COOKE.

FLORENCE VANE.

I LOVED thee long and dearly,
Florence Vane;

My life's bright dream, and early
Hath come again;

I renew in my fond vision,
My heart's dear pain,
My hope, and thy derision,
Florence Vane.

The ruin lone and hoary,

The ruin old,

Where thou didst mark my story,

At even told,

That spot-the hues Elysian

Of sky and plain

I treasure in my vision,

Florence Vane.

Thou wast lovelier than the roses

In their prime;

Thy voice excelled the closes

Of sweetest rhyme;

Thy heart was as a river

Without a main.

Would I had loved thee never,

Florence Vane!

But, fairest, coldest wonder!

Thy glorious clay

Lieth the green sod under

Alas the day!

And it boots not to remember

Thy disdain

To quicken love's pale ember,

Florence Vane.

The lilies of the valley

By young graves weep,

The pansies love to dally
Where maidens sleep;

May their bloom, in beauty vying,

Never wane

Where thine earthly part is lying,

Florence Vane!

YOUNG ROSALIE LEE.

I LOVE to forget ambition,

And hope, in the mingled thought Of valley, and wood, and meadow, Where, whilom, my spirit caught Affection's holiest breathings

Where under the skies, with me Young Rosalie roved, aye drinking From joy's bright Castaly.

I think of the valley and river,

Of the old wood bright with blossoms;

Of the pure and chastened gladness

Upspringing in our bosoms.

I think of the lonely turtle

So tongued with melancholy;

Of the hue of the drooping moonlight,
And the starlight pure and holy.

Of the beat of a heart most tender,
The sigh of a shell-tinct lip
As soft as the land-tones wandering
Far leagues over ocean deep;
Of a step as light in its falling
On the breast of the beaded lea
As the fall of the faery moonlight
On the leaf of yon tulip tree.

I think of these-and the murmur
Of bird, and katydid,

Whose home is the grave-yard cypress,
Whose goblet the honey-reed.

And then I weep! for Rosalie

Has gone to her early rest;

And the green-lipped reed and the daisy Suck sweets from her maiden breast.

MAUD MULLER, on a summer's day, Raked the meadow, sweet with hay.

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast-

A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.

The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.

He drew his bridle in the shade

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow across the road.

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup,

And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.

"Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed."

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles bare and brown;

And listened, while a pleased surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.

At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.