)

Ha's false! and the world's at an end!
(I wonder I'm living here s
So I'm writing to you, my dear friend,
This letter, enclosing my Will;
In health (but despairing) I sign

The deed under cover you'll see,
With the few last bequests that are mine,
And I leave you my only trustee !

To that hateful Miss Jones I bequeath,
With humour that's cynical, grim,
The poor little violet wreath

I wore when I last danced with him!
To Aunt Jane, who was cross as could be,
Because she'd been losing at cards,
And called him "a worthless parti,"
I reluctantly leave-my regards !

To you, dear, who never were cross
Because I outshone you in beauty,

I leave (with a tear for his loss)

My pug, free of legacy duty!

To Harry (my brother), whose heart
Will, seeing this, turn to Stonehenge,
And take, with all vigour, my part,

I leave my best treasure-revenge!

To dear old Sir Thomas, whose house
You know was the scene of our loves,
I leave, with best love, my white mouse,
And the poor little Barbary doves!
He'll trace the allusion, no doubt,

And, in case he should meet with success,
And things should turn pleasantly out,
I leave him, besides, my address !

TO HIM, who, I'm certain, must grieve
That thus he has caused us to part,

With fifty fond wishes, I leave

What the wretch has already-my heart!

TU QUOQUE:

(AN IDYLL IN THE CONSERVATORY.)

Flower of the gorse, the rose is dead,

Thou art undying, O be mine! Be mine with all thy thorns, and prest Close to a heart that asks not rest.

I pluck thee, and thy stigma set

Upon my breast and on my brow; Blow, buds, and plenish so my wreath That none may know the thorns beneath. O crown of thorns that seemest of gold, No festal coronal art thou;

Thy honied blossoms are but hives
That guard the growth of winged lives.

I saw thee in the time of flowers
As sunshine spilled upon the land,
Or burning bushes all ablaze
With sacred fire; but went my ways;

I went my ways, and as I went

Plucked kindlier blooms on either hand;

Now of those blooms so passing sweet
None lives to stay my passing feet.

And still thy lamp upon the hill

Feeds on the autumn's dying sigh, And from thy midst comes murmuring A music sweeter than in spring.

Barbed blossom of the guarded gorse,

Be mine to wear until I die,

And mine the wounds of love which still
Bear witness to his human will.

EMILY PFEIffer.
Sonnets and Songs. (K. Paul.)

OH, benefit of ill! now I find true
That better is by evil still made better;
And ruin'd love, when it is built anew,
Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far
greater.

WILLIAM SHAKSPERE. Sonnets.

A SONG OF THE WINTER OF LOVE. BARBED blossom of the guarded gorse,

I love thee where I see thee shine : Thou sweetener of our common-ways, And brightener of our wintry days.

IN love there are no wrongs, And out of it no rights; so, if you love me, Sue not for pardon-we are heart to heart, And should you wound me, 'tis an accident,

Which to resent were most ungenerous;
But if you love me not you cannot wound me,
For I am covered with that greater wrong
And do not feel the blow.

M. B. SMEDLEY. Poems. (Strahan.)

AMANTIUM IRÆ.

AM I forgiven? You smile through your tears, love;

May I return to your favour again?

Tell me, O quickly, and quiet my fears, love—
Yours be the task, dear, to lighten my pain;
No more wet lashes, nor sobbing and pouting,

Feelings of anger can't dwell in your breast-
Banish all sadness, all sorrow and doubting,

Try to forget, when my fault is confest. Grieved beyond measure, O say that I'm shriven, Tell me, my treasure, now-Am I forgiven ?

Am I forgiven? Now dry your eyes, dearest,
You'd ne'er be hurt by Kate Calloner's wiles;
Look in my face now, your kindest and clearest,
Dimples look better, love, brimming with
smiles :

Where was the harm in that least bit of flirting?
Chatting with Kate as she sat on the stair-
Could you imagine I meant to be hurting,
Trifling, or trying to cause you a care?
Man is but mortal, and hard have I striven,
Tell me, my pretty one-Am I forgiven ?
Am I forgiven? A sin one confesses,

Surely, my darling, is almost atoned-
Pitying glances and tender caresses,

Show me already my fault is condoned : Sunshine at last, and of tears no more traces,

Sweet smiles are striving to drive away sighs, Pleasure o'erflushes the fairest of faces,

Love is aglow in the brightest of eyes! Faith nursed by charity ever has thrivenWhat do you say, darling ?—Am I forgiven?

J. ASHBY-STERRY. Boudoir Ballads. (Chatto and Windus.)

VII.

I BLAME thee not !—this heart, I know,
To be long loved was never framed ;
For something in its depths doth glow
Too strange, too restless, too untamed.

And women-things that live and move
Mined by the fever of the soul—
They seek to find in those they love
Stern strength, and promise of control.

They ask not kindness, gentle ways;

These they themselves have tried and known;
They ask a soul which never sways
With the blind gusts that shake their own.
MATTHEW ARNOLD.
Poems, Vol. II. (Macmillan.)

wwwwww

THE old, old tale! ay, there's the smart : Her heart, or what she call'd her heart,

Was hard as granite:

Who breaks a heart, and then omits

To gather up the broken bits,

Is heartless, Janet.

FREDERICK LOCKER. London Lyrics. (K. Paul.)

WHEN late I attempted your pity to move, What made you so deaf to my prayers? Perhaps it was right to dissemble your love, But why did you kick me downstairs?

UNKNOWN.

A PLACE in thy memory, dearest,
Is all that I claim,

To pause and look back when thou hearest
The sound of my name.
Another may woo thee, nearer,

Another may win and wear;

I care not though he be dearer,
If I am remembered there.

GERALD GRIFFIN.

Poems and Plays. (J. Duffy, Dublin.)

AND evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung,

Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue;

But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands,

And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands.

WILLIAM ALlingham. Songs, Ballads, and Stories. (G. Bell and Sons.)

WE were apart; yet, day by day,

I bade my heart more constant be.
I bade it keep the world away,
And grow a home for only thee;
Nor fear'd but thy love likewise grew,
Like mine, each day, more tried, more true.

The fault was grave! I might have known,
What far too soon, alas! I learn'd-
The heart can bind itself alone,
And faith may oft be unreturn'd.

Self-sway'd our feelings ebb and swell-
Thou lov'st no more ;-Farewell! Farewell!
Farewell-and thou, thou lonely heart,
Which never yet without remorse
Even for a moment didst depart
From thy remote and spherèd course

To haunt the place where passions reign-
Back to thy solitude again!

MATTHEW ARNOLD. Poems, Vol. II. (Macmillan.)

SHE IS NOT FAIR.

SHE is not fair to outward view,
As many maidens be;
Her loveliness I never knew

Until she smiled on me.
Oh, then I saw her eye was bright,
A well of love, a spring of light.

But now her looks are coy and cold-
To mine they ne'er reply;
And yet I cease not to behold
The love-light in her eye:
Her very frowns are sweeter far
Than smiles of other maidens are.

HARTLEY Coleridge.

WHEN passion's trance is overpast,
If tenderness and truth could last
Or live, whilst all wild feelings keep
Some mortal slumber, dark and deep,
I should not weep, I should not weep!

It were enough to feel, to see
Thy soft eyes gazing tenderly,
And dream the rest-and burn and be
The secret food of fires unseen,

Could'st thou but be as thou hast been.

After the slumber of the year,

The woodland violets reappear,
All things revive in field or grove,

And sky and sea, but two, which move,
And for all others, life and love.

P. B. SHELLEY.

I'M IN LOVE.

I'm in love, there's no denying,
As deep as deep can be ;
And I'm sighing! sighing! sighing !
For a girl who loves not me.
From my heart still vainly trying
Her sweet image out to blot;
Ever dying! dying! dying!

For a girl who loves me not.
There is nought I prize above her,
None on earth like her I see ;
And I love her! love her! love her!
Though I know she loves not me.
Scenes and sounds in memory floating
Which can never be forgot,

Keep me doating! doating! doating!
On a girl who loves me not.

J. R. PLANCHÉ. Songs and Poems. (Chatto and Windus.)

SONG.

HAS summer come without the rose,

Or left the bird behind?

Is the blue changed above thee,

O world! or am I blind?

Will you change every flower that grows,

Or only change this spot, Where she who said, I love thee,

Now says, I love thee not?

The skies seemed true above thee,

The rose true on the tree;

The bird seemed true the summer through, But all proved false to me.

World! is there one good thing in you,

Life, love, or death-or what?
Since lips that sang, I love thee,
Have said, I love thee not?

I think the sun's kiss will scarce fall
Into one flower's gold cup;

I think the bird will miss me,
And give the summer up.
O sweet place! desolate in tall
Wild grass, have you forgot
How her lips loved to kiss me,
Now that they kiss me not?