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'This morn is merry June, I trow,
But she shall bloom in winter snow,
He turn'd his charger as he spake,
He gave his bridle-reins a shake,
And adieu for evermore.'
The Two April Mornings
WE walked along, while bright and red
And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said,
A village schoolmaster was he,
And on that morning, through the grass,
And by the steaming rills,
We travelled merrily, to pass
A day among the hills.
'Our work,' said I, 'was well begun ; Then, from thy breast what thought, Beneath so beautiful a sun,
So sad a sigh has brought?'
A second time did Matthew stop;
Upon the eastern mountain-top,
'Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
A day like this which I have left
'And just above yon slope of corn
With rod and line I sued the sport
And, to the church-yard come, stopped short
Nine summers had she scarcely seen,
And then she sang ;-she would have been
• Six feet in earth my Emma lay ;
For so it seemed, than till that day
‹ And, turning from her grave, I met,
A basket on her head she bare;
It was a pure delight!
No fountain from its rocky cave
There came from me a sigh of pain
I looked at her, and looked again,
Matthew is in his grave, yet now,
As at that moment, with a
HELEN, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicèan barks of yore
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche,
How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand! Ah, Psyche, from the regions which Are holy land!
BIRD of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Blest is thy dwelling-place-
Wild is thy lay and loud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
O'er fell and fountain sheen,
O'er moor and mountain green,
Over the rainbow's rim,
Then, when the gloaming comes,
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be !
Blest is thy dwelling-place
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!
FEAR no more the heat o' the sun
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages :
Fear no more the frown o' the great,
To thee the reed is as the oak:
Fear no more the lightning flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-tone; Fear not slander, censure rash ;
Thou hast finish'd joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust.
THE dews of summer night did fall;
And many an oak that grew thereby.
Now nought was heard beneath the skies,
Save an unhappy lady's sighs
That issued from that lonely pile.
'Leicester !' she cried, 'is this thy love
'No more thou com'st with lover's speed
I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee.
'Not so the usage I received
When happy in my father's hall; No faithless husband then me grieved, No chilling fears did me appal.
'I rose up with the cheerful morn,
No lark more blithe, no flower more gay;
"If that my beauty is but small,
But, Leicester, or I much am wrong, Or 'tis not beauty lures thy vows; Rather, ambition's gilded crown
Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.
Then, Leicester, why, again I plead, The injured surely may repine,— Why didst thou wed a country maid, When some fair Princess might be thine?
Why didst thou praise my humble charms,
'The village maidens of the plain