Yet I would spare thee all remorse, So, comfort thee, my Fate, Whatever on my heart may fall-remember, I would risk it all! SHE was only a woman, famish'd for loving, And used to finger his fiddle-strings. Her heart's sweet gamut is cracking and breaking For a look, for a touch,-for such slight things; But he's such a very great musician, Grimacing and fing'ring his fiddle-strings. THEOPHILE MARZIALS. ONE WORD IS TOO OFTEN PROFANED. ONE word is too often profaned For me to profane it, One feeling too falsely disdain'd For thee to disdain it. One hope is too like despair I can give not what men call love; PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS. BELIEVE me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away, Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still. It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known, No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close, As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets, The same look which she turned when he rose. THOMAS Moore. AUF WIEDERSEHEN. SUMMER. THE little gate was reach'd at last, With hand on latch, a vision white The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair; Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air 'Tis thirteen years; once more I press Sweet piece of bashful maiden art! The English words had seem'd too fain! She said, "Auf Wiedersehen!" JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. WHEN STARS ARE IN THE QUIET SKIES. WHEN stars are in the quiet skies, Then most I pine for thee; Bend on me then thy tender eyes, As stars look on the sea. For thoughts, like waves that glide by night, Are stillest when they shine; Mine earthly love lies hush'd in light There is an hour when angels keep Familiar watch o'er men, When coarser souls are wrapt in sleep-- There is an hour when holy dreams My thoughts of thee too sacred are I can but know thee as my star, When stars are in the quiet skies, Then most I pine for thee; Bend on me then thy tender eyes, As stars look on the sea. EDWARD BULWER LYTTON, THE CHESS-ROARD. My little love, do you remember, And falter; falls your golden hair Ah me! the little battle's done, Dispersed is all its chivalry; Full many a game with Fortune play'd,— What is it we have won? This, this at least-if this alone;— |