WHEN IN THE CHRONICLE OF WASTED But 't is easy to be seen in the coldness of your TIME. SONNET. WHEN in the chronicle of wasted time SHAKESPEARE. CHILD AND MAIDEN. AH, Chloris! could I now but sit And praised the coming day, But when time has swelled the grapes to a richer | Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, style of shapes, And the sun has lent warmth to their blushes, Then to cheer us and to gladden, to enchant us and to madden, Is the ripe ruddy glory that rushes. Ah me! O, 't is then that mortals pant while they gaze on Bacchus' plant, O, 't is then, will my simile serve ye? Should a damsel fair repine, though neglected like a vine ? Both erelong shall turn heads topsy-turvy. Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those : If to her share some female errors fall, ALEXANDER Pope. Ah me! WILLIAM MAGINN. SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. SHE was a phantom of delight To be a moment's ornament; I saw her upon nearer view, Her household motions light and free, A countenance in which did meet Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene BELINDA. W. WORDSWORTH. FROM THE "RAPE OF THE LOCK." ON her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, Which Jews might kiss, and Infidels adore, IF IT BE TRUE THAT ANY BEAUTEOUS THING. IF it be true that any beauteous thing Repose upon the eyes which it resembleth, For who adores the Maker needs must love his work. MICHAEL ANGELO (Italian). Translation of J. E. TAYLOR. THE MIGHT OF ONE FAIR FACE. THE might of one fair face sublimes my love, Forgive me if I cannot turn away From those sweet eyes that are my earthly heaven, For they are guiding stars, benignly given MICHAEL ANGELO (Italian). Translation of J. E. TAYLOR. THE MILKING-MAID. THE year stood at its equinox, And bluff the North was blowing, She wore a kerchief on her neck, She milked into a wooden pail, And sang a country ditty, An innocent fond lovers' tale, That was not wise nor witty, Pathetically rustical, Too pointless for the city. She kept in time without a beat, As true as church-bell ringers, Unless she tapped time with her feet, Or squeezed it with her fingers; Her clear, unstudied notes were sweet As many a practised singer's. I stood a minute out of sight, Stood silent for a minute, To eye the pail, and creamy white To eye the comely milking-maid, She turned her head to see me. "Good day!" she said, with lifted head; Her eyes looked soft and dreamy. And all the while she milked and milked But not a sweeter, fresher maid Than this in homely cotton, Whose pleasant face and silky braid I have not yet forgotten. Seven springs have passed since then, as I Count with a sober sorrow; Seven springs have come and passed me by, I've half a mind to shake myself To set my work upon the shelf, And leave it done or undone ; To run down by the early train, Whirl down with shriek and whistle, And spy the scarce-blown violet banks, Alas! one point in all my plan My serious thoughts demur to: Perhaps my rose is over-blown, Perhaps in farm-house of her own CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTL SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. SIE walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies, And all that's best of dark and bright Meets 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 Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress Or softly lightens o'er her face, Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek and o'er that brow A mind at peace with all below, CASTARA. LORD BYRON LIKE the violet, which alone Prospers in some happy shade, My Castara lives unknown, To no ruder eye betrayed; For she's to herself untrue Who delights i' the public view. What a wanton courtship meant ; But 'tween men no difference makes. She obeys with speedy will Her grave parents' wise commands; And so innocent, that ill She nor acts, nor understands. Women's feet run still astray If to ill they know the way. She sails by that rock, the court, Where oft virtue splits her mast; And retiredness thinks the port, Where her fame may anchor cast. Virtue safely cannot sit Where vice is enthroned for wit. She holds that day's pleasure best Sweetly spends a winter's night. O'er that darkness whence is thrust Prayer and sleep, oft governs lust. She her throne makes reason climb, While wild passions captive lie; And each article of time, Her pure thoughts to heaven fly; All her vows religious be, And she vows her love to me. WILLIAM HABINGTON. ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove, The linnet, and thrush say "I love, and I love!" In the winter they're silent, the wind is so strong; What it says I don't know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, And singing and loving-all come back together. But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he, "I love my Love, and my Love loves me.' SAMUEL COLERIDGE. AT THE CHURCH GATE. ALTHOUGH I enter not, The minster bell tolls out And noise and humming; She's coming, coming! My lady comes at last, And hastening hither, Kneel undisturbed, fair saint! I will not enter there, But suffer me to pace Lingering a minute, Like outcast spirits, who wait, Guard well thy soul, beloved; Truth, dwelling there, Then shall I deem, beloved, And there'll be naught, beloved, ANONYMOUS. HER LIKENESS. A GIRL, who has so many wilful ways She would have caused Job's patience to for sake him; Yet is so rich in all that's girlhood's praise, A little better she would surely make him. Yet is this girl I sing in naught uncommon, Therefore I wish that she may safely keep This womanhede, and change not, only grow; From maid to matron, youth to age, may creep, And in perennial blessedness, still reap On every hand of that which she doth sow. DINAH MARIA MULOCK. BLACK AND BLUE EYES. THE brilliant black eye May in triumph let fly All its darts without caring who feels 'em ; But the soft eye of blue, Though it scatter wounds too, Is much better pleased when it heals 'em! Dear Fanny! The black eye may say, "Come and worship my ray; By adoring, perhaps you may move me!" But the blue eye, half hid, Says, from under its lid, "I love, and am yours, if you love me! Dear Fanny! Then tell me, O why, In that lovely blue eye, Not a charm of its tint I discover ; Or why should you wear The only blue pair That ever said "No" to a lover? Dear Fanny! THOMAS MOORE |