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ON A LADY SINGING.

TO CONSTANTIA-SINGING.

THUs to be lost, and thus to sink and die, Perchance were death indeed!-Constantia, turn!

In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie, Even though the sounds which were thy voice, which burn

Between thy lips, are laid to sleep;

Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like

odor it is yet,

And from thy touch like fire doth leap.

Even while I write, my burning cheeks are wet

Alas, that the torn heart can bleed, but not forget!

A breathless awe, like the swift change,
Unseen but felt, in youthful slumbers,
Wild, sweet, but uncommunicably strange,
Thou breathest now in fast ascending num-

bers.

The cope of heaven seems rent and cloven

By the enchantment of thy strain ;
And on my shoulders wings are woven,
To follow its sublime career
Beyond the mighty moons that wane

Upon the verge of nature's utmost sphere, Till the world's shadowy walls are past and disappear.

Her voice is hovering o'er my soul-it lingers, O'ershadowing it with soft and lulling wings;

The blood and life within those snowy fingers Teach witchcraft to the instrumental

strings.

My brain is wild, my breath comes quick-
The blood is listening in my frame;
And thronging shadows, fast and thick,
Fall on my overflowing eyes;
My heart is quivering like a flame;

As morning dew, that in the sunbeam dies, I am dissolved in these consuming ecstacies. I have no life, Constantia, now, but thee; Whilst, like the world-surrounding air, thy song

Flows on, and fills all things with melody. Now is thy voice a tempest, swift and strong,

On which, like one in trance upborne, Secure o'er rocks and waves I sweep, Rejoicing like a cloud of morn.

Now 't is the breath of summer night, Which, when the starry waters sleep,

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When my sense returned, as the song was

o'er,

I fain would have said to her, "Sing it once more;

But soon as she smiled my wish I forbore: Music enough in her look I found,

WOMAN'S VOICE.

"Her voice was ever low,

Gentle and soft-an excellent thing in woman." KING LEAE.

And the hush of her lip seemed sweet as the Nor in the swaying of the summer trees,

sound.

THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.

A CANADIAN BOAT SONG.

Et remigem cantus hortatur.

QUINTILIAN.

FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time.
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.
Row, brothers, row! the stream runs fast,

When evening breezes sing their vesper hymn

Not in the minstrel's mighty symphonies,
Nor ripples breaking on the river's brim,
Is earth's best music; these may have awhile
High thoughts in happy hearts, and carking
cares beguile.

But even as the swallow's silken wings,

Skimming the water of the sleeping lake, Stir the still silver with a hundred rings— So doth one sound the sleeping spirit wake To brave the danger, and to bear the harm

The rapids are near, and the daylight's past! A low and gentle voice-dear woman's chief

Why should we yet our sail unfurl?

There is not a breath the blue wave to curl!
But when the wind blows off the shore
O sweetly we 'll rest our weary oar.
Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!

Utawa's tide! this trembling moon
Shall see us float over thy surges soon.
Saint of this green isle, hear our prayers—
O! grant us cool heavens and favoring airs!
Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!
THOMAS MOORE.

EGYPTIAN SERENADE.

SING again the song you sung When we were together young— When there were but you and I Underneath the summer sky.

Sing the song, and o'er and o'er,
Though I know that nevermore
Will it seem the song you sung
When we were together young.

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS.

est charm.

An excellent thing it is! and ever lent

To truth and love, and meekness; they who own

This gift, by the all-gracious Giver sent,

Ever by quiet step and smile are known; By kind eyes that have wept, hearts that have sorrowed

By patience never tired, from their own trials borrowed.

An excellent thing it is-when first in glad

ness

A mother looks into her infant's eyes— Smiles to its smiles, and saddens to its sad

ness

Pales at its paleness, sorrows at its cries; Its food and sleep, and smiles and little joysAll these come ever blent with one low gentle voice.

An excellent thing it is when life is leavingLeaving with gloom and gladness, joys and

cares

The strong heart failing, and the high soul grieving

With strangest thoughts, and wild unwont

fears;

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STILL to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powdered, still perfumed—
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free--
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all the adulteries of art;
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
BEN JONSON.

DELIGHT IN DISORDER.

A SWEET disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness:
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction-

An erring lace, which here and there
Enthralls the crimson stomacher-
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbons to flow confusedly-
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat-
A careless shoe string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility-

Do more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.

ROBERT HERRICK.

THE QUEEN OF THE MAY.

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HERE'S a bank with rich cowslips and cuckoobuds strewn,

To exalt your bright looks, gentle Queen of the May!

Here's a cushion of moss for your delicate shoon,

And a woodbine to weave you a canopy gay.

Here's a garland of red maiden-roses for you

Such a delicate wreath is for beauty alone; Here's a golden king-cup, brimming over with dew,

To be kissed by a lip just as sweet as its

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HEBE.

I SAW the twinkle of white feet,
I saw the flash of robes descending;
Before her ran an influence fleet,
That bowed my heart like barley bending.

As, in bare fields, the searching bees Pilot to blooms beyond our finding, It led me on-by sweet degrees, Joy's simple honey-cells unbinding.

Those graces were that seemed grim fates;
With nearer love the sky leaned o'er me;
The long sought secret's golden gates
On musical hinges swung before me.

I saw the brimmed bowl in her grasp
Thrilling with godhood; like a lover,
I sprang the proffered life to clasp-
The beaker fell; the luck was over.

The Earth has drunk the vintage up;
What boots it patch the goblet's splinters?
Can Summer fill the icy cup

Whose treacherous crystal is but Winter's?

O spendthrift haste! await the gods;
Their nectar crowns the lips of Patience.
Haste scatters on unthankful sods
The immortal gift in vain libations.

Coy Hebe flies from those that woo,

And shuns the hands would seize upon her; Follow thy life, and she will sue

To pour for thee the cup of honor.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

SONNET.

'Tis much immortal beauty to admire,
But more immortal beauty to withstand;
The perfect soul can overcome desire,
If beauty with divine delight be scanned;
For what is beauty, but the blooming child
Of fair Olympus, that in night must end,
And be for ever from that bliss exiled,
If admiration stand too much its friend?

The wind may be enamored of a flower,
The ocean of the green and laughing shore,
The silver lightning of a lofty tower-
But must not with too near a love adore;
Or flower, and margin, and cloud-capped tow.

er,

Love and delight shall with delight devour!

LORD THUELOW.

TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY.

MERRY Margaret,

As midsummer flower-
Gentle as falcon,

Or hawk of the tower;
With solace and gladness,
Much mirth and no madness,
All good and no badness;
So joyously,
So maidenly,
So womanly
Her demeaning--
In everything
Far, far passing
That I can indite,
Or suffice to write,
Of merry Margaret,
As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon

Or hawk of the tower;
As patient and as still,
And as full of good will,
As fair Isiphil,
Coliander,
Sweet Pomander,
Good Cassander;
Stedfast of thought,

Well made, well wrought;
Far may be sought

Ere you can find

So courteous, so kind,
As merry Margaret,
This midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon,

Or hawk of the tower.

JOHN SKELTON

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