The worship the heart lifts above
And the Heavens reject not:
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar

From the sphere of our sorrow?

P. B. Shelley.

THE YOUNG MAY MOON

THE Young May moon is beaming, love,
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love,
How sweet to rove

Through Morna's grove,

When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!
Then awake!-the heavens look bright, my dear,
"Tis never too late for delight, my dear,

And the best of all ways

To lengthen our days,

Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

Now all the world is sleeping, love,

But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,
And I, whose star,

More glorious far,

Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.

Then awake!-till rise of sun, my dear,

The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear,

Or, in watching the flight

Of bodies of light,

He might happen to take thee for one, my dear.

T. Moore.

THERE BE NONE OF BEAUTY'S DAUGHTERS

THERE be none of Beauty's daughters

With a magic like Thee;
And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me:

When, as if its sound were causing

The charmed ocean's pausing,

The waves lie still and gleaming,

And the lulled winds seem dreaming:

And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o'er the deep,
Whose breast is gently heaving
As an infant's asleep:

So the spirit bows before thee
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,

Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

Lord Byron.

THE ROVER

A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid,

A weary lot is thine!

To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine.

A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,

A feather of the blue,

A doublet of the Lincoln green

No more of me you knew

My Love!

No more of me you knew.

'This morn is merry June, I trow,
The rose is budding fain;

But she shall bloom in winter snow
Ere we two meet again.'

He turn'd his charger as he spake
Upon the river shore,

He gave the bridle-reins a shake,
Said Adieu for evermore

My Love!

And adieu for evermore.'

Sir W. Scott.

LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY

THE fountains mingle with the river And the rivers with the ocean,

The winds of heaven mix forever

With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single,

All things by a law divine

In one another's being mingle—
Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven

If it disdain'd its brother:

And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea-
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

P. B. Shelley.

I TRAVELL'D AMONG UNKNOWN MEN

I TRAVELL'D among unknown men
In lands beyond the sea;

Nor, England! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
Nor will I quit thy shore

A second time; for still I seem
To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire;

And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel
Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd
The bowers where Lucy play'd;

And thine too is the last green field

That Lucy's eyes survey'd.

W. Wordsworth.

ECHO

How sweet the answer Echo makes

To music at night

When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away o'er lawns and lakes
Goes answering light!

Yet Love hath echoes truer far

And far more sweet

Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star,

Of horn or lute or soft guitar

The songs repeat.

"Tis when the sigh,-in youth sincere

And only then,

The sigh that's breathed for one to hear
Is by that one, that only Dear

Breathed back again.

T. Moore.

JOHN ANDERSON

JOHN ANDERSON my jo, John,
When we were first acquent
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is bald, John,
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither,
And mony a canty day, John,
We've had wi ane anither:

Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go,

And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.

R. Burns.

ALL FOR LOVE

O TALK not to me of a name great in story;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.