Twelve pages, fine and neatly,

A little manuscript;

One writes not so completely

When love's true knot is slipped.

MERLE ST. CROIX WRIGHT.

OF THREE GIRLS AND THEIR TALK.

BY a clear well, within a little field

Full of green grass and flowers of every hue,

Sat three young girls, relating (as I knew)

Their loves. Anc. each had twined a bough to shield Her lovely face; and the green leaves did yield

The golden hair their shadow; while the two Sweet colors mingled, both blown lightly through With a soft wind forever stirred and still'd. After a while one of them said,

(I heard her,) "Think! If, ere the next hour struck, Each of our lovers should come here to-day, Think you that we should fly, or feel afraid?”

To whom the others answered, " From such luck A girl would be a fool to run away."

BOCCACCIO.

LOVE'S OMNIPRESENCE.

ERE I as base as is the lowly plain,

WERE

And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,

Yet should the thoughts of me, your humble swain, Ascend to heaven, in honor of my Love.

A MYSTERY.

4I

Were I as high as heaven above the plain,
And you, my Love, as humble and as low
As are the deepest bottoms of the main,
Wheresoe'er you were, with you my Love should go.

Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,
My love should shine on you like to the sun,

And look upon you with ten thousand eyes

Till heaven waxed blind, and till the world were done.

Wheresoe'er I am, below, or else above you, Wheresoe'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.

JOSHUA SYLVESTER.

A MYSTERY.

HE love wherewith my heart is big for thee,
Hath found no home with cowards or with
slaves;

It blooms a deathless flower among the free,
And on untrodden heights unbroken waves.

No little heart can hold it, for it springs

Twinned with eternity and scorn of death, Feeding on hopes and high imaginings

That fail not with our fitful human breath.

With those sweet strivings of the blood that stir Our souls in youth, and make our manhood great,

By interchange of love and life with her

Who clings to us in bonds of equal fate,

This passion hath no part — nor on the roots
Of sense and yearning stationed, nor upborne
By tenderness; nor are its sterner fruits

Shown in dear kisses given at night or morn.

Be it enough that thou and I are one,

That years and days seem nothing in the shine Of that perpetual and unsinking sun

Which nerves our souls with energy divine.

If tongue might tell the mystery I mean,

Then all the world would love perchance like us; But should these lines by the great world be seen, They'd move mere laughter. Well: 't is better thus. JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.

THE DIFFICULTY.

TRANSLATED FROM HEINE.

BOUT my Darling's lovely eyes
I've made no end of verses;

About her precious little mouth,

Songs, which each voice rehearses;
About my Darling's little cheek,
I wrote a splendid sonnet;

And, if she only had a heart,

I'd write an ode upon it.

JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE.

SH

RUTH.

HE stood breast-high amid the corn, Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun,

Who many a glowing kiss had won.

In the midst of brown was born,

Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell,
Which were blackest none could tell;
But long lashes veiled a light
That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim;
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks.

"Sure," I said, "Heaven did not mean
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean;
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,
Share my harvest and my home."

THOMAS HOOD.

HOW MANY TIMES.

HOW many times do I love thee, dear?

Tell me how many thoughts there be In the atmosphere

Of a new-fallen year,

Whose white and sable hours appear
The latest flake of Eternity:

So many times do I love thee, dear.

How

many times do I love, again? Tell me how many beads there are In a silver chain

Of the evening rain,

Unravelled from the tumbling main,

And threading the eye of a yellow star:
So many times do I love, again.

THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES.

A

ASK ME NO MORE.

SK me no more: the moon may draw the sea;

The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape,

With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;

But, O too fond, when have I answered thee?
Ask me no more.