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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
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights;
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have expressed
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And, for they looked but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing;
For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

SHAKESPEARE.

CHILD AND MAIDEN.

AH, Chloris! could I now but sit
As unconcerned as when
Your infant beauty could beget
No happiness or pain!
When I the dawn used to admire,

And praised the coming day,

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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 :
Favors to none, to all she smiles extends :
Oft she rejects, but never once offends.
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike,
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike.
Yet, graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride,
Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to
hide;

If to her share some female errors fall,
Look on her face, and you 'll forget them all.

ALEXANDER Pope.

Ah me! WILLIAM MAGINN.

SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.

SHE was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn ;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too!

Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty;

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food,
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death:
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect woman, nobly planned
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel-light.

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
Raises the pure and just desire of man
From earth to God, the eternal fount of all,
Such I believe my love; for as in her
So fair, in whom I all besides forget,
I view the gentle work of her Creator,
I have no care for any other thing,
Whilst thus I love. Nor is it marvellous,
Since the effect is not of my own power,
If the soul doth, by nature tempted forth,
Enamored through the eyes,

Repose upon the eyes which it resembleth,
"And through them riseth to the Primal Love,
As to its end, and honors in admiring;

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,
For it hath weaned my heart from low desires ;
Nor death I heed, nor purgatorial fires.
Thy beauty, antepast of joys above,
Instructs me in the bliss that saints approve;
For O, how good, how beautiful, must be
The God that made so good a thing as thee,
So fair an image of the heavenly Dove!

Forgive me if I cannot turn away

From those sweet eyes that are my earthly heaven,

For they are guiding stars, benignly given
To tempt my footsteps to the upward way;
And if I dwell too fondly in thy sight,
I live and love in God's peculiar light.

MICHAEL ANGELO (Italian). Translation

of J. E. TAYLOR.

THE MILKING-MAID.

THE year stood at its equinox,

And bluff the North was blowing,
A bleat of lambs came from the flocks,
Green hardy things were growing;
I met a maid with shining locks
Where milky kine were lowing.

She wore a kerchief on her neck,
Her bare arm showed its dimple,
Her apron spread without a speck,
Her air was frank and simple.

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
The frothing milk within it,

To eye the comely milking-maid,
Herself so fresh and creamy.
"Good day to you!" at last I said;

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
The grave cow heavy-laden :
I've seen grand ladies, plumed and silked,
But not a sweeter maiden;

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,
And spring sets in to-morrow.

I've half a mind to shake myself
Free, just for once, from London,

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 feel the bluff north blow again,
And mark the sprouting thistle
Set up on waste patch of the lane
Its green and tender bristle;

And spy the scarce-blown violet banks,
Crisp primrose-leaves and others,
And watch the lambs leap at their pranks,
And butt their patient mothers.

Alas! one point in all my plan

My serious thoughts demur to:
Seven years have passed for maid and man
Seven years have passed for her too.

Perhaps my rose is over-blown,
Not rosy or too rosy;

Perhaps in farm-house of her own
Some husband keeps her cosey,
Where I should show a face unknown,
Good by, my wayside posy!

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
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.

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.

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What a wanton courtship meant ;
Nor speaks loud to boast her wit,
In her silence eloquent.
Of herself survey she takes,

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
Where sin waits not on delight;
Without mask, or ball, or feast,

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,
Yet round about the spot
Ofttimes I hover;
And near the sacred gate,
With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.

The minster bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,

And noise and humming;
They've hushed the minster bell;
The organ 'gins to swell;

She's coming, coming!

My lady comes at last,
Timid and stepping fast,

And hastening hither,
With modest eyes downcast;
She comes, - she's here, she's past!
May Heaven go with her!

Kneel undisturbed, fair saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and duly ;

I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,

Lingering a minute,

Like outcast spirits, who wait,
And see, through heaven's gate,
Angels within it.

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Guard well thy soul, beloved;

Truth, dwelling there,
Shall shadow forth, beloved,
Her image rare.

Then shall I deem, beloved,
That thou art she;

And there'll be naught, beloved,
Fairer than thee.

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,
Did Job himself upon her goodness gaze,

A little better she would surely make him.

Yet is this girl I sing in naught uncommon,
And very far from angel yet, I trow.
Her faults, her sweetnesses, are purely human;
Yet she's more lovable as simple woman
Than any one diviner that I know.

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

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