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A GOLDEN GIRL.

LUCY is a golden girl;

But a man, a man, should woo her! They who seek her shrink aback,

When they should, like storms, pursue her.

All her smiles are hid in light;

All her hair is lost in splendor; But she hath the eyes of Night

And a heart that 's over-tender.

Yet the foolish suitors fly

(Is 't excess of dread or duty ?) From the starlight of her eye, Leaving to neglect her beauty!

Men by fifty seasons taught

Leave her to a young beginner, Who, without a second thought,

Whispers, wooes, and straight must win her.

Lucy is a golden girl!

Toast her in a goblet brimming!

May the man that wins her wear
On his heart the Rose of Women!

BARRY CORNWALL.

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 cosy,
Where I should show a face unknown, -
Good-by, my wayside posy!

CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI,

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.

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LOVE.

IF IT BE TRUE THAT ANY BEAUTEOUS | Forgive me if I cannot turn away

THING.

If it be true that any beauteous thing
Raises the pure and just desire of man
From earth to God, the eternal fount of all,
Such I believe my love; for as in her
So fair, in whom I all besides forget,
I view the gentle work of her Creator,
I have no care for any other thing,
Whilst thus I love. Nor is it marvellous,
Since the effect is not of my own power,
If the soul doth, by nature tempted forth,
Enamored through the eyes,

Repose upon the eyes which it resembleth,
And through them riseth to the Primal Love,
As to its end, and honors in admiring;

From those sweet eyes that are my earthly

heaven,

For they are guiding stars, benignly given
To tempt my footsteps to the upward way;
And if I dwell too fondly in thy sight,

I live and love in God's peculiar light.

MICHAEL ANGELO (Italian). Translation of J. E. TAYLOR.

WERE I AS BASE AS IS THE LOWLY PLAIN.

WERE I as base as is the lowly plain,
And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,

For who adores the Maker needs must love his Yet should the thoughts of me your humble work.

MICHAEL ANGELO (Italian). Translation of J. E. TAYLOR.

SONNET.

MUSES, that sing Love's sensual empirie,
And lovers kindling your enragèd fires
At Cupid's bonfires burning in the eye,
Blown with the empty breath of vain desires;
You, that prefer the painted cabinet
Before the wealthy jewels it doth store ye,
That all your joys in dying figures set,
And stain the living substance of your glory;
Abjure those joys, abhor their memory;
And let my love the honored subject be
Of love and honor's complete history!
Your eyes were never yet let in to see
The majesty and riches of the mind,
That dwell in darkness; for your god is blind.

GEORGE CHAPMAN.

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THE MIGHT OF ONE FAIR FACE. THE might of one fair face sublimes my love, For it hath weaned my heart from low desires; Nor death I heed, nor purgatorial fires. Thy beauty, antepast of joys above, Instructs me in the bliss that saints approve; For O, how good, how beautiful, must be The God that made so good a thing as thee, So fair an image of the heavenly Dove!

THE night has a thousand eyes,
The day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies
With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies
When its love is done.

FRANCIS W. BOURDILLON.

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