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His blast is heard at merry morn,

And mine at dead of night."
Yet sung she "Brignall banks are fair,
And Greta woods are gay;

I would I were with Edmund there
To reign his Queen of May!

"With burnish'd brand and musketoon

So gallantly you come,

I read you for a bold Dragoon,

That lists the tuck of drum." "I list no more the tuck of drum,

No more the trumpet hear;

But when the beetle sounds his hum

My comrades take the spear.
And oh! though Brignall banks be fair
And Greta woods be gay,

Yet mickle must the maiden dare
Would reign my Queen of May.

"Maiden! a nameless life I lead,

A nameless death I'll die!
The fiend whose lantern lights the mead
Were better mate than I!

And when I'm with my comrades met
Beneath the greenwood bough,
What once we were we all forget,

Nor think what we are now."

Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there
Would grace a summer queen.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

BEDOUIN SONG.

FROM the desert I come to thee,
On a stallion shod with fire;
And the winds are left behind
In the speed of my desire.
Under thy window I stand,
And the midnight hears my cry:
I love thee, I love but thee,
With a love that shall not die
Till the sun grows cold,
And the stars are old,
And the leaves of the Judgment
Book unfold!

Look from thy window, and see

My passion and my pain;

I lie on the sands below,
And I faint in thy disdain.

Let the night-winds touch thy brow
With the heat of my burning sigh,
And melt thee to hear the vow
Of a love that shall not die
Till the sun grows cold,
And the stars are old,

And the leaves of the Judgment
Book unfold!

My steps are nightly driven,
By the fever in my breast,
To hear from thy lattice breathed
The word that shall give me rest.
Open the door of thy heart,

And open thy chamber door,
And my kisses shall teach thy lips
The love that shall fade no more
Till the sun grows cold,

And the stars are old,

And the leaves of the Judgment
Book unfold!

BAYARD TAYLOR.

COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD. COME into the garden, Maud,

For the black bat, night, has flown! Come into the garden, Maud,

I am here at the gate alone;

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the rose is blown.

For a breeze of morning moves,

And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves,

On a bed of daffodil sky,

To faint in the light of the sun she loves, To faint in his light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard

The flute, violin, bassoon;

All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancers dancing in tune,-
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.

I said to the lily, "There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play."
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;

Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose, "The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,
"For ever and ever mine!"

And the soul of the rose went into my blood,

As the music clash'd in the hall; And long by the garden lake I stood,

For I heard your rivulet fall

From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,

Our wood, that is dearer than all;

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She is coming, my own, my sweet!
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would startle and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE CALL.

AWAKE thee, my lady-love,

Wake thee and rise;

The sun through the bower peeps Into thine eyes.

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Ah! what delight 'twould be Wouldst thou sometimes by stealth converse with me!

How should I thine sweet commune prize, And other joys despise!

Come, then; I ne'er was yet denied by thee.

I would not long detain

Thy soul from bliss, nor keep thee here in pain;

Nor should thy fellow-saints e'er know Of thy escape below:

Before thou'rt miss'd thou shouldst return again.

Sure, heaven must needs thy love
As well as other qualities improve;

Come, then, and recreate my sight
With rays of thy pure light:

"Twill cheer my eyes more than the lamps above.

But if Fate's so severe

As to confine thee to thy blissful sphere (And by thy absence I shall know Whether thy state be so),

Live happy, but be mindful of me there.

LIGHT.

JOHN NORRIS.

THE night has a thousand eyes,

And the day but one;

Yet the light of the bright world dies,

With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,

And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies,
When love is done.

FRANCIS W. BOURDILLON.

DISDAIN RETURNED.
HE that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires, -
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,
Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combined,

Kindle never-dying fires. Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.

No tears, Celia, now shall win

My resolved heart to return; I have search'd thy soul within,

And find naught but pride and scorn; I have learn'd thy arts, and now Can disdain as much as thou. Some power, in my revenge, convey That love to her I cast away.

THOMAS CAREW.

AUX ITALIENS.

AT Paris it was, at the opera there;And she look'd like a queen in a book that night,

With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair,

And the brooch on her breast so bright.

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,

The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, The souls in purgatory.

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; And who was not thrill'd in the strangest way,

As we heard him sing, while the gas burn'd low,

"Non ti scordar di me"?

The emperor there, in his box of state, Look'd grave, as if he had just then

seen

The red flag wave from the city gate, Where his eagles in bronze had been.

The empress, too, had a tear in her eye: You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again,

For one moment, under the old blue sky, To the old glad life in Spain.

Well, there in our front-row box we sat Together, my bride betroth'd and I; My gaze was fixed on my opera-hat, And hers on the stage hard by.

And both were silent, and both were sad; Like a queen she lean'd on her full

white arm,

With that regal, indolent air she had, So confident of her charm!

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