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CLARIBEL.

A MELODY.

HERE Claribel low-lieth
The breezes pause and die,
Letting the rose-leaves fall:

But the solemn oak-tree sigheth,
Thick-leaved, ambrosial,
With an ancient melody

Of an inward agony,
Where Claribel low-lieth.

At eve the beetle boometh
Athwart the thicket lone:
At noon the wild bee hummeth
About the mossed headstone:
At midnight the moon cometh
And looketh down alone.
Her song the lint white swelleth,
The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth,
The callow throstle lispeth,

The slumbrous wave outwelleth,
The babbling runnel crispeth,
The hollow grot replieth

Where Claribel low-lieth.

THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.

T is the miller's daughter,

And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel

That trembles at her ear:

For, hid in ringlets day and night,

I'd touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle

About her dainty, dainty waist,
And her heart would beat against me
In sorrow and in rest :

And I should know if it beat right,
I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace,

And all day long to fall and rise

Upon her balmy bosom,

With her laughter or her sighs,
And I would lie so light, so light,

I scarce should be unclasped at night.

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I would be a mermaid fair;

I would sing to myself the whole of the day;
With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair;
And still as I combed I would sing and say,
"Who is it loves me? who loves not me?"
I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall,

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