I CLXII. LOVE AND AGE. PLAYED with you 'mid cowslips blowing, When I was six and you were four ; When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing, Through groves and meads, o'er grass and heather, With little playmates, to and fro, We wandered hand in hand together ; But that was sixty years ago. You grew a lovely roseate maiden, And still our early love was strong; Still with no care our days were laden, And I did love you very dearly, How dearly words want power to show ; I thought your heart was touched as nearly ;- Then other lovers came around you, I saw you then, first vows forsaking, On rank and wealth your hand bestow ; Oh! then I thought my heart was breaking;But that was forty years ago. And I lived on, to wed another : No cause she gave me to repine; I did not wish the children mine. You grew a matron plump and comely, No merrier eyes have ever glistened Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow, Than when my youngest child was christened, But that was twenty years ago. Time passed. My eldest girl was married, And I am now a grandsire gray; One pet of four years old I've carried Among the wild-flowered meads to play. In our old fields of childish pleasure, And that is not ten years ago. But though first love's impassioned blindness I still have thought of you with kindness, Will bring a time we shall not know, CLXIII. GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRon, 1788-1824 HE walks in beauty, like the night SHE Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Or softly lightens o'er her face; And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, CLXIV. B RIGHT be the place of thy soul ! In the orbs of the blessed to shine. As thy soul shall immortally be; And our sorrow may cease to repine When we know that thy God is with thee. Light be the turf of thy tomb! May its verdure like emeralds be! There should not be the shadow of gloom, May spring from the spot of thy rest: For why should we mourn for the blest? |