The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream
The champak odors fail

Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint

It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on thine,
Beloved as thou art!

Oh, lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain

On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast:
Oh! press it close to thine again,

Where it will break at last.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS.

TELL me not, sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;

And with a stronger faith embrace,
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such

As you too shall adore;

I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more.

RICHARD Lovelace.

'TIS SWEET TO THINK.

'TIS sweet to think, that, where'er we may rove,
We are sure to find something blissful and dear,
And that, when we're far from the lips we love,
We've but to make love to the lips we are near.
The heart, like a tendril, accustomed to cling,
Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone,
But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing
It can twine with itself, and make closely its own.
Then, oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,

To be sure to find something, still, that is dear. And to know, when far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

'Twere a shame when flowers around us rise,

To make light of the rest, if the rose isn't there; And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes,

'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair. Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike, They are both of them bright, but they're change

able too,

And wherever a new beam of beauty can strike,

It will tincture love's plume with a different hue.

Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,

To be sure to find something still that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

THOMAS Moore.

THE EVENING TIME.

TOGETHER we walked in the evening time,
Above us the sky spread golden and clear,
And he bent his head and looked in my eyes,
As if he held me of all most dear.

Oh! it was sweet in the evening time!

Grayer the light grew and grayer still,

The rooks flitted home through the purple shade; The nightingales sang where the thorns stood high, As I walked with him in the woodland glade.

Oh! it was sweet in the evening time!

And our pathway went through fields of wheat;
Narrow that path and rough the way,

But he was near and the birds sang true,
And the stars came out in the twilight gray.
Oh! it was sweet in the evening time!

Softly he spoke of the days long past,
Softly of blessed days to be;

Close to his arm and closer I prest,

The cornfield path was Eden to me.

Oh! it was sweet in the evening time!

And the latest gleams of daylight died;

My hand in his enfolded lay;

We swept the dew from the wheat as we passed,
For narrower, narrower, wound the way.

Oh! it was sweet in the evening time.

He looked in the depths of my eyes, and said,
"Sorrow and gladness will come for us, sweet;
But together we'll walk through the fields of life
Close as we walked through the fields of wheat."

A. C. C.

LINES.

LET other bards of angels sing, —
Bright suns without a spot;
But thou art no such perfect thing;

Rejoice that thou art not!

Heed not though none should call thee fair;

So, Mary, let it be,

If naught in loveliness compare

With what thou art to me.

True beauty dwells in deep retreats,
Whose veil is unremoved

Till heart with heart in concord beats,
And the lover is beloved.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.