WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. 1802-1839. JOSEPHINE. WE did not meet in courtly hall, Where Luxury holds festival, And Wit awakes the song; We met where darker spirits meet, And she knew she could not be, Love, We did not part beneath the sky, Where Night conceals the glistening eye, We parted on that spot of ground Where first we laughed at love, And ever the jests were loud around, "The heaven is very dark, Love, But merrily rides my bark, Love, Good night, my Josephine!" She did not speak of ring or vow, But filled the cup with wine, And took the roses from her brow To make a wreath for mine; And bade me, when the gale should lift My light skiff on the wave, To think as little of the gift, As of the hand that gave: "Go gaily o'er the sea, Love, And find your own heart's queen; And look not back to me, Love, Your humble Josephine!" That garland breathes and blooms no more, Past are those idle hours; I would not, could I choose, restore The fondness or the flowers; Yet oft their withered witchery And even from your side, Love, One look is o'er the tide, Love, One thought with Josephine! Alas! your lips are rosier, Your eyes of softer blue, And I have never felt for her, As I have felt for you; Our love was like the snow-flakes, Which melt before you pass, Or the bubble on the wine, which breaks Before you lip the glass. You saw these eyelids wet, Love, Which she has never seen; But let me not forget, Love, My poor, poor Josephine! JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 1819. 1841. My Love, I have no fear that thou shouldst die; We live and love, well knowing that there is I cannot think that thou shouldst pass away, A piece of nature that can have no flaw, And more divine in my humanity, As knowing that the waiting eyes which scan And ask meek, calm-browed deeds, with it agreeing. IN ABSENCE. These rugged, wintry days I scarce could bear, When wild March winds upon their errands sing, Like those same winds, when, startled from their lair, Bid my heart bloom, and sing, and break all care: I thought our love at full, but I did err; ROBERT BROWNING. 1812. ["Bells and Pomegranates." 1845.] THE LOST MISTRESS. ALL's over, then; does truth sound bitter Hark! 't is the sparrow's good-night twitter And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, I noticed that to-day; One day more bursts them open fully, To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest ? Mere friends are we; well, friends the merest For each glance of that eye so bright and black, Yet I will but say what mere friends say, |