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And see what flow'rs the weather
Has render'd fit to gather ;
And, when we home must jog, you
Shall ride my back, you rogue you,
Your hat adorned with fine leaves,
Horse-chestnut, oak, and vine-leaves ; And so, with green o'erhead, John, Shall whistle home to bed, John.
What ! you become a nun, my dear !
If you become a nun, dear,
The bishop Love will be ;
The Cupids every one, dear,
Will chaunt “ We trust in thee:”
The incense will go sighing,
The candles fall a dying,
What ! you go take the vows, my dear!
You may—but they'll be mine.
The moist and quiet morn was scarcely breaking,
When Ariadne in her bower was waking;
Her eyelids still were closing, and she heard
But indistinctly yet a little bird,
That in the leaves o’erhead, waiting the sun,
Seemed answering another distant one.
She waked, but stirred not, only just to please
Her pillow-nestling cheek; while the full seas,
The birds, the leaves, the lulling love o'ernight,
The happy thought of the returning light,
The sweet, self-willed content, conspired to keep
Her senses lingering in the feel of sleep;
And with a little smile she seemed to say,
“ I know my love is near me, and ’tis day.”
I have been reading Pomfret’s “ Choice” this spring,
A pretty kind of sort of kind of thing,
Not much a verse, and poem none at all,
Yet, as they say, extremely natural.
And yet I know not. There's a skill in pies,
In raising crusts as well as galleries ;
And he's the poet, more or less, who knows
The charm that hallows the least truth from prose,
And dresses it in its mild singing clothes.
Not oaks alone are trees, nor roses flowers ;
Much humble wealth makes rich this world of ours.
Nature from some sweet energy throws up
Alike the pine-mount and the buttercup,