His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love,
Leaning his cheek upon his hand,
Droops both his wings, regarding thee,
And so would languish evermore,
Serene, imperial Eleänore.

But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfined,

While the amorous, odorous wind

Breathes low between the sunset and the moon

Or, in a shadowy saloon,

On silken cushions half reclined,

I watch thy grace; and in its place

My heart a charmed slumber keeps,

While I muse upon thy face;

And a languid fire creeps

Thro' my veins to all my frame,

Dissolvingly and slowly soon

From thy rose-red lips My name

Floweth; then, as in a swoon,

With dinning sound my ears are rife,

My tremulous tongue faltereth,

I lose my colour, I lose my breath,

I drink the cup of a costly death,

Brimm'd with delirious draughts of warmest life.

I die with my delight, before

I hear what I would hear from thee;

Yet tell my name again to me,

I would be dying evermore,

So dying ever, Eleänore.

THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.

I SEE the wealthy miller yet,

His double chin, his portly size,
And who that knew him could forget
The busy wrinkles round his eyes ?

The slow wise smile that, round about
His dusty forehead drily curl'd,

Seem'd half-within and half-without,
And full of dealings with the world?

In yonder chair I see him sit,

Three fingers round the old silver cup—

I see his gray eyes twinkle yet

At his own jest—gray eyes lit

up

With summer lightnings of a soul

So full of summer warmth, so glad, So healthy, sound, and clear and whole, His memory scarce can make me sad.

Yet fill my glass: give me one kiss:
My own sweet Alice, we must die.
There's somewhat in this world amiss
Shall be unriddled by and by.
There's somewhat flows to us in life,
But more is taken quite away.
Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife,

That we may die the self-same day.

Have I not found a happy earth?

I least should breathe a thought of pain. Would God renew me from my birth I'd almost live my life again.

So sweet it seems with thee to walk,

And once again to woo thee mine— It seems in after-dinner talk

Across the walnuts and the wine

To be the long and listless boy

Late-left an orphan of the squire, Where this old mansion mounted high Looks down upon the village spire: For even here, where I and you

Have lived and loved alone so long, Each morn my sleep was broken thro' By some wild skylark's matin song.

And oft I heard the tender dove

In firry woodlands making moan; But ere I saw your eyes, my love,

I had no motion of my own.

For scarce my life with fancy play'd

Before I dream'd that pleasant dream

Still hither thither idly sway'd

Like those long mosses in the stream.

Or from the bridge I lean'd to hear

The milldam rushing down with noise,

And see the minnows everywhere

In crystal eddies glance and poise,