Yet I would spare thee all remorse,

So, comfort thee, my Fate,

Whatever on my heart may fall-remember, I would risk it all!

SHE was only a woman, famish'd for loving,
Mad with devotion, and such slight things;
And he was a very great musician,

And used to finger his fiddle-strings.

Her heart's sweet gamut is cracking and breaking For a look, for a touch,-for such slight things; But he's such a very great musician,

Grimacing and fing'ring his fiddle-strings.

THEOPHILE MARZIALS.

ONE WORD IS TOO OFTEN PROFANED.

ONE word is too often profaned

For me to profane it,

One feeling too falsely disdain'd

For thee to disdain it.

One hope is too like despair
For prudence to smother,
And Pity from thee more dear
Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love;
But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
And the Heavens reject not:
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY,

BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS.

BELIEVE me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,

Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away,

Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou

art,

Let thy loveliness fade as it will,

And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,

That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear;

No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close,

As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets, The same look which she turned when he rose.

THOMAS Moore.

AUF WIEDERSEHEN.

SUMMER.

THE little gate was reach'd at last,
Half hid in lilacs down the lane;
She push'd it wide, and, as she past,
A wistful look she backward cast,
And said, "Auf Wiedersehen!"

With hand on latch, a vision white
Lingered reluctant, and again,
Half doubting if she did aright,
Soft as the dews that fell that night,
She said, "Auf Wiedersehen!"

The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair;
I linger in delicious pain;

Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air
To breathe in thought I scarcely dare,
Thinks she, "Auf Wiedersehen!"

'Tis thirteen years; once more I press
The turf that silences the lane;
I hear the rustle of her dress,
I smell the lilacs, and―ah, yes,
I hear, "Auf Wiedersehen!"

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art!

The English words had seem'd too fain!
But these they drew us heart to heart,
Yet held us tenderly apart;

She said, "Auf Wiedersehen!"

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

WHEN STARS ARE IN THE QUIET SKIES.

WHEN stars are in the quiet skies,

Then most I pine for thee;

Bend on me then thy tender eyes,

As stars look on the sea.

For thoughts, like waves that glide by night,

Are stillest when they shine;

Mine earthly love lies hush'd in light
Beneath the heaven of thine.

There is an hour when angels keep

Familiar watch o'er men,

When coarser souls are wrapt in sleep--
Sweet spirit, meet me then!

There is an hour when holy dreams
Through slumber fairest glide;
And in that mystic hour it seems
Thou shouldst be by my side.

My thoughts of thee too sacred are
For daylight's common beam :

I can but know thee as my star,
My angel and my dream;

When stars are in the quiet skies,

Then most I pine for thee; Bend on me then thy tender eyes,

As stars look on the sea.

EDWARD BULWER LYTTON,

THE CHESS-ROARD.

My little love, do you remember,
Ere we were grown so sadly wise,
Those evenings in the bleak December,
Curtain'd warm from the snowy weather,
When you and I play'd chess together,
Checkmated by each other's eyes?
Ah, still I see your soft white hand
Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight.
Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand;
The double Castles guard the wings;
The Bishop, bent on distant things,
Moves sidling through the fight.
Our fingers touch; our glances meet,

And falter; falls your golden hair
Against my cheek; your bosom sweet
Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen
Rides slow, her soldiery all between,
And checks me unaware.

Ah me! the little battle's done,

Dispersed is all its chivalry;

Full many a game with Fortune play'd,—

What is it we have won?

This, this at least-if this alone;—