My love is dead,

Gone to his death bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Here, upon my true-love's grave,
Shall the garish flowers be laid
Nor one holy saint to save
All the sorrows of a maid.

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Come with acorn cup and thorn
Drain my heart's blood all away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

THOMAS CHATTERTON.

THE HARE-BELL.

Y sylvan waves that westward flow
A hare-bell bent its beauty low,
With slender waist and modest brow,
Amidst the shades descending.
A star look'd from the paler sky-
The hare-bell gazed, and with a sigh
Forgot that love may look too high,
And sorrow without ending.

By casement hid, the flowers among,
A maiden lean'd and listen'd long;
It was the hour of love and song,

And early night-birds calling:
A barque across the river drew-
The rose was glowing through and through
The maiden's cheek of trembling hue,

Amidst the twilight falling.

She saw no star, she saw no flower-
Her heart expanded to the hour;
She reck'd not of her lowly dower
Amidst the shades descending.
With love thus fix'd upon a height,
That seem'd so beauteous to the sight,
How could she think of wrong and blight,
And sorrow without ending.

The hare-bell droop'd beneath the dew,
And closed its eye of tender blue;
No sun could e'er its life renew,
Nor star, in music calling.
The autumn leaves were early shed;
But earlier on her cottage bed
The maiden's loving heart lay dead,
Amidst the twilight falling!

CHARLES Swain.

KITTY OF COLERAINE.

S beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping
With a pitcher of milk, from the fair of
Coleraine,

When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher
it tumbled,

And all the sweet buttermilk watered the plain. "O, what shall I do now-'t was looking at you now! Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again! 'Twas the pride of my dairy: O`Barney M'Cleary! You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine."

I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her,
That such a misfortune should give her such pain.
A kiss then I gave her; and ere I did leave her,

She vowed for such pleasure she'd break it again.
'Twas hay-making season-I can't tell the reason—-
Misfortunes will never come single, 't is plain;
For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster
Not a buttermilk pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

SWEET MEETING OF DESIRES.

GREW assured, before I asked,

That she'd be mine without reserve,
And in her unclaimed graces basked
At leisure, till the time should serve—
With just enough of dread to thrill

The hope, and make it trebly dear:
Thus loath to speak the word, to kill
Either the hope or happy fear.
Till once, through lanes returning late,
Her laughing sisters lagged behind;
And ere we reached her father's gate,

We paused with one presentient mind;
And in the dim and perfumed mist

Their coming stayed, who, blithe and free, And very women, loved to assist

A lover's opportunity.

Twice rose, twice died, my trembling word;
To faint and frail cathedral chimes
Spake time in music, and we heard

The chafers rustling in the limes.
Her dress, that touched me where I stood;
The warmth of her confided arm;
Her bosom's gentle neighborhood;
Her pleasure in her power to charm;
Her look, her love, her form, her touch!
The last seemed most by blissful turn-
Blissful but that it pleased too much,

And taught the wayward soul to yearn.
It was as if a harp with wires

Was traversed by the breath I drew; And O, sweet meeting of desires!

She, answering, owned that she loved too. COVENTRY PATMORE.

THE LOVER'S COMING.

LEANED out of window, I smelt the white cloves, Dark, dark was the burden, I saw not the gate; "Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover

Hush, nightingale, hush! O sweet nightingale, wait Till I listen and hear

If a step draweth near, For my love he is late!

"The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer,
A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree,
The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer :
To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see?
Let the star-clusters glow,
Let the sweet waters flow,
And cross quickly to me.

"Your night-moths that hover where honey brims over
From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep;
You glow-worms, shine out, and the pathway discover
To him that comes darkling along the rough steep.
Ah, my sailor, make haste,
For the time runs to waste,
And my love lieth deep-

"Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover, I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night.” By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover;

Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight;
But I'll love him more, more

Than e'er wife loved before,
Be the days dark or bright.

SUMMER DAYS.

JEAN INGELOW.

N summer, when the days were long,
We walked together in the wood:
Our heart was light, our step was strong;
Sweet flutterings were there in our blood,
In summer, when the days were long.

We strayed from morn till evening came;
We gathered flowers, and wove us crowns;
We walked mid poppies red as flame,
Or sat upon the yellow downs;

And always wished our life the same.

In summer, when the days were long, We leaped the hedge-row, crossed the brook: And still her voice flowed forth in song, Or else she read some graceful book, In summer, when the days were long.

And then we sat beneath the trees, With shadows lessening in the noon; And in the sunlight and the breeze, We feasted, many a gorgeous June, While larks were singing o'er the leas.

What conjuration, and what mighty magic,

(For such proceeding I am charged withal,)

I won his daughter with.

Her father loved me, oft invited me ;

Still questioned me the story of my life,

From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I have passed.

I ran it through, even from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it ;
Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents, by flood and field;

I owe thee much. Thou hast deserved from me
Far, far beyond what I can ever pay.

Oft have I proved the labors of thy love,
And the warm efforts of the gentle heart,
Anxious to please.-Oh! when my friend and I
In some thick wood have wander'd heedless on,
Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down
Upon the sloping cowslip-cover'd bank,
Where the pure limpid stream has slid along

In grateful errors through the underwood,

And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,

And portance in my travel's history:

Wherein of antres vast, and deserts idle,

The eglantine smell'd sweeter, and the rose Assumed a dye more deep; whilst every flower Vied with its fellow plant in luxury

Of dress-Oh! then, the longest summer's day

It was my hint to speak, such was the process:

And of the Cannibals that each other eat,

The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads

Do grow beneath their shoulders. These things to hear

Would Desdemona seriously incline :

But still the house affairs would draw her thence;
Which ever as she could with haste despatch,
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse: which, I observing,
Took once a pliant hour, and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
But not intentively: I did consent;

And often did beguile her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke

That my youth suffer'd. My story being done,

She gave me for my pains a world of sighs:

She swore-in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange, 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful :

She wished she had not heard it; yet she wished That heaven had made her such a man; she thank'd me;

And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. Upon this hint, I spake :
She loved me for the dangers I had passed,
And I loved her that she did pity them.
This only is the witchcraft I have used:
Here comes the lady, let her witness it.
WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

FRIENDSHIP.

'NVIDIOUS grave!-how dost thou rend in sunder
Whom love has knit, and sympathy made one!
A tie more stubborn far than nature's band.
Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul;

Had not imparted half: 'twas happiness
Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed,
Not to return, how painful the remembrance!

EUPHROSYNE.

ROBERT BLAIR.

MUST not say that thou wert true,
Yet let me say that thou wert fair.
And they that lovely face who view,
They will not ask if truth be there.

Truth-what is truth! Two bleeding hearts Wounded by men, by fortune tried, Outwearied with their lonely parts,

Vow to beat henceforth side by side.

The world to them was stern and drear:
Their lot was but to weep and moan.
Ah, let them keep their faith sincere,
For neither could subsist alone!

But souls whom some benignant breath Has charm'd at birth from bloom and care, These ask no love-these plight no faith, For they are happy as they are.

The world to them may homage make, And garlands for their forehead weave, And what the world can give, they takeBut they bring more than they receive.

They smile upon the world; their ears To one demand alone are coy. They will not give us love and tearsThey bring us light, and warmth, and joy. On one she smiled and he was blest! She smiles elsewhere-we make a din! But 'twas not love that heaved his breast, Fair child! it was the bliss within.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

THEY SIN WHO TELL US LOVE CAN DIE.

HEY sin who tell us love can die
With life all other passions fly-
All others are but vanity.

In heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell:
Earthly, these passions of the earth,
They perish where they had their birth;
But love is indestructible.

Its holy flame for ever burneth;

From heaven it came, to heaven returneth.
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times oppressed,
It here is tried and purified,
Then hath in heaven its perfect rest.
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest-time of love is there.
ROBERT SOUTHEY.

TO HIS WIFE.

H! hadst thou never shared my fate,
More dark that fate would prove,
My heart were truly desolate
Without thy soothing love.

But thou hast suffer'd for my sake,
Whilst this relief I found,
Like fearless lips that strive to take

The poison from a wound.

My fond affection thou hast seen,
Then judge of my regret,

To think more happy thou hadst been
If we had never met.

And has that thought been shared by thee?
Ah, no! that smiling cheek

Proves more unchanging love for me
Than labor'd words could speak.

But there are true hearts which the sight
Of sorrow summons forth;
Though known in days of past delight,
We know not half their worth.
How unlike some who have profess'd
So much in friendship's name,
Yet calmly pause to think how best
They may evade her claim.

But ah! from them to thee I turn,
They'd make me loathe mankind,
Far better lessons I may learn

From thy more holy mind.

The love that gives a charm to home,
I feel they cannot take;

We'll pray for happier years to come,
For one-another's sake.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

'M sitting on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat side by side
On a bright May morning, long ago,
When first you were my bride;
The corn was springing fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high ;
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,
The day as bright as then ;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again;

But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath warm on my cheek;
And I still keep listening for the words
You never more will speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane,

And the little church stands near-
The church where we were wed, Mary;
I see the spire from here.

But the graveyard lies between them, Mary,
And my step might break your rest--
For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep,
With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends: But, oh! they love the better still The few our Father sends ! And you were all I had, MaryMy blessing and my pride; There's nothing left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul,

And my arm's young strength was gone; There was comfort ever on your lip,

And the kind look on your brow

I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Tho' you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break-
When the hunger pain was gnawing there,
And you did it for my sake;

I bless you for the pleasant word,
When your heart was sad and sore-
Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm bidding you a long farewell,
My Mary-kind and true!
But I'll not forget you darling,
In the land I'm going to ;