She obeys with speedy will Her grave parents' wise commands; And so innocent, that ill She nor acts, nor understands. She sails by that rock, the court, Where her fame may anchor cast. She holds that day's pleasure best Sweetly spends a winter's night. O'er that darkness whence is thrust Prayer and sleep, oft governs lust. She her throne makes reason climb, While wild passions captive lie; And each article of time, Her pure thoughts to heaven fly; All her vows religious be, And she vows her love to me. Guard well thy soul, beloved; Truth, dwelling there, Then shall I deem, beloved, And there'll be naught, beloved, ANONYMOUS. HER LIKENESS. A GIRL, who has so many wilful ways She would have caused Job's patience to for. sake him ; Yet is so rich in all that's girlhood's praise, A little better she would surely make him. Yet is this girl I sing in naught uncommon, This womanhede, and change not, only grow; From maid to matron, youth to age, may creep, And in perennial blessedness, still reap On every hand of that which she doth sow. DINAH MARIA MULOCK. BLACK AND BLUE EYES. THE brilliant black eye May in triumph let fly All its darts without caring who feels 'em ; But the soft eye of blue, Though it scatter wounds too, Is much better pleased when it heals 'em! Dear Fanny! The black eye may say, "Come and worship my ray; By adoring, perhaps you may move me !" But the blue eye, half hid, Says, from under its lid, "I love, and am yours, if you love me!" Dear Fanny! Then tell me, O why, In that lovely blue eye, Not a charm of its tint I discover; Or why should you wear The only blue pair That ever said "No" to a lover? The birds that wanton in the air When flowing cups run swiftly round Our careless heads with roses crowned, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty. When, linnet-like confinéd, I Stone walls do not a prison make, COLONEL RICHARD LOVELACE. MY LITTLE SAINT. I CARE not, though it be By the preciser sort thought popery; We poets can a license show For everything we do. Hear, then, my little saint! I'll pray to thee. If now thy happy mind, Amidst its various joys, can leisure find To attend to anything so low As what I say or do, Regard, and be what thou wast ever, — kind. Let not the blest above Engross thee quite, but sometimes hither rove: Fain would I thy sweet image see, And sit and talk with thee; Nor is it curiosity, but love. Ah! what delight 't would be, Wouldst thou sometimes by stealth converse with me! How should I thy sweet commune prize, Come, then! I ne'er was yet denied by thee. |