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FLOWERS.

I WILL not have the mad Clytie,
Whose head is turn'd by the sun;
The tulip is a courtly quean,
Whom, therefore, I will shun;
The cowslip is a country wench,
The violet is a nun ;-

But I will woo the dainty rose,
The
queen of every one.

The pea is but a wanton witch,
In too much haste to wed,

And clasps her rings on every hand;
The wolfsbane I should dread;
Nor will I dreary rosemarye,
That always mourns the dead ;—
But I will woo the dainty rose,

With her cheeks of tender red.

The lily is all in white, like a saint,

And so is no mate for me

And the daisy's cheek is tipp'd with a blush,

She is of such low degree;

Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,

And the broom's betroth'd to the bee ;-
But I will plight with the dainty rose,
For fairest of all is she.

ΤΟ

STILL glides the gentle streamlet on,
With shifting current new and strange;
The water that was here is gone,
But those green shadows never change.

Serene or ruffled by the storm,

On

present waves, as on the past,

The mirror'd grove retains its form,

The self-same trees their semblance cast.

The hue each fleeting globule wears,
That drop bequeaths it to the next;
One picture still the surface bears,
To illustrate the murmur'd text.

So, love, however time may flow,
Fresh hours pursuing those that flee,
One constant image still shall show
My tide of life is true to thee.

ΤΟ

LET us make a leap, my dear,
In our love, of many a year,
And date it very far away,
On a bright clear summer day,
When the heart was like a sun
To itself, and falsehood none;
And the rosy lips a part
Of the very loving heart,
And the shining of the eye
But a sign to know it by ;—
When my faults were all forgiven,
And my life deserv'd of Heaven.
Dearest, let us reckon so,

And love for all that long ago;
Each absence count a year complete,

And keep a birthday when we meet.

ΤΟ

I LOVE thee-I love thee!
'Tis all that I can say ;-
It is my vision in the night,
My dreaming in the day;
The very echo of my heart,
The blessing when I pray:

I love thee-I love thee!

Is all that I can say.

I love thee-I love thee!
Is ever on my tongue;
In all my proudest poesy,
That chorus still is sung;
It is the verdict of my eyes,
Amidst the gay and young:

I love thee-I love thee!

A thousand maids among.

I love thee-I love thee!

Thy bright and hazel glance, The mellow lute upon those lips,

Whose tender tones entrance;

But most, dear heart of hearts, thy proofs

That still these words enhance,

I love thee-I love thee!

Whatever be thy chance.

SERENADE.

Ан, sweet, thou little knowest how
I wake and passionate watches keep;
And yet while I address thee now,
Methinks thou smilest in thy sleep.
'Tis sweet enough to make me weep,
That tender thought of love and thee,
That while the world is hush'd so deep,
Thy soul's perhaps awake to me!

Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bride of sleep! With golden visions for thy dower, While I this midnight vigil keep,

And bless thee in thy silent bower; To me 'tis sweeter than the power Of sleep, and fairy dreams unfurl'd, That I alone, at this still hour,

In patient love outwatch the world.

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