Imatges de pàgina


Love's heralds should be thoughts Which ten times faster glide than the sun-beams, Therefore do nimble-pinioned doves draw love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.”

“ Her inmost soul Floating in bliss, she all dissolved away As dew on roses in the morning's beams Evaporating melts."

“O WHERE is my dark Cavalier,"

As she wept, thus a lone beauty cries, Young Love dipp'd his dart in her tear,

And wrote on the wind her fond sighs.

The night-wind to lovers is true,

The lone beauty's plaint it has borne, On his Arab the cavalier flew,

And ceas'd has his dove-mate to mourn.

He sooth'd the fair maid on his breast,

“ Behold thy true Leman," he cried,

“ Thy tears are the tears of the blest,

For thou'rt the dark cavalier's bride."

No more then, o'er field and o'er wave,

Shall that lone beauty's wanderer steer, At the altar of love kneels the brave

Joy, joy to the dark cavalier.


“O she was lovely as the first-born Eve,
Fresh from the sculpture of the Deity."
“ Who hath not proved how feebly words essay
To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray?
Who doth not feel until his failing sight
Faints into dimness with its own delight,
His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess
The might-the majesty of loveliness ?

HER's is an eye of tenderest blue,

And curtain’d o'er with ebon fringe Her's is a cheek of snowiest hue,

In dalliance with the rose's tinge.

Her's is a form of cloudless light,

Heaven's own elect in mortal guiseHer's are the the tresses blandly bright,

Cupid's retreat in lovers' eyes.

Her's is a mind so chastely free,

That virtue's self might shrine her there Her's is a heart that throbs with glee,

As oft it smooths the brow of care.

And her's a temper- it vies

With summer ocean's placid sleep, Ere zephyr quits his sunny skies

To woo the slumber of the deep.

And when at times her lip of love

Will swell her harp's mild melody, It breathes of minstrelsy above,

Elysium's hallowed euphony.

In sooth, to me, she seems to shine

A maid of more than mortal birth, A being sent, of holy line,

To wander for awhile on eartha



" Expectation whirls me round,
The imaginary relish is so sweet,
That it enchants my sensewhat will it be
When that the watery palate tastes indeed

Love's thrice-repated nectar."
“ He that hath a beard is more than a youth ;
And he that hath no beard is less than a man;
And be that is more than a youth is not for me;
And he that is less than a man I am not for him."

(Hopeless Case.)

Who boasts, I pray, the brightest eye,

That (pours it's beam on thee Whose lips distil the sweetest sigh, I pr’ythee tell to me.

Say who?

C'est vous,

Once more declare,

C'est vous ma chere.

Who best, I pray, with magic skill,

Can touch the ivory key

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