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Pure courtesy, composure, ease,

Declare affections nobly fixed, And impulse sprung from due degrees

Of sense and spirit sweetly mixed. Her modesty, her chiefest grace,

The cestus clasping Venus' side, Is potent to deject the face

Of him who would affront its pride. Wrong dares not in her presence speak,

Nor spotted thought its taint disclose Under the protest of a cheek

Outbragging Nature's boast, the rose. In mind and manners how discreet !

How artless in her very art !
How candid in discourse ! how sweet

The concord of her lips and heart !

She is not fair to outward view,

As many maidens be ;
Her loveliness I never knew

Until she smiled on me : 0, then I saw her eye was bright, A well of love, a spring of light.

How (not to call true instinct's bent

And woman's very nature harm), How amiable and innocent

Her pleasure in her power to charm ! How humbly careful to attract,

Though crowned with all the soul desires, Connubial aptitude exact,

Diversity that never tires !

But now her looks are coy and cold ;

To mine they ne'er reply ;
And yet I cease not to behold

The love-light in her eye:
Her very frowns are fairer far
Than smiles of other maidens are !


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The brilliant black eye

I CARE not, though it be
May in triumph let fly
All its darts without caring who feels 'em ; By the preciser sort thought popery :

We poets can a license show
But the soft eye of blue,

For everything we do.
Though it scatter wounds too,

Hear, then, my little saint ! I'll pray to thee.
Is much better pleased when it heals 'em !
Dear Fanny !

If now thy happy mind,

Amidst its various joys, can leisure find
The black eye may say,

To attend to anything so low
“Come and worship my ray ;

As what I say or do,
By adoring, perhaps you may move me !"

Regard, and be what thou wast ever, — kind.
But the blue eye, half hid,
Says, from under its lid,

Let not the blest above “I love, and am yours, if you love me !" Engross thee quite, but sometimes hither rove : Dear Fanny !

Fain would I thy sweet image see,

And sit and talk with thee;
Then tell me, 0 why,

Nor is it curiosity, but love.
In that lovely blue eye,
Not a charm of its tint I discover;

Ah ! what delight 't would be,
Or why should you wear

Wouldst thou sometimes by stealth converse with
The only blue pair
That ever said “No" to a lover ?

How should I thy sweet commune prize,
Dear Fanny!

And other joys despise !
Come, then ! I ne'er was yet denied by thee

me !


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Lucy is a golden girl!

Toast her in a goblet brimming !
May the man that wins her wear
On his heart the Rose of Women !



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 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 cosy,
Where I should show a face unknown, -
Good-by, my wayside posy!



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.

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