APOSTROPHE TO LOVE.

"AIL, holy love, thou word that sums all bliss, Gives and receives all bliss, fullest when most Thou givest! spring-head of all felicity,

Deepest when most is drawn ! emblem of God! Mysterious, infinite, exhaustless love!

On earth mysterious, and mysterious still

In Heaven! sweet chord that harmonizes all
The harps of Paradise!

Hail, love! first love, thou word that sums all bliss!

The sparkling cream of all time's blessedness;
The silken down of happiness complete!
Discerner of the ripest grapes of joy,

She gathereth, and selecteth with her hand,
All finest relishes, all fairest sights,

All rarest odors, all divinest sounds,

All thoughts, all feelings dearest to the soul;
And brings the holy mixture home, and fills
The heart with all superlatives of bliss.

ROBERT POLLOK.

THE SAILOR'S RETURN.

OOSE every sail to the breeze,

The course of my vessel improve;
I've done with the toils of the seas,
Ye sailors, I'm bound to my love.

Since Emma is true as she's fair,

My griefs I fling all to the wind: 'Tis a pleasing return for my care, My mistress is constant and kind.

My sails are all fill'd to my dear;
What tropic bird swifter can move?
Who, cruel shall hold his career
That returns to the nest of his love?

Hoist every sail to the breeze,

Come, shipmates, and join in the song; Let's drink, while the ship cuts the seas, To the gale that may drive her along.

EDWARD THOMPSON.

YES OR NO.

(ES," I answered you last night; "No," this morning, sir, I say. Colors seen by candle-light Will not look the same by day. When the viols played their best, Lamps above, and laughs below, "Love me" sounded like a jest, Fit for "yes" or fit for "no." Call me false or call me free, Vow, whatever light may shine, No man on your face shall see Any grief for change on mine.

Yet the sin is on us both;

Time to dance is not to woo;
Wooing light makes fickle troth,
Scorn of me recoils on you.

Learn to win a lady's faith
Nobly, as the thing is high,
Bravely, as for life and death.
With a loyal gravity.

Lead her from the festive boards,
Point her to the starry skies,
Guard her, by your truthful words,
Pure from courtship's flatteries.
By your truth she shall be true,
Ever true, as wives of yore;
And her "yes," once said to you,
Shall be yes forevermore.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

HAD IA HEART FOR FALSEHOOD FRAMED.

F

O

AD I a heart for falsehood framed,

I ne'er could injure you ;

For though your tongue no promise claimed,
Your charms would make me true:

To you no soul shall bear deceit,

No stranger offer wrong;

But friends in all the aged you'll meet,
And lovers in the young.

For when they learn that you have blest
Another with your heart,

They'll bid aspiring passion rest,

And act a brother's part.

Then, lady, dread not here deceit,

Nor fear to suffer wrong;

For friends in all the aged you'll meet,
And brothers in the young.

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

THE MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA.

SING unto my roundelay!

O, drop the briny tear with me! Dance no more at holiday,

Like a running river be.

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Black his hair as the winter night,

White his neck as the summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light; Cold he lies in the grave below. My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Sweet his tongue as throstle's note,
Quick in dance as thought was he;

Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
O, he lies by the willow-tree!
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the briered dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares as they go.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

See! the white moon shines on high;

Whiter is my true love's shroud,

Whiter than the morning sky,

Whiter than the evening cloud.

B

My love is dead,

Gone to his death bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Here, upon my true-love's grave,
Shall the garish flowers be laid,
Nor one holy saint to save
All the sorrows of a maid.

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Come with acorn cup and thorn
Drain my heart's blood all av ny;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

THOMAS CHATTERTON,

THE HARE-BELL.

Y sylvan waves that westward flow
A hare-bell bent its beauty low,
With slender waist and modest brow,
Amidst the shades descending.

A star look'd from the paler sky-
The hare-bell gazed, and with a sigh
Forgot that love may look too high,
And sorrow without ending.

By casement hid, the flowers among,
A maiden lean'd and listen'd long;
It was the hour of love and song,
And early night-birds calling:

A barque across the river drew-
The rose was glowing through and through
The maiden's cheek of trembling hue,

Amidst the twilight falling.

She saw no star, she saw no flower-
Her heart expanded to the hour;
She reck'd not of her lowly dower

Amidst the shades descending.
With love thus fix'd upon a height,
That seem'd so beauteous to the sight,
How could she think of wrong and blight,

And sorrow without ending.

The hare-bell droop'd beneath the dew,
And closed its eye of tender blue;
No sun could e'er its life renew,
Nor star, in music calling.
The autumn leaves were early shed;
But earlier on her cottage bed
The maiden's loving heart lay dead,
Amidst the twilight falling!

CHARLES SAIN