The village church, among the trees,

Where first our marriage vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heaven.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

RUTH.

She stood breast high amid the corn,
Clasp'd by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush,
Deeply ripened;-such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell,
Which were blackest none could tell,

But long lashes veil'd a light,

That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim;—
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks:-

Sure, I said, heav'n did not mean,
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean,
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,

Share my harvest and my home.

THOMAS HOOD.

THE BRIDE.

(FROM "A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING".)

Her finger was so small, the ring
Wou'd not stay on, which they did bring;
It was too wide, a peck;

And to say truth (for out it must)
It look'd 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 fear'd the light;
But oh! 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 bears comparison,

(Who sees them is undone),

For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Katherine pear,
The side that 's next the sun.

Her lips were red, and one was thin,
Compar'd 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.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

The allusion to Easter-day is founded upon a beautiful old superstition of the English peasantry, that the sun dances upon tha morning."

CHAMBERS.

MY WIFE 'S A WINSOME WEE THING.

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 blythly bear it,
And think my lot divine.

ROBERT BURNS.

AGNES.

As birthday I will celebrate

The day when first I met her;
From that 'tis I my true life date,
So much to it I 'm debtor.
My heart I felt not till that day,
My head, too, I belied it;
For what's a head, in best array,
Without a heart to guide it.

O, take my life, but not my love;
What were my life without her?
No star with its linked sun can move
More true than I about her.
Darkling I'd err, were she away;

I'm lost, were I to lose her;

She is my light, she is my stay,

'Mongst millions I would choose her.

GEORGE H. CALVERT.

OH, NO-NOT EV'N WHEN FIRST WE LOV'D.

Oh, no-not ev'n when first we lov'd,
Wert thou as dear as now thou art;

Thy beauty then my senses mov'd,

But now thy virtues bind my heart.
What was but Passion's sigh before,

Has since been turned to Reason's vow;
And, though I then might love thee more,
Trust me, I love thee better now.

Although my heart in earlier youth

Might kindle with more wild desire,
Believe me, it has gain'd in truth

Much more than it has lost in fire.
The flame now warms my inmost core,
That then but sparkled o'er my brow,
And, though I seem'd to love thee more,
Yet, oh, I love thee better now.

THOMAS MOORE.