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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 !
The concord of her lips and heart !
She is not fair to outward view,
As many maidens be ;
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 ;
The love-light in her eye:
BLACK AND BLUE EYES.
MY LITTLE SAINT.
I CARE not, though it be
We poets can a license show
For everything we do.
Hear, then, my little saint ! I'll pray to thee.
If now thy happy mind,
Amidst its various joys, can leisure find
To attend to anything so low
As what I say or do,
Regard, and be what thou wast ever, — kind.
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;
Nor is it curiosity, but love.
Ah ! what delight 't would be,
Wouldst thou sometimes by stealth converse with
How should I thy sweet commune prize,
And other joys despise !
Lucy is a golden girl!
Toast her in a goblet brimming !
BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (Barry Cornwall).
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,
Too pointless for the city.
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.
Stood silent for a minute,
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
Its green and tender bristle ;
Crisp primrose-leaves and others,
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.
Not rosy, or too rosy;
Some husband keeps her cosy,
CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI
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.