But no; she blushed, and took my arm! I can't remember what we said, 'T was nothing worth a song or story; Yet that rude path by which we sped Seemed all transformed and in a glory. The snow was crisp beneath our feet, The moon was full, the fields were gleaming, By hood and tippet sheltered sweet Her face with youth and health was beaming. The little hand outside her muff O sculptor, if you could but mold it! To have her with me there alone "T was love and fear and triumph blended. At last we reached the foot-worn stone Where that delicious journey ended. The old folks, too, were almost home; Yet on the doorstep still we lingered. She shook her ringlets from her hood, And with a "Thank you, Ned," dissembled, But yet I knew she understood With what a daring wish I trembled. A cloud passed kindly overheard, The moon was slyly peeping through it, Yet hid its face, as if it said, "Come, now or never! do it! do it!" My lips till then had only known The kiss of mother and of sister, But somehow, full upon her own Sweet, rosy, darling mouth-I kissed her! Perhaps 't was boyish love, yet still, O listless woman, weary lover! To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill I'd give But who can live youth over? EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. THE DEPARTURE. ND on her lover's arm she leant, In that new world which is the old. Beyond their utmost purple rim, And deep into the dying day, The happy princess followed him. "I'd sleep another hundred years, O love, for such another kiss;' "O wake forever, love," she hears, "O love, 't was such as this and this;" And o'er them many a sliding star, And many a merry wind was borne, And streamed through many a golden bar, The twilight melted into morn. "O eyes long laid in happy sleep!' "O love, thy kiss would wake the dead!” And o'er them many a flowing range Of vapor buoyed the crescent bark; And, rapt through many a rosy change, The twilight died into the dark. A hundred summers! can it be? And whither goest thou, tell me where? "O seek my father's court with me, For there are greater wonders there." And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Through all the world she followed him. ALFRED TENNYSON. T IS sweet to hear, FIRST LOVE. At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep, The song and oar of Adria's gondolier; By distance mellowed, o'er the waters sweep, "Tis sweet to see the evening star appear, "Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky. 'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home; 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come. "Tis sweet to be awakened by the lark, Or lulled by falling waters; sweet the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, The lisp of children, and their earliest words. Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth, "Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels, Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels; Dear is the helpless creature we defend Against the world; and dear the school-boy spot We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, Is first and passionate love-it stands alone, Like Adam's recollection of his fall; The tree of knowledge has been plucked-all's known And life yields nothing further to recall Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown, No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven Fire which Prometheus filched for us from heaven. LORD BYRON. NO TIME LIKE THE OLD TIME. YHERE is no time like the old time, when you and I were young, When the buds of April blossomed, and the birds of springtime sung! The garden's brightest glories by summer suns are nursed, But, oh, the sweet, sweet violets, the flowers that opened first! There is no place like the old place where you and I were born! Where we lifted first our eyelids on the splendors of the morn, From the milk-white breast that warmed us, from the clinging arms that bore, Where the dear eyes glistened o'er us that will look on us no more! There is no friend like the old friend who has shared our morning days, No greeting like his welcome, no homage like his praise; Fame is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown of gold, But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold. There is no love like the old love that we courted in our pride; Though our leaves are falling, falling, and we're fading side by side, There are blossoms all around us with the colors of our dawn, And we live in borrowed sunshine when the light of day is gone. There are no times like the old times—they shall never be forgot! There is no place like the old place-keep green the dear old spot! There are no friends like our old friends-may Heaven prolong their lives! There are no loves like our old loves-God bless our loving wives! MARY, at thy window be! MARY MORISON. It is the wished, the trysted hour! Yestreen when to the trembling string To thee my fancy took its wing I sat, but neither heard nor saw; Though this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town, I sighed, and said amang them 'a, O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace ROBERT BURNS. WINIFREDA. WAY! let naught to love displeasing, My Winifreda, move your care; Let naught delay the heavenly blessing, Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. What though no grants of royal donors With pompous titles grace our blood, We'll shine in more substantial honors, And, to be noble, we 'll be good. Our name, while virtue thus we tender Will sweetly sound where 'er 'tis spoke; And all the great ones, they shall wonder How they respect such little folk. What though, from fortune's lavish bounty, Still shall each kind returning season For we will live a life of reason, And that's the only life to live. Through youth and age, in love excelling, |