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Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow
Light-glooming over eyes divine

Like little clouds sun-fringed, are thine,

Ever varying Madeline.

Thy smile and frown are not aloof

From one another,

Each to each is dearest brother;

Hues of the silken sheeny woof
Momently shot into each other.
All the mystery is thine;
Smiling frowning evermore,

Thou art perfect in love-lore,

Ever varying Madeline.

A subtle, sudden flame,

By veering passion fann'd,

About thee breaks and dances;

When I would kiss thy hand,

The flush of anger'd shame

O'erflows thy calmer glances,

And o'er black brows drops down

A sudden-curved frown:

But when I turn away,

Thou, willing me to stay,

Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest;
But, looking fixedly the while,

All my bounding heart entanglest
In a golden-netted smile;

Then in madness and in bliss,
If my lips should dare to kiss

Thy taper fingers amorously,
Again thou blushest angerly;
And o'er black brows drops down

A sudden-curved frown.

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SONG. THE OWL.

WHEN cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,

And the far-off stream is dumb,

And the whirring sail goes round,

And the whirring sail goes round;

Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

When

merry

milkmaids click the latch,

And rarely smells the new-mown hay,

And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch

Twice or thrice his roundelay,

Twice or thrice his roundelay:

Alone and warming his five wits,

The white owl in the belfry sits.

SECOND SONG.

TO THE SAME.

THY tuwhits are lull'd I wot,

Thy tuwhoos of yesternight,
Which upon the dark afloat,
So took echo with delight,

So took echo with delight,

That her voice untuneful grown,
Wears all day a fainter tone.

I would mock thy chaunt anew;
But I cannot mimick it;

Not a whit of thy tuwhoo,

Thee to woo to thy tuwhit,

Thee to woo to thy tuwhit,

With a lengthen❜d loud halloo,

Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o.

RECOLLECTIONS

OF

THE ARABIAN NIGHTS.

I.

WHEN the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free

In the silken sail of infancy,

The tide of time flow'd back with me

The forward-flowing tide of time;

And many a sheeny summer-morn,
Adown the Tigris I was borne,
By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold,
High-walled gardens green and old;
True Mussulman was I and sworn,
For it was in the golden prime,
Of good Haroun Alraschid:

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