I love her with a love as still

As a broad river's peaceful might, Which, by high tower and lowly mill, Goes wandering at its own will,

And yet doth ever flow aright.

And, on its full, deep breast serene,
Like quiet isles my duties lie;

It flows around them and between,
And makes them fresh and fair and green-
Sweet homes wherein to live and die.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Serenade.

Aн, Sweet, thou little knowest how
I wake and passionate watches keep;
And yet, while I address thee now,

Methinks thou smilest in thy sleep. "Tis sweet enough to make me weep,

That tender thought of love and thee, That while the world is hushed so deep, Thy soul's perhaps awake to me!

Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bride of sleep! With golden visions for thy dower, While I this midnight vigil keep,

And bless thee in thy silent bower; To me 'tis sweeter than the power.

Of sleep, and fairy dreams unfurled,

That I alone, at this still hour,
In patient love outwatch the world.

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Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break,
And make this darkness gay,
With looks whose brightness well might make
Of darker nights a day.

EDWARD COATE PINKNEY.

The Miller's Daughter.

It is the miller's daughter,

And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel

That trembles at her ear;

For, hid in ringlets day and night,
I'd touch her neck so warm and white.
And I would be the girdle

About her dainty, dainty waist,
And her heart would beat against me
In sorrow and in rest;

And I should know if it beat right,
I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace,

And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom

With her laughter or her sighs; And I would lie so light, so light,

I scarce should be unclasped at night. ALFRED TENNYSON.

Serenade.

THOMAS HOOD.

Look out upon the stars, my love,
And shame them with thine eyes,
On which, than on the lights above,
There hang more destinies.
Night's beauty is the harmony

Of blending shades and light:
Then, lady, up,-look out, and be

A sister to the night!

Sleep not!-thine image wakes for aye
Within my watching breast;

Sleep not!-from her soft sleep should fly,
Who robs all hearts of rest.

The Brook-side.

I WANDERED by the brook-side,

I wandered by the mill;

I could not hear the brook flow, The noisy wheel was still; There was no burr of grasshopper, No chirp of any bird,

But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm-tree;

I watched the long, long shade, And as it grew still longer

I did not feel afraid;

For I listened for a footfall,

I listened for a word, But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

I've taught thee love's sweet lesson o'er,
A task that is not learned with tears:
Was Sylvia e'er so blest before

In her wild, solitary years?

Then what does he deserve, the youth
Who made her con so dear a truth?

Till now in silent vales to roam,
Singing vain songs to heedless flowers,
Or watch the dashing billows foam,
Amid thy lonely myrtle bowers-

To weave light crowns of various hue-
Were all the joys thy bosom knew.

The wild bird, though most musical,
Could not to thy sweet plaint reply;

The streamlet, and the waterfall,
Could only weep when thou didst sigh!
Thou couldst not change one dulcet word,
Either with billow or with bird.

For leaves and flowers, but these alone,
Winds have a soft, discoursing way;
Heaven's starry talk is all its own,

It dies in thunder far away.

E'en when thou wouldst the moon beguile
To speak, she only deigns to smile!

Now, birds and winds, be churlish still!
Ye waters, keep your sullen roar !
Stars, be as distant as ye will,—
Sylvia need court ye now no more:
In love there is society

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She never yet could find with ye! GEORGE DARLEY.

The Awakening of Endymion.

LONE upon a mountain, the pine-trees wailing round him,

Lone upon a mountain the Grecian youth is laid; Sleep, mystic sleep, for many a year has bound him, Yet his beauty, like a statue's, pale and fair, is undecayed.

When will he awaken ?

When will he awaken? a loud voice hath been crying, Night after night, and the cry has been in vain; Winds, woods, and waves found echoes for replying, But the tones of the beloved one were never heard again.

When will he awaken ? Asked the midnight's silver queen.

Never mortal eye has looked upon his sleeping; Parents, kindred, comrades, have mourned for him as dead;

By day the gathered clouds have had him in their keeping,

And at night the solemn shadows round his rest are shed.

When will he awaken ↑

Long has been the cry of faithful love's imploring; Long has hope been watching with soft eyes fixed above;

When will the fates, the life of life restoring, Own themselves vanquished by much enduring love!

When will he awaken ? Asks the midnight's weary queen.

Beautiful the sleep that she has watched untiring,
Lighted up with visions from yonder radiant sky,
Full of an immortal's glorious inspiring,
Softened by the woman's meek and loving sigh.
When will he awaken?

He has been dreaming of old heroic stories,

And the poet's passionate world has entered in his soul;

What is this old history, but a lesson given, How true love still conquers by the deep strength of truth

When sages and when kings first upheld the

mind's control.

When will he awaken?

Asks the midnight's stately queen.

Lo, the appointed midnight! the present hour is fated!

Sanctify the visions of hope, and faith, and youth?

"Tis for such they waken!

When every worldly thought is utterly forsaken,

Comes the starry midnight, felt by life's gifted few;

air;

How long, how tenderly his goddess-love has

waited,

Waited with a love too mighty for despair! Soon he will awaken.

Soft amid the pines is a sound as if of singing,

Tones that seem the lute's from the breathing

flowers depart;

ken To a being more intense, more spiritual, and true.

So doth the soul awaken, Like that youth to night's fair queen!

LETITIA ELizabeth LanDON.

Song.

is bringing

Music that is murmured from nature's inmost

heart.

Soon he will awaken

To his and midnight's queen!

Lovely is the green earth,- she knows the hour is holy;

Starry are the heavens, lit with eternal joy; Light like their own is dawning sweet and slowly

O'er the fair and sculptured forehead of that yet dreaming boy.

Soon he will awaken!

Red as the red rose towards the morning turning,

That burden treasured in your hearts too long; Sing it with voice low-breathed, but never name her;

She will not hear you, in her turrets nursing
High thoughts, too high to mate with mortal

song

Bend o'er her, gentle heaven, but do not claim her!

In twilight caves, and secret lonelinesses,

She shades the bloom of her unearthly days; The forest winds alone approach to woo her. Far off we catch the dark gleam of her tresses; And wild birds haunt the wood-walks where she strays,

Intelligible music warbling to her.

Riding Mown.

Oн, did you see him riding down,
And riding down, while all the town
Came out to see, came out to see,
And all the bells rang mad with glee?

Oh, did you hear those bells ring out,
The bells ring out, the people shout,
And did you hear that cheer on cheer
That over all the bells rang clear?

And did you see the waving flags,
The fluttering flags, the tattered rags,
Red, white, and blue, shot through and through,
Baptized with battle's deadly dew?

And did you hear the drums' gay beat,
The drums' gay beat, the bugles sweet,
The cymbals' clash, the cannons' crash,
That rent the sky with sound and flash?

And did you see me waiting there,
Just waiting there, and watching there,
One little lass, amid the mass
That pressed to see the hero pass?

And did you see him smiling down,
And smiling down, as riding down
With slowest pace, with stately grace,
He caught the vision of a face,—

My face uplifted red and white,
Turned red and white with sheer delight,
To meet the eyes, the smiling eyes,
Outflashing in their swift surprise?

Oh, did you see how swift it came,
How swift it came like sudden flame,
That smile to me, to only me,
The little lass who blushed to see?

And at the windows all along,
Oh all along, a lovely throng
Of faces fair, beyond compare,
Beamed out upon him riding there!

Each face was like a radiant gem,
A sparkling gem, and yet for them
No swift smile came, like sudden flame,
No arrowy glance took certain aim.

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He turned away from all their grace,
From all that grace of perfect face,
He turned to me, to only me,
The little lass who blushed to see.
NORA PERRY.

Absence.

WHAT shall I do with all the days and hours
That must be counted ere I see thy face?
How shall I charm the interval that lowers
Between this time and that sweet time of grace?
Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,

Weary with longing? Shall I flee away
Into past days, and with some fond pretence
Cheat myself to forget the present day?

Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin

Of casting from me God's great gift of time Shall I, these mists of memory locked within, Leave and forget life's purposes sublime?

Oh, how, or by what means, may I contrive

To bring the hour that brings thee back more near?

How may I teach my drooping hope to live

Until that blessed time and thou art here?

I'll tell thee; for thy sake I will lay hold

Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee, In worthy deeds, each moment that is told, While thou, beloved one! art far from me. For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try

All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains;
For thy dear sake I will walk patiently
Through these long hours, nor call their minutes
pains.

I will this dreary blank of absence make
A noble task-time; and will therein strive
To follow excellence, and to o'ertake
More good than I have won since yet I live.

So may this doomed time build up in me

A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine; So may my love and longing hallowed be, And thy dear thought an influence divine.

FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.