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Death, strolling out one summer's day,

Met Cupid, with his sparrows; And, bantering in a merry way,

Proposed a change of arrows. “Agreed !" quoth Cupid. “I foresee

The queerest game of errors ;
For you the King of Hearts will be,

And I'll be King of Terrors ! ”
And so 't was done ;- alas, the day

That multiplied their arts !
Each from the other bore away

A portion of his darts.
And that explains the reason why,

Despite the gods above,
The young are often doomed to die,

The old to fall in love !

JOHN GODFREY SAXE.

LOVE-LETTERS MADE OF FLOWERS.

An exquisite invention this,
Worthy of Love's most honeyed kiss,
This art of writing billet-doux
In buds, and odors, and bright hues !
In saying all one feels and thinks
In clever daffodils and pinks;
In puns of tulips ; and in phrases,
Charming for their truth, of daisies ;
l'ttering, as well as silence may,
The sweetest words the sweetest way.
How fit too for the lady's bosom !
The place where billet-doux repose 'em.

What delight in some sweet spot Combining love with garden plot, At once to cultivate one's flowers And one's epistolary powers ! Growing one's own choice words and fancies In orange tubs, and beds of pansies; One's sighs, and passionate declarations, In odorous rhetoric of carnations ; Seeing how far one's stocks will reach, Taking due care one's flowers of speech To guard from blight as well as bathos, And watering every day one's pathos ! A letter comes, just gathered. We Dote on its tender brilliancy, Inhale delicate expressions Of balm and pea, and its confessions Made with as sweet a maiden's blush As ever morn bedewed on bush : ('T is in reply to one of ours, Made of the most convincing flowers.) Then, after we have kissed its wit, And heart, in water putting it (To keep its remarks fresh), go round Our little eloquent plot of ground, And with enchanted hands compose Our answer,

all of lily and rose, Of tuberose and of violet, And little darling (mignonette) ; Of look at me and call me to you (Words, that while they greet, go through you; Of thoughts, of flames, forget-me-not, Bridewort, in short, the whole blest lot Of vouchers for a lifelong kiss, And literally, breathing bliss !

LEIGH HUNT.

THE BIRTH OF PORTRAITURE.

As once a Grecian maiden wove

Her garland mid the summer bowers, There stood a youth, with eyes of love,

To watch her while she wreathed the flowers The youth was skilled in painting's art,

But ne'er had studied woman's brow, Nor knew what magic hues the heart

Can shed o'er Nature's charm, till now.

CHORUS.
Blest be Love, to whom we owe
All that 's fair and bright below.

His hand had pictured many a rose,

And sketched the rays that lit the brook ; But what were these, or what were those,

To woman's blush, to woman's look ? “Oh ! if such magic power there be,

This, this,” he cried, “is all my prayer,

Awake! -soft dews will soon arise

From daisied mead and thorny brake:
Then, sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes,
And like the tender morning break!

Awake! awake!
Dawn forth, my love, for Love's sweet sake!

To paint that living light I see,

And fix the soul that sparkles there.” His prayer as soon as breathed was heard ;

His pallet touched by Love grew warm, And painting saw her thus transferred

From lifeless flowers to woman's form. Still, as from tint to tint he stole,

The fair design shone out the more, And there was now a life, a soul,

Where only colors glowed before. Then first carnation learned to speak,

And lilies into life were brought; While mantling on the maiden's cheek,

Young roses kindled into thought: Then hyacinths their darkest dyes

Upon the locks of beauty threw ;
And violets transformed to eyes,
Inshrined a soul within their blue.

CHORUS.
Blest be Love, to whom we owe
All that 's bright and fair below;
Song was cold and painting dim,
Till song and painting learned from him.

THOMAS MOORE.

Awake! within the musk-rose bower

I watch, pale flower of love, for thee.
Ah, come ! and show the starry hour
What wealth of love thou hid'st from me!

Awake! awake !
Show all thy love, for Love's sweet sake!

Awake! ne'er heed though listening night

Steal music from thy silver voice ;
Uncloud thy beauty, rare and bright,
And bid the world and me rejoice!

Awake! awake ! -
She comes at last, for Love's sweet sake.

BARRY CORNWALL

INVOCATION TO THE ANGEL.

FROM "HEAVEN AND EARTH."

UP! QUIT THY BOWER.
Up! quit thy bower ! late wears the hour,
Long have the rooks cawed round the tower ;
O'er flower and tree loud hums the bee,
And the wild kid sports merrily.
The sun is bright, the sky is clear ;
"Wake, lady, wake! and hasten here.

Up, maiden fair ! and bind thy hair,
And rouse thee in the breezy air !
The lulling stream that soothed thy dream
Is dancing in the sunny beam.
Waste not these hours, so fresh, so gay :
Leave thy soft couch, and haste away!
Up! Time will tell the morning bell
Its service-sound has chiméd well ;
The aged crone keeps house alone,
The reapers to the fields are gone.
Lose not these hours, so cool, so gay :
Lo ! while thou sleep'st they haste away !

JOANNA BAILLIE.

Samiasa !
I call thee, I await thee, and I love thee;

Many may worship thee, that will I not;
If that thy spirit down to mine may nove thee,
Descend and share my lot !
Though I be formed of clay,

And thou of beams
More bright than those of day

On Eden's streams,
Thine immortality cannot repay

With love more warm than mine
My love. There is a ray

In me, which, though forbidden yet to shine,

I feel was lighted at thy God's and thine. It may be hidden long : death and decay

Our mother Eve bequeathed us, but my heart Defies it ; though this life must pass away,

Is that a cause for thee and me to part ? Thou art immortal ; so am I : I feel

I feel my immortality o'ersweep All pains, all tears, all time, all fears, and peal,

Like the eternal thunders of the deep, Into my ears this truth, -“Thou liv’st forever!"

BYROX

FOR LOVE'S SWEET SAKE.

FLY TO THE DESERT, FLY WITH ME.

SONG OF NOURMAHAL IN "THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM.

AWAKE ! — the starry midnight hour

Hangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight ;
In its own sweetness sleeps the flower,
And the doves lie hushed in deep delight.

Awake! awake!
Look forth, my love, for Love's sweet sake!

“ Fly to the desert, fly with me,
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But oh ! the choice what heart can doubt
Of tents with love or thrones without ?

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