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No grape that 's kindly ripe could be So round, so plump, so soft as she,

Nor half so full of juice.

Her finger was so small, the ring
Would not stay on which they did bring,

It was too wide a peck;
And, to say truth, for out it must,
It looked like the great collar — just

About our young colt's neck.
Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, stole in and out,

As if they feared the light; But 0, she dances such a way! No sun upon an Easter-day

Is half so fine a sight.

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
No daisy makes comparison ;

Who sees them is undone ;
For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Cath'rine pear,

The side that's next the sun.

Her lips were red ; and one was thin, Compared to that was next her chin.

Some bee had stung it newly ; But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, I durst no more upon them gaze,

Than on the sun in July.

Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou’dst swear her teeth her words did break

That they might passage get ; But she so handled still the matter, They came as good as ours, or better, And are not spent a whit.

JOHN SUCKLING

HEBREW WEDDING. To the sound of timbrels sweet Moving slow our solemn feet, We have borne thee on the road To the virgin's blest abode ; With thy yellow torches gleaming, And thy scarlet mantle streaming, And the canopy above Swaying as we slowly move. Thou hast left the joyous feast, And the mirth and wine have ceased; And now we set thee down before The jealously unclosing door, That the favored youth admits Where the veiled virgin sits In the bliss of maiden fear, Waiting our soft tread to hear,

Sometimes my books by day shall kill the hours,
While from thy needle rise the silken flowers,
And thou, by turns, to ease my feeble sight,
Resume the volume, and deceive the night.
0, when I mark thy twinkling eyes opprest,
Soft whispering, let me warn my love to rest ;
Then watch thee, charmed, while sleeplocks every

sense,
And to sweet Heaven commend thy innocence.
Thus reigned our fathers o'er the rural fold,
Wise, hale, and honest, in the days of old ;
Till courts arose, where substance pays for show,
And specious joys are bought with real woe.

THOMAS TICKELL.

0, LAY THY HAND IN MINE, DEAR!

O, LAY thy hand in mine, dear!

We're growing old ;
But Time hath brought no sign, dear,

That hearts grow cold.
'T is long, long since our new love

Made life divine;
But age enricheth true love,

Like noble wine.

And lay thy cheek to mine, dear,

And take thy rest;
Mine arms around thee twine, dear,

And make thy nest.
A many cares are pressing

On this dear head ;
But Sorrow's hands in blessing

Are surely laid.

0, lean thy life on mine, dear !

'T will shelter thee.
Thou wert a winsome vine, dear,

On my young tree :
And so, till boughs are leafless,

And songbirds flown,
We'll twine, then lay us, griefless,

Together down.

GERALD MASSEY.

THE BRIDE.

FROM A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING.

The maid, and thereby hangs a tale,
For such a maid no Whitsun-ale

Could ever yet produce :

MARRIAGE.

And the music's brisker din
At the bridegroom's entering in,
Entering in, a welcome guest,
To the chamber of his rest.

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CHORUS OF MAIDENS.

Now the jocund song is thine,
Bride of David's kingly line ;
How thy dove-like bosom trembleth,
And thy shrouded eye resembleth
Violets, when the dews of eve
A moist and tremulous glitter leave

THEN before All they stand, the holy vow
And ring of gold, no fond illusions now,
Bind her as his. Across the threshold led,
And every tear kissed off as soon as shed,
His house she enters, - there to be a light,
Shining within, when all without is night;
A guardian angel o'er his life presiding,
Doubling his pleasures and his cares dividing,
Winning him back when mingling in the throng,
Back from a world we love, alas ! too long,
To fireside happiness, to hours of ease,
Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.
How oft her eyes read his ; her gentle mind
To all his wishes, all his thoughts inclined ;
Still subject, ever on the watch to borrow
Mirth of his mirth and sorrow of his sorrow !
The soul of music slumbers in the shell,
Till waked and kindled by the master's spell,
And feeling hearts — touch them but rightly -

pour
A thousand melodies unheard before !

On the bashful sealed lid !
Close within the bride-veil hid,
Motionless thou sitt'st and mute ;
Save that at the soft salute
Of each entering maiden friend,
Thou dost rise and softly bend.

Hark! a brisker, merrier glee !
The door unfolds, - 't is he! 't is he!
Thus we list our lamps to meet him,
Thus we touch our lutes to greet him.
Thou shalt give a fonder meeting,
Thou shalt give a tenderer greeting.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

HENRY HART MILMAN.

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WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. But happy they! the happiest of their kind !

Whom gentler stars unite, and in one fate When the black-lettered list to the gods was pre- Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend. sented

'T is not the coarser tie of human laws, (The list of what fate for each mortal intends), Unnatural oft, and foreign to the mind, At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented, That binds their peace, but harmony itself, And slipped in three blessings, wife, children, Attuning all their passions into love ; and friends.

Where friendship full-exerts her softest power,

Perfect esteem enlivened by desire In vain surely Pluto maintained he was cheated, Ineffable, and sympathy of soul ;

For justice divine could not compass its ends. Thought meeting thought, and will preventing The scheme of man's penance heswore was defeated,

will, For earth becomes heaven with-wife, children, With boundless confidence : for naught but love and friends.

Can answer love, and render bliss secure.

Meantime a smiling offspring rises round, If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested, And mingles both their graces. By degrees,

The fund ill secured, oft in bankruptcy ends; The hunan blossom blows ; and every day, But the heart issues bills which are never protested, Soft as it rolls along, shows some new charm, When drawn on the firm of — wife, children, The father's lustre and the mother's bloom. and friends.

Then infant reason grows apace, and calls

For the kind hand of an assiduous care. The day-spring of youth still unclouded by sorrow, To teach the young idea how to shoot,

Delightful task ! to rear the tender thought, Alone on itself for enjoyment depends ; But drear is the twilight of age if it borrow

To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind, No warmth from the smile of — wife, children, To breathe the enlivening spirit, and to fix

The and friends.

generous purpose in the glowing breast. O, speak the joy ! ye whom the sudden tear

WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER.

MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING.

Surprises often, while you look around,
And nothing strikes your eye but sights of bliss,
All various Nature pressing on the heart;
An elegant sufficiency, content,
Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books,
Ease and alternate labor, useful life,
Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven.
These are the matchless joys of virtuous love;
And thus their moments fly. The Seasons thus,
As ceaseless round a jarring world they roll,
Still find them happy; and consenting Spring
Sheds her own rosy garland on their heads :
Till evening comes at last, serene and mild;
When after the long vernal day of life,
Enamored more, as more remembrance swells
With many a proof of recollected love,
Together down they sink in social sleep ;
Together freed, their gentle spirits fly
To scenes where love and bliss immortal reign.

JAMES THOMSON.

She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing
She is a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o' mine.
I never saw a fairer,
I never lo'ed a dearer,
And neist my heart I'll wear her,
For fear my jewel tine.
She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o' mine.
The warld's wrack we share o't,
The warstle and the care o't:
Wi' her I 'll blythely bear it,
And think my lot divine.

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ROBERT BURNS

THE BANKS OF THE LEE.

SONNETS.
Air, “A TRIP TO THE COTTAGE."

My Love, I have no fear that thou shouldst die; O The banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee,

Albeit I ask no fairer life than this,
And love in a cottage for Mary and me!
There's not in the land a lovelier tide,

Whose numbering-clock is still thy gentle kiss, And I'm sure that there's no one so fairas my bride. While Time and Peace with hands unlocked fly, She's modest and meek,

Yet care I not where in Eternity There's a down on her cheek,

We live and love, well knowing that there is

No backward step for those who feel the bliss And her skin is as sleek

Of Faith as their most lofty yearnings high :
As a butterfly's wing;

Love hath so purified my being's core,
Then her step would scarce show
On the fresh-fallen snow,

Meseems I scarcely should be startled, even,

To find, some morn, that thou hadst gone before ; And her whisper is low, But as clear as the spring.

Since, with thy love, this knowledge too was O the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee,

given,

Which each calm day doth strengthen more and And love in a cottage for Mary and me!

more, I know not how love is happy elsewhere,

That they who love are but one step from Heaven. I know not how any but lovers are there. 0, so green is the grass, so clear is the stream, So mild is the mist and so rich is the beam, That beauty should never to other lands roam,

I cannot think that thou shouldst pass away, But make on the banks of our river its home!

Whose life to mine is an eternal law, When, dripping with dew,

A piece of nature that can have no flaw,

A new and certain sunrise every day;
The roses peep through,
'Tis to look in at you

But, if thou art to be another ray
They are growing so fast;

About the Sun of Life, and art to live
While the scent of the flowers

Free from all of thee that was fugitive, Must be hoarded for hours,

The debt of Love I will more fully pay, ”T is poured in such showers

Not downcast with the thought of thee so high, When my Mary goes past.

But rather raised to be a nobler man, O the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee,

And more divine in my humanity, And love in a cottage for Mary and me!

As knowing that the waiting eyes which scan O, Mary for me, Mary for me,

My life are lighted by a purer being, And 't is little I'd sigh for the banks of the Lee! And ask meek, calm-browed deeds, with it agree

irg.

THOMAS DAVIS.

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