THE MILKING-MAID.

THE year stood at its equinox,

And bluff the North was blowing,
A bleat of lambs came from the flocks,
Green hardy things were growing;
I met a maid with shining locks
Where milky kine were lowing.

She wore a kerchief on her neck,
Her bare arm showed its dimple,
Her apron spread without a speck,
Her air was frank and simple.

She milked into a wooden pail,
And sang a country ditty,
An innocent fond lovers' tale,
That was not wise nor witty,
Pathetically rustical,

Too pointless for the city.

She kept in time without a beat,
As true as church-bell ringers,
Unless she tapped time with her feet,
Or squeezed it with her fingers ;
Her clear, unstudied notes were sweet
As many a practised singer's.

I stood a minute out of sight,
Stood silent for a minute,
To eye the pail, and creamy white
The frothing milk within it,

To eye the comely milking-maid,
Herself so fresh and creamy.
"Good day to you!" at last I said;
She turned her head to see me.
"Good day!" she said, with lifted head;
Her eyes looked soft and dreamy.

And all the while she milked and milked The grave cow heavy-laden:

I've seen grand ladies, plumed and silked, But not a sweeter maiden;

But not a sweeter, fresher maid
Than this in homely cotton,
Whose pleasant face and silky braid
I have not yet forgotten.

Seven springs have passed since then, as I
Count with a sober sorrow;

Seven springs have come and passed me by,
And spring sets in to-morrow.

I've half a mind to shake myself
Free, just for once, from London,
To set my work upon the shelf,
And leave it done or undone;

To run down by the early train,
Whirl down with shriek and whistle,
And feel the bluff north blow again,
And mark the sprouting thistle
Set up on waste patch of the lane
Its green and tender bristle;

And spy the scarce-blown violet banks,
Crisp primrose-leaves and others,
And watch the lambs leap at their pranks,
And butt their patient mothers.

Alas! one point in all my plan

My serious thoughts demur to:
Seven years have passed for maid and man
Seven years have passed for her too.

Perhaps my rose is over-blown,
Not rosy or too rosy;
Perhaps in farm-house of her own
Some husband keeps her cosey,
Where I should show a face unknown,
Good by, my wayside posy !

CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTL

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.

SHE walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meets in her aspect and her eyes,
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Or softly lightens o'er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek and o'er that brow
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.

CASTARA.

LORD BYRON

LIKE the violet, which alone
Prospers in some happy shade,
My Castara lives unknown,
To no ruder eye betrayed;
For she's to herself untrue
Who delights i' the public view.

Such is her beauty as no arts

Have enriched with borrowed grace.

Her high birth no pride imparts,

For she blushes in her place.

Folly boasts a glorious blood,

She is noblest being good.

Cautious, she knew never yet

What a wanton courtship meant;

Nor speaks loud to boast her wit,

In her silence eloquent.

Of herself survey she takes,

But 'tween men no difference makes.

She obeys with speedy will

Her grave parents' wise commands;

And so innocent, that ill

She nor acts, nor understands.

Women's feet run still astray
If to ill they know the way.

She sails by that rock, the court,
Where oft virtne splits her mast;
And retiredness thinks the port,
Where her fame may anchor cast.
Virtue safely cannot sit
Where vice is enthroned for wit

She holds that day's pleasure best
Where sin waits not on delight;
Without mask, or ball, or feast,
Sweetly spends a winter's night.
O'er that darkness whence is thrust
Prayer and sleep, oft governs lust.
She her throne makes reason climb,
While wild passions captive lie;
And each article of time,

Her pure thoughts to heaven fly;

All her vows religious be,
And she vows her love to me.

AT THE CHURCH GATE.

ALTHOUGH I enter not,

Yet round about the spot

Ofttimes I hover;

And near the sacred gate,
With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.

The minster bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,

And noise and humming;
They've hushed the minster bell;
The organ 'gins to swell;

She's coming, coming!

My lady comes at last,
Timid and stepping fast,

And hastening hither,
With modest eyes downcast;
She comes, she's here, she's past!
May Heaven go with her!

Kneel undisturbed, fair saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and duly;
I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,
Lingering a minute,
Like outcast spirits, who wait,
And see, through heaven's gate,
Angels within it.

Then die, that she

The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;

How small a part of time they share,
That are so wondrous, sweet, and fair.

EDMUND WALLER.

STANZA ADDED BY HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

Yet, though thou fade,

From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise; And teach the maid,

That goodness Time's rude hand defies, That virtue lives when beauty dies.

FAIRER THAN THEE.

FAIRER than thee, beloved, Fairer than thee! There is one thing, beloved, Fairer than thee.

Not the glad sun, beloved,

Bright though it beams; Not the green earth, beloved, Silver with streams ;

Not the gay birds, beloved,

Happy and free :

Yet there's one thing, beloved, Fairer than thee.

Not the clear day, beloved,
Glowing with light;

Not (fairer still, beloved)
Star-crownéd night.

Truth in her might, beloved,
Grand in her sway;

Truth with her eyes, beloved,
Clearer than day.

Holy and pure, beloved,
Spotless and free,

Is the one thing, beloved,
Fairer than thee.

And there'll be naught, beloved,

Fairer than thee.

ANONYMOUS.

HER LIKENESS.

A GIRL, who has so many wilful ways

She would have caused Job's patience to for. sake him;

Yet is so rich in all that's girlhood's praise,
Did Job himself upon her goodness gaze,

A little better she would surely make him.

Yet is this girl I sing in naught uncommon,
And very far from angel yet, I trow.
Her faults, her sweetnesses, are purely human;
Yet she's more lovable as simple woman
Than any one diviner that I know.

Therefore I wish that she may safely keep

This womanhede, and change not, only grow; From maid to matron, youth to age, may creep, And in perennial blessedness, still reap

On every hand of that which she doth sow.

DINAH MARIA MULOCK.

BLACK AND BLUE EYES.

THE brilliant black eye

May in triumph let fly

All its darts without caring who feels 'em;
But the soft eye of blue,
Though it scatter wounds too,

Is much better pleased when it heals 'em !

Dear Fanny!

The black eye may say,

"Come and worship my ray;

By adoring, perhaps you may move me!"

But the blue eye, half hid,

Says, from under its lid,

"I love, and am yours, if you love me!"

Dear Fanny!

Then tell me, O why,

In that lovely blue eye,

Not a charm of its tint I discover;

Or why should you wear

The only blue pair

That ever said "No" to a lover?

Dear Fanny !

THOMAS MOORE

Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;
O, tell me how to woo thee!

For thy dear sake nae care I'll take,
Though ne'er another trow me.

If gay attire delight thine eye,

I'll dight me in array;

I'll tend thy chamber door all night,
And squire thee all the day.

If sweetest sounds can win thine ear,
These sounds I'll strive to catch;
Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell,
That voice that nane can match.

But if fond love thy heart can gain,
I never broke a vow;

Nae maiden lays her skaith to me;
I never loved but you.
For you alone I ride the ring,

For you I wear the blue;

For you alone I strive to sing,

O, tell me how to woo!

Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;

O, tell me how to woo thee!

For thy dear sake nae care I 'll take,
Though ne'er another trow me.

GRAHAM OF GARTMORE.

MY LOVE IN HER ATTIRE.

My Love in her attire doth show her wit,
It doth so well become her:

For every season she hath dressings fit,
For Winter, Spring, and Summer.
No beauty she doth miss

When all her robes are on:
But beauty's self she is
When all her robes are gone.

ANONYMOUS.

A SLEEPING BEAUTY.

SLEEP on! and dream of Heaven awhile !
Though shut so close thy laughing eyes,
Thy rosy lips still wear a smile,
And move, and breathe delicious sighs.

Ah! now soft blushes tinge her cheeks And mantle o'er her neck of snow; Ah! now she murmurs, now she speaks, What most I wish, and fear, to know.

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps ! Her fair hands folded on her breast; - And now, how like a saint she sleeps ! A seraph in the realms of rest !

The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,

Our careless heads with roses crowned,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free,
Fishes that tipple in the deep
Know no such liberty.

When, linnet-like confinéd, I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty
And glories of my King;
When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
Enlargéd winds, that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage :
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.

COLONEL RICHARD LOVELACE.