THE MIGHT OF ONE FAIR FACE.

Thoughts of you, and no one else;
Voice that has a tender ring;

Sacrifices made, and well

You know all that sort of thing.
All that's worn-out talk, they say,

Don't see any of it now
Spooning on your fiancée

Isn't good style, anyhow.

Just

suppose

that one of us,

Nell and me, you know,

some day,

Gets like that, on some one else,

Might be rather awkward! - eh?
All in earnest, like the books -

Wouldn't it be awful rough!

Jove! if I — but pshaw! what bosh!
Nell and I are safe enough.
Take place in the Spring, I think ;
You'll be there, and wish me joy?

Be a groomsman, if you like ;

Lots of fun. Good-bye, old boy."

GEORGE A. BAKER, J.

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 need, nor purgatorial fires:

Thy beauty, antepast of joys above,

TO PERILLA.

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.

I'ranslation of HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

MICHAEL ANGELO. (Italian.)

TO PERILLA.

Aн, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to see
Me, day by day, to steal away from thee?
Age calls me hence, and my gray hairs bid come,
And haste away to mine eternal home.

'T will not be long, Perilla, after this

That I must give thee the supremest kiss.
Dead when I am, first cast in salt; and bring
Part of the cream from that religious spring,
With which, Perilla, wash my hands and feet.
That done, then wind me in that very sheet
Which wrapt thy smooth limbs when thou didst implore.
The gods' protection, but the night before.

Follow me, weeping, to my turf; and there

Let fall a primrose, and with it a tear.

ON THE DEATH OF THE POET DRAKE.

Then lastly, let some weekly strewings be
Devoted to the memory of me:

Then shall my ghost not walk about, but keep
Still, in the cool and silent shades of sleep.

ROBERT HERRICK

ON THE DEATH OF THE POET DRAKE.

GREEN be the turf above thee,

Friend of my better days!

None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep;

And long where thou art lying
Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts whose truth was proven,
Like thine, are laid in earth,

There should a wreath be woven

To tell the world their worth;

And I, who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,

Who shared thy joy and sorrow,

Whose weal and woe were thine

It should be mine to braid it

Around thy faded brow;

ARAB LOVE.

But I've in vain essayed it,
And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee,

Nor thoughts nor words are free:

The grief is fixed too deeply

That mourns a man like thee.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

ARAB LOVE.

My faint spirit was sitting in the light
Of thy looks, my love;

It panted for thee, like the hind at noon.
For the brooks, my love.

Thy barb, whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight,
Bore thee far from me;

My heart

for my weak feet were weary soonDid companion thee.

Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed,

Or the death they bear,

The heart which tender thought clothes, like a dove,
With the wings of care;

In the battle, in the darkness, in the need,

Shall mine cling to thee;

Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love,
It may bring to thee.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

How's my boy my boy?"

"What's your boy's name, good wife,

And in what good ship sailed he?"