ELL me what thou lovest best? Where the Moor has mixed his blood Giving life to sleepy pride? Tell me, where would'st thou abide, Choosing for thyself a season, And a mate,-for sweet love's reason? Question and Reply. Nought for country should I care, And Love himself should seek his nest Within the fragrance of her breast! BARRY CORNWALL. 13 SK me not how much I love thee ! Do not question why! I have told thee the tale In the evening pale, With a tear, and a sigh! I told thee when love was hopeless; That the stars above Shine ever on Love, Oh, a king would have loved and left thee, And away thy sweet love cast; But I am thine Whilst the stars shall shine, To the last-to the last! BARRY CORNWALL. T HE summer brook flows in the bed The winter torrent tore asunder; Where walk the lightning and the thunder: Then, maiden! start not from the hand And, maiden! start not from the brow That thought has knit, and passion darken'd In twilight hours, 'neath forest bough, The tenderest tales are often hearken'd. THOMAS DAVIS. SONG. WANDER'D by the brook side, I could not hear the brook flow, The noisy wheel was still. But the beating of my own heart, I sat beneath the elm tree, I watch'd the long, long shade, I did not feel afraid. I listen'd for a word, But the beating of my own heart, He came not-no, he came not, Each on his golden throne; |