When at dawn she wakens, and her fair face gazes Bursting out of bud on the rippled river plains. Pure from the night, and perfect for the day! Happy, happy time, when the gray star twinkles Then when my darling tempts the early breezes, She the only star that dies not with the dark! Powerless to speak all the ardour of my passion, I catch her little hand as we listen to the lark. Shall the birds in vain then valentine their sweethearts, Will not the virgin listen to their voices, Take the honied meaning, wear the bridal veil? Fears she frosts of winter, fears she the bare branches? Waits she the garlands of spring for her dower? Is she a nightingale that will not be nested Till the April woodland has built her bridal bower? Then come merry April with all thy birds and beauties! With thy crescent brows and thy flowery, showery glee; With thy budding leafage and fresh green pastures; And may thy lustrous crescent grow a honeymoon for me! Come merry month of the cuckoo and the violet! Come weeping Loveliness in all thy blue delight! Lo! the nest is ready, let me not languish longer! 456 THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 1822. ["Poems." 153.] A GLIMPSE OF LOVE. SHE came as comes the summer wind, Unheralded she came and went, Like music in the silent night; Which, when the burthened air is spent Or, like the sudden April bow, That spans the violet-waking rain: Far sweeter than all things most sweet, MATTHEW ARNOLD. ["Poems." 1854.] EXCUSE. I Too have suffered yet I know She is not cold, though she seems so: She is not cold, she is not light; But our ignoble souls lack might. She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh, Eagerly once her gracious ken Was turned upon the sons of men. But light the serious visage grew; She looked, and smiled, and saw them through. Our petty souls, our struggling wits, Our laboured puny passion-fits- Yet O, that Fate would let her see One of some worthier race than we; His eyes be like the starry lights, And she to him will reach her hand, 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, 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: And the little white clematis Which I plucked for you to wear: Or come down, and let me hear you For, where you pass, the air With warm hints of love grows wise: |