INCLUSIONS.

I.

H,wilt thou have my hand, Dear, to lie along in

thine?

As a little stone in a running stream, it seems to lie and pine!

Now drop the poor pale hand, Dear,.. unfit to plight with thine.

II.

Oh, wilt thou have my cheek, Dear, drawn closer to thine own?

My cheek is white, my cheek is worn, by many a tear run down.

Now leave a little space, Dear,.. lest it should wet thine own.

III.

Oh, must thou have my soul, Dear, commingled with thy soul?—

Red grows the cheek, and warm the hand,.. the part is in the whole!..

Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate, when soul is joined to soul.

INSUFFICIENCY.

I.

THERE is no one beside thee, and no one above

thee;

Thou standest alone, as the nightingale sings! Yet my words that would praise thee, are impo

tent things,

For none can express thee, though all should approve thee!

I love thee so, Dear, that I only can love thee.

II.

Say, what can I do for thee?.. weary thee.. grieve thee?

Lean on thy shoulder... new burdens to add?.. Weep my tears over thee. . making thee sad? Oh, hold me not-love me not! let me retrieve

thee!

I love thee so, Dear, that I only can leave thee.

SONG OF THE ROSE.

ATTRIBUTED TO SAPPHO.

IF

F Zeus chose us a King of the flowers in his mirth, He would call to the rose, and would royally

crown it;

For the rose, ho, the rose! is the grace of the earth,

Is the light of the plants that are growing upon it! For the rose, ho, the rose! is the eye of the flowers, Is the blush of the meadows that feel themselves

fair,

Is the lightning of beauty, that strikes through the bowers

On pale lovers that sit in the glow unaware. Ho, the rose breathes of love! ho, the rose lifts the

cup

To the red lips of Cypris invoked for a guest! Ho, the rose having curled its sweet leaves for the world

Takes delight in the motion its petals keep up, As they laugh to the Wind as it laughs from the

west.

From Achilles Tatius.

A DEAD ROSE.

I.

ROSE! who dares to name thee?

No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet; But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat,Kept seven years in a drawer-thy titles shame

thee.

II.

The breeze that used to blow thee
Between the hedge-row thorns, and take away
An odour up the lane to last all day,—

If breathing now,-unsweetened would forego thee.

III.

The sun that used to smite thee,

And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,

Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,— If shining now, with not a hue would light thee.

IV.

The dew that used to wet thee,

And, white first, grow incarnadined, because
It lay upon thee where the crimson was,—
If dropping now,-would darken where it met thee.

V.

The fly that lit upon thee,

To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet,

Along thy leaf's pure edges, after heat,-
If lighting now, would coldly overrun thee.

VI.

The bee that once did suck thee,

And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,
And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,—
If passing now, would blindly overlook thee.

VII.

The heart doth recognise thee,

Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet, Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete

Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.

VIII.

Yes, and the heart doth owe thee

More love, dead rose! than to such roses bold

As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold!

Lie still upon this heart-which breaks below

thee!