O, go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded
Under the languid downfall of her hair!
She wears a coronal of flowers faded
Upon her forehead, and a face of care ;-
There is enough of wither'd everywhere
To make her bower, and enough of gloom;
There is enough of sadness to invite,
If only for the rose that died, whose doom
Is Beauty's, she that with the living bloom
Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light ;-
There is enough of sorrowing, and quite
Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,
Enough of chilly droppings from her bowl;
Enough of fear and shadowy despair
To frame her cloudy prison for the soul.

TO A COLD BEAUTY.

Lady! wouldst thou heiress be

To Winter's cold and cruel part?
When he sets the rivers free,

Thou dost still lock up thy heart :
Thou that shouldst outlast the snow
But in the whiteness of thy brow.

Scorn and cold neglect are made

For winter gloom and winter wind;
But thou wilt wrong the summer air
Breathing it to words unkind,—
Breath which only should belong
To love, to sunlight, and to song.

When the little buds unclose,

Red, and white, and pied, and blue,

And that virgin flower, the rose,

Opes her heart to hold the dew,

Wilt thou lock thy bosom up

With no jewel in its cup?

Let not cold December sit

Thus in Love's peculiar throne ! Brooklets are not prison'd now,

But crystal frosts are all agone; And that which hangs upon the spray, It is no snow, but flower of May.

LOVE'S CONSTANCY.

Still glides the gentle streamlet on,
With shifting current new and strange;
The water that was here is gone:

But those green shadows do not change.

Serene, or ruffled by the storm,

On present waves, as on the past,

The mirror'd grove retains its form,

The self-same trees their semblance cast.

The hue each fleeting globule wears,

That drop bequeaths it to the next:

One picture still the surface bears

To illustrate the murmur'd text.

So, Love! however time may flow,
Fresh hours pursuing those that flee,
One constant image still shall show
My tide of life is true to thee.

RUTH.

She stood breast high amid the corn,
Clasp'd by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the Sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush
Deeply ripen'd: such a blush

In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell,-
Which were blackest none could tell:
But long lashes veil'd a light
That had else been all too bright.

And her hat with shady brim
Made her tressy forehead dim:
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks.

Sure, I said, heaven did not mean
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean :
Lay thy sheaf adown, and come!
Share my harvest and my home!

THE TIME OF ROSES.

It was not in the winter

Our loving lot was cast:

It was the Time of Roses,

We pluck'd them as we pass'd.

That churlish season never frown'd
On early lovers yet:

O no! the world was newly crown'd
With flowers when first we met.

'Twas twilight, and I bade you go; But still you held me fast:

It was the Time of Roses,

We pluck'd them as we pass'd.

What else could peer thy glowing cheek, That tears began to stud?

And when I ask'd the like of Love,

You snatch'd a damask bud,

And oped it to the dainty core,
Still glowing to the last.

It was the Time of Roses :

We pluck'd them as we pass'd.

CHARLES WELLS.

1800-1879.

SONG.

Kiss no more the Vintages,

Thou hot-lipp'd Sun!
Flow no more the merry wine

From the dark tun!

Above my bed hang dull nightshade,
And o'er my brows the willow!

With maiden flowers from dewy bowers
Cover my last pillow!

Away! away to the green sward!

My young heart breaks :

Break the earth, and lay me deep!
Love my breath takes.

Angels! pity, and hear this ditty
Breathed from a poor girl's lips:
O'er her lover ever hover,
Scattering earthly bliss!

Come, thou iron-crowned Death!

Into my stretched arms, Bridegroom to my maiden breast;

End my sad alarms!

Lead on, lead on, thou Love of Bone!

Over the heath wild;

And 'neath the grass secure fast

Thy melancholy child!

SIR HENRY TAYLOR.

1800

SONG.

The morning broke, and Spring was there,

And lusty Summer near her birth ; The birds awoke and waked the air,

The flowers awoke and waked the earth.

"Up!" quoth he: "what joy for me,
On dewy plain, in budding brake!
A sweet bird sings on every tree,
And flowers are sweeter, for my sake."

Lightly o'er the plain he stepp'd,

Lightly brush'd he through the wood, And snared a little bird that slept

And had not waken'd when she should.

Lightly through the wood he brush'd
Lightly stepp'd he o'er the plain :
And yet a little flower was crush'd
That never raised its head again.

WILLIAM BARNES.

1801

NOT FAR TO GO.

As upland fields were sun-burn'd brown,
And heat-dried brooks were running small,
And sheep were gather'd, panting all,
Below the hawthorn on the down,-
The while my mare, with dipping head,
Pull'd on my cart, above the bridge,—
I saw come on, beside the ridge,
A maiden white in skin and thread,
And walking, with an elbow load,
The way I drove along my road.