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!

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!

SONG.

COVENTRY PATMORE.

THE shape alone let others prize,
The features of the fair:

I look for spirit in her eyes,
And meaning in her air.

A damask cheek, an ivory arm,
Shall ne'er my wishes win:
Give me an animated form,

That speaks a mind within.

A face where awful honor shines, Where sense and sweetness move, And angel innocence refines

The tenderness of love.

These are the soul of beauty's frame;
Without whose vital aid
Unfinished all her features seem,
And all her roses dead.

But ah! where both their charms unite,
How perfect is the view,
With every image of delight,
With graces ever new :

Of power to charm the greatest woe,
The wildest rage control,
Diffusing mildness o'er the brow,
And rapture through the soul.

I FEAR THY KISSES, GENTLE MAIDEN.

I FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden; Thou needest not fear mine; My spirit is too deeply laden

Ever to burden thine.

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion; Thou needest not fear mine;

Innocent is the heart's devotion

With which I worship thine.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow;
Now to her that's as brown as a berry;
Here's to the wife with a face full of woe,
And now to the damsel that's merry.
Let the toast pass, etc.

For let 'em be clumsy, or let 'em be slim,
Young or ancient, I care not a feather;
So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim,
So fill up your glasses, nay, fill to the brim,
And let us e'en toast them together.
Let the toast pass, etc.

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN

A GOLDEN GIRL.

LUCY is a golden girl;

But a man, a man, should woo her! They who seek her shrink aback,

When they should, like storms, pursue her.

All her smiles are hid in light;

All her hair is lost in splendor; But she hath the eyes of Night

And a heart that 's over-tender.

Yet the foolish suitors fly

(Is 't excess of dread or duty ?) From the starlight of her eye,

Leaving to neglect her beauty!

Men by fifty seasons taught

Leave her to a young beginner, Who, without a second thought,

Whispers, wooes, and straight must win her.

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!
BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (Barry Cornwall).

THE MILKING-MAID.

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 eye the comely milking-maid, Herself so fresh and creamy. "Good day to you!" at last I said; She turned her head to see me. "Good day!" she said, with lifted head;

Her eyes looked soft and dreamy.

And all the while she milked and milked
The grave cow heavy-laden :
I've seen grand ladies, plumed and silked,
But not a sweeter maiden;

But not a sweeter, fresher maid
Than this in homely cotton,

Whose pleasant face and silky braid

I have not yet forgotten.

Seven springs have passed since then, as I Count with a sober sorrow;

Seven springs have come and passed me by,
And spring sets in to-morrow.

I've half a mind to shake myself
Free, just for once, from London,
To set my work upon the shelf,

And leave it done or undone ;

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!

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.