She took the glass where Love's warm hands A bright impervious vapor cast,

She looks, but cannot see the sands,

Although she feels they 're falling fast. But cold hours came, and then, alas!

She saw them falling frozen through, Till Love's warm light suffused the glass, And hid the loos'ning sands from view!

DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY.

DEATH AND CUPID.

AH! who but oft hath marvelled why
The gods, who rule above,
Should e'er permit the young to die,
The old to fall in love?

Ah! why should hapless human kind
Be punished out of season?
Pray listen, and perhaps you 'll find
My rhyme may give the reason.

Death, strolling out one summer's day,

Met Cupid, with his sparrows;
And, bantering in a merry way,
Proposed a change of arrows.
"Agreed!" quoth Cupid. "I foresee
The queerest game of errors;
For you the King of Hearts will be,
And I'll be King of Terrors!"

And so 't was done; - alas, the day
That multiplied their arts! —
Each from the other bore away
A portion of his darts.

And that explains the reason why,
Despite the gods above,

The young are often doomed to die,
The old to fall in love!

JOHN GODFREY SAXE.

What delight in some sweet spot
Combining love with garden plot,
At once to cultivate one's flowers
And one's epistolary powers!
Growing one's own choice words and fancies
In orange tubs, and beds of pansies;
One's sighs, and passionate declarations,
In odorous rhetoric of carnations;
Seeing how far one's stocks will reach,
Taking due care one's flowers of speech
To guard from blight as well as bathos,
And watering every day one's pathos !
A letter comes, just gathered. We
Dote on its tender brilliancy,
Inhale its delicate expressions
Of balm and pea, and its confessions
Made with as sweet a maiden's blush
As ever morn bedewed on bush :
(T is in reply to one of ours,
Made of the most convincing flowers.)

Then, after we have kissed its wit,
And heart, in water putting it
(To keep its remarks fresh), go round
Our little eloquent plot of ground,
And with enchanted hands compose
Our answer,
all of lily and rose,
Of tuberose and of violet,
And little darling (mignonette);
Of look at me and call me to you
(Words, that while they greet, go through you);
Of thoughts, of flames, forget-me-not,
Bridewort, in short, the whole blest lot
Of vouchers for a lifelong kiss,
And literally, breathing bliss!

LEIGH HUNT.

THE BIRTH OF PORTRAITURE.

As once a Grecian maiden wove
Her garland mid the summer bowers,
There stood a youth, with eyes of love,

To watch her while she wreathed the flowers.
The youth was skilled in painting's art,
But ne'er had studied woman's brow,
Nor knew what magic hues the heart
Can shed o'er Nature's charm, till now.

CHORUS.

Blest be Love, to whom we owe All that's fair and bright below.

His hand had pictured many a rose,

And sketched the rays that lit the brook; But what were these, or what were those, To woman's blush, to woman's look ? "Oh! if such magic power there be, This, this," he cried, "is all my prayer,

WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU,
MY LAD.

O WHISTLE and I'll come to you, my lad,
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad;
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad,
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.

But warily tent, when ye come to court me,
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee;
Syne up the back stile, and let naebody see,
And come as ye were na' comin' to me.
And come, &c.

O whistle, &c.

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me,
Gang by me as tho' that ye cared nae a flie;
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e,
Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me.
Yet look, &c.

O whistle, &c.

Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me,
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee;
But court nae anither, tho' jokin' ye be,
For fear that she wile your fancy frae me.
For fear, &c.

O whistle, &c.

ROBERT BURNS.

THE NYMPH'S REPLY.

IF that the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb,
And all complain of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, -
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee, and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then those delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH

THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

COME, live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods or steepy mountains, yields.
There we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee beds of roses
With a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair-lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw, and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come, live with me, and be my love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning,
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.

Of simple beauty and rustic health.

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But, when she glanced to the far-off town, White from its hill-slope looking down,

-

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast,
A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.
The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.

He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow, across the road.

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, And filled for him her small tin cup,