longs,

A worthy hymn in woman's praise; The best half of creation's best,

Its heart to feel, its eye to see, The crown and complex of the rest, Its aim and its epitome.

Yet now it is my chosen task

To sing her worth as maid and wife; And were such post to seek, I'd ask To live her laureate all my life. On wings of love uplifted free,

And by her gentleness made great, I'd teach how noble man should be, To match with such a lovely mate; Until (for who may hope too much

From her who wields the powers of love), Our lifted lives at last should touch That lofty goal to which they move: Until we find, as darkness rolls

Far off, and fleshly mists dissolve, That nuptial contrasts are the poles On which the heavenly spheres revolve.

THE CHASE.

SHE wearies with an ill unknown;
In sleep she sobs and seems to float,
A water-lily, all alone

Within a lonely castle-moat;
And as the full moon, spectral, lies

Within the crescent's gleaming arms, The present shows her heedless eyes

A future dim with vague alarms: She sees, and yet she scarcely sees; For, life-in-life not yet begun, Too many are life's mysteries

For thought to fix t'ward any one. She's told that maidens are by youths Extremely honored and desired; Andsighs, "If those sweet tales be truths, What bliss to be so much admired!” The suitors come; she sees them grieve; Her coldness fills them with despair: She'd pity if she could believe;

She's sorry that she cannot care.

Who's this that meets her on her way?
Comes he as enemy, or friend;
Or both? Her bosom seems to say

He cannot pass, and there an end.
Whom does he love? Does he confer

His heart on worth that answers his?

Perhaps he's come to worship her:
She fears, she hopes, she thinks he is.

Advancing stepless, quick, and still,
As in the grass a serpent glides,
He fascinates her fluttering will,

Then terrifies with dreadful strides: At first, there's nothing to resist :

He fights with all the forms of peace; He comes about her like a mist,

With subtle, swift, unseen increase; And then, unlooked for, strikes amain Some stroke that frightens her to death; And grows all harmlessness again,

Ere she can cry, or get her breath. At times she stops, and stands at bay; But he, in all more strong than she, Subdues her with his pale dismay, Or more admired audacity.

All people speak of him with praise: How wise his talk; how sweet his tone; What manly worship in his gaze!

It nearly makes her heart his own.
With what an air he speaks her name:
His manner always recollects
Her sex and still the woman's claim
Is taught its scope by his respects.
Her charms, perceived to prosper first
In his beloved advertencies,
When in her glass they are rehearsed,
Prove his most powerful allies.

Ah, whither shall a maiden flee,
When a bold youth so swift pursues,
And siege of tenderest courtesy,

With hope perseverant, still renews!
Why fly so fast? Her flattered breast
Thanks him who finds her fair and good;
She loves her fears; veiled joys arrest
The foolish terrors of her blood;
By secret, sweet degrees, her heart,
Vanquished, takes warmth from his
desire:

She makes it more, with bashful art,
And fuels love's late dreaded fire.

The gallant credit he accords

To all the signs of good in her, Redeems itself; his praiseful words What they attribute still confer. Her heart is thrice as rich in bliss, She's three times gentler than before: He gains a right to call her his,

Now she through him is so much more! Ah, might he, when by doubts aggrieved, Behold his tokens next her breast,

253

At all his words and sighs perceived Against its blithe upheaval pressed. But still she flies: should she be won,

It must not be believed or thought She yields: she's chased to death, undone, Surprised, and violently caught.

THE LOVER.

He meets, by heavenly chance express,
Unveils to him that loveliness
His destined wife; some hidden hand

Which others cannot understand.
No songs of love, no summer dreams
Did e'er his longing fancy fire
With vision like to this; she seems
In all things better than desire.
His merits in her presence grow,

To match the promise in her eyes, And round her happy footsteps blow The authentic airs of Paradise.

The least is well, yet nothing's light
In all the lover does; for he
Who pitches hope at such a height
Will do all things with dignity.
She is so perfect, true, and pure,

Her virtue all virtue so endears,
That often, when he thinks of her,
Life's meanness fills his eyes with tears.

LETITIA E. LANDON.

THE SHEPHERD-BOY.

LIKE some vision olden

Of far other time,
When the age was golden,
In the young world's prime
Is thy soft pipe ringing,

O lonely shepherd-boy,
What song art thou singing,
In thy youth and joy?

Or art thou complaining

Of thy lowly lot,

And thine own disdaining,

Dost ask what thou hast not?
Of the future dreaming,
Weary of the past,

For the present scheming,
All but what thou hast.

I tell ye, banks of Krumley,

"T is not your sunny days That set your meadows up and down With blossoms all ablaze.

The flowers that love her crowd to bloom
Along her trodden ways.

O dim and dewy Krumley,
'T is not your birds at all
That make the air one warble
From rainy spring to fall.
They only mock the sweeter songs
That from her sweet lips fall.

O bold, bold winds of Krumley,
Do ye mean my heart to break,
So light ye lift her yellow hair,
So lightly kiss her cheek?

O flower and bird, O wave and wind,
Ye mean my heart to break!

255