With charwomen such early hours agree, and sup; So here I lie, my morning calls deferring, noon; SONG. O LADY, leave thy silken thread 161 And blossoms on the tree. Thou canst not tread but thou wilt find T is like the birthday of the world, The very rainbow showers Have turned to blossoms where they fell, There's fairy tulips in the east, The garden of the sun; The very streams reflect the hues, Thou twinest into flowers. RUTH. SHE stood breast high amid the corn, On her cheek an autumn flush Round her eyes her tresses fell, — ; And her hat, with shady brim, Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean A man that's fond precociously of stirring | Lay thy sheaf adown and come, Must be a spoon. Share my harvest and my home. bands; For every fire that fronts the sun, God of the world! the hour must come, W. A. MUHLENBERG. [U. s. A.] I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY. Then the white sails are dashed like foam, I WOULD not live alway: I ask not to Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas, God of the forest's solemn shade! God of the light and viewless air! God of the fair and open sky! God of the rolling orbs above! LADY DUFFERIN. WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. 163 There, too, is the pillow where Christ | The place is little changed, Mary; bowed his head; O, soft be my slumbers on that holy bed! And then the glad morn soon to follow that night, When the sunrise of glory shall burst on my sight, And the full matin-song, as the sleepers The day 's as bright as then; Tis but a step down yonder lane, With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary, I'm bidding you a long farewell, But I'll not forget you, darling, LADY DUFFERIN. [1807-1867.] THE IRISH EMIGRANT. I'm sitting on the stile, Mary, The corn was springing fresh and green, WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. [1801 - 1839.] THE BELLE OF THE BALL. YEARS, years ago, ere yet my dreams Were in my fowling-piece and filly; I saw her at a county ball; There, when the sound of flute and fiddle She sketched; the vale, the wood, the beach, Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading: She botanized; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading: She warbled Handel; it was grand, She made the Catalina jealous: She touched the organ; I could stand For hours and hours and blow the bellows. She kept an album, too, at home, Well filled with all an album's glories, Paintings of butterflies and Rome, Patterns for trimming, Persian stories, Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter, And autographs of Prince Leboo, And recipes for elder water. And she was flattered, worshipped, bored; Her steps were watched, her dress was noted; Her poodle dog-was quite adored; Her sayings were extremely quoted. She laughed, and every heart was glad, As if the taxes were abolished; She frowned, and every look was sad, As if the opera were demolished. She smiled on many just for fun, I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first, the only one Her heart had thought of for a minute: I knew it, for she told me so, In phrase which was divinely moulded; She wrote a charming hand, and O, How sweetly all her notes were folded! Our love was like most other loves, - And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir, Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows, and then we parted. We parted, months and years rolled by; There had been many other lodgers, And she was not the ball-room belle, But only Mrs. Something-Rogers. |