His eyes be like the starry lights,
His voice like sounds of summer nights;
In all his lovely mien let pierce
The magic of the universe.

And she to him will reach her hand,
And gazing in his eyes will stand,
And know her friend, and weep for glee,
And cry—Long, long I've looked for thee.

Then she will weep-with smiles, till then, Coldly she marks the sons of men, Till then her lovely eyes maintain Their gay, unwavering, deep disdain.

ROBERT BULWER LYTTON.

"OWEN MEREDITH."

[“Clytemnestra." 1854.]

SONG.

In the warm, black mill-pool winking,
The first doubtful star shines blue:

And alone here I lie thinking,

O such happy thoughts of you!

Up the porch the roses clamber,

And the flowers we sowed last June;

And the casement of your chamber

Shines between them to the moon.

Look out, love! fling wide your lattice:
Wind the red rose in your hair,

And the little white clematis

Which I plucked for you to wear:

Or come down, and let me hear you
Singing in the scented grass,
Through tall cowslips, nodding near you,
Just to touch you as you pass.

For, where you pass, the air

With warm hints of love grows wise:

You-the dew on your dim hair,
And the smile in your soft eyes!

From the hayfield comes your brother;
There, your sisters stand together,
Singing clear to one another,

Through the dark blue summer weather;

And the maid the latch is clinking,
As she lets her lover through:

But alone, love, I lie thinking

O such tender thoughts of you!

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

["The Music Master." 1855.]

LOVELY MARY DONNELLY.

O, LOVELY Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best!
If fifty girls were round you I'd hardly see the rest.
Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will,
Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.

Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock,

How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many a shock. Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a shower,

Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power.

Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up,
Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup,
Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine;
It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine.

The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before,
No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor;
But Mary kept the belt of love, and O but she was gay!
She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away!

When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete,
The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet;

The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised,

But blessed himself he was n't deaf when once her voice she raised.

And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung,

Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue;

But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands, And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands.

O, you're the flower o' womankind in country or in town;

The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down.

If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright, And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right.

O might we live together in a lofty palace hall,

Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall!
O might we live together in a cottage mean and small,
With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall!

O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress.

It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less.

The proudest place would fit your face, and I'm too poor and low; But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go!