was the very night before,
Upon so many sweets I fed

While passing by your mother's door, – It was that dear, delicious hour

When Owen here the nosegay brought, And found you in the woodbine bower, Since then, indeed, I've needed naught."

A blush steals over Norah's face,

A smile comes over Owen's brow, A tranquil joy illumes the place,

As if the moon were shining now; The boy beholds the pleasing pain, The sweet confusion he has done, And shakes the crystal glass again, And makes the sands more quickly run.

"Dear Norah, we are pilgrims, bound Upon an endless path sublime; We pace the green earth round and round, And mortals call us LOVE and TIME; He seeks the many, I the few;

I dwell with peasants, he with kings. We seldom meet; but when we do,

I take his glass, and he my wings.

"And thus together on we go,

Where'er I chance or wish to lead ;
And Time, whose lonely steps are slow,
Now sweeps along with lightning speed.
Now on our bright predestined way

We must to other regions pass;
But take this gift, and night and day
Look well upon its truthful glass.

"How quick or slow the bright sands fall Is hid from lovers' eyes alone,

If you can see them move at all,

Be sure your heart has colder grown. 'Tis coldness makes the glass grow dry, The icy hand, the freezing brow; But warm the heart and breathe the sigh,

And then they'll pass you know not how." She took the glass where Love's warm hands A bright impervious vapor cast, She looks, but cannot see the sands,

Although she feels they 're falling fast. But cold hours came, and then, alas!

She saw them falling frozen through, Till Love's warm light suffused the glass, And hid the loosening sands from view!

DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY,

FLY TO THE DESERT, FLY WITH ME.

SONG OF NOURMAHAL IN "THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM."

"FLY to the desert, fly with me,
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But oh! the choice what heart can doubt
Of tents with love or thrones without?

"Our rocks are rough, but smiling there
The 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!"

There was a pathos in this lay,

That even without enchantment's art Would instantly have found its way Deep into Selim's burning heart;

But breathing, as it did, a tone
To earthly lutes and lips unknown;
With every chord fresh from the touch
Of music's spirit, 't was too much!
Starting, he dashed away the cup,
Which, all the time of this sweet air,
His hand had held, untasted, up,

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!"

THE WELCOME.

THOMAS MOORE.

COME in the evening, or come in the morning; Come when you're looked for, or come without

warning;

Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you!

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 far greener than

ever,

And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don't sever!"

I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them!

Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom;

I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you;

I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire

you.

O, your step's like the rain to the summervexed farmer,

Or sabre and shield to a knight without armnor;

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!"

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.

CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES.

Ca' the yowes to the knowes,

Ca' them where the heather grows, Ca' them where the burnic rowes,

My bonnic dearie.