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I'll tell thee; for thy sake I will lay hold
Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee,

In worthy deeds, each moment that is told
While thou, beloved one ! art far from me.

For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try
All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains;

For thy dear sake I will walk patiently
Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pains

I will this dreary blank of absence make
A noble task-time; and will therein strive

To follow excellence, and to o'ertake
More good than I have won since yet I live.

So may this dooméd time build up in me
A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine;
So may my love and longing hallowed be,
And thy dear thought an influence divine.
FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.

From the Epipsychidion.

HIS isle and house are mine, and I have vowed
Thee to be lady of the solitude;

And I have fitted up some chambers there,
Looking toward the golden eastern air,
And level with the living winds, which flow
Like waves above the living waves below.
I have sent books and music there, and all
Those instruments with which high spirits call
The future from its cradle, and the past
Out of its grave, and make the present last
In thoughts and joys which sleep, but cannot die,

Folded within their own eternity.
* # * o

COME INTO THE GAADEN, MAUD.

Meanwhile,
We two will rise, and sit, and walk together,
Under the roof of blue Ionian weather,
And wander in the meadows, or ascend
The mossy mountains, where the blue heavens bend
With lightest winds to touch their paramour;
Or linger where the pebble-paven shore,
Under the quick, faint kisses of the sea,
Tumbles and sparkles as with ecstasy,
Possessing and possessed by all that is
Within that calm circumference of bliss,
And by each other, till to love and live

Be one.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

--

Come into the Garden, JMawd.

OME into the garden, Maud—
For the black bat, night, has flown
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wasted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.

For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,

Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,

To faint in the light of the sun she loves
To faint in his light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon :

All night has the casement jessamine stirred
To the dancers dancing in tune—

Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.

III

I said to the lily, “There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone *
She is weary of dance and play.”
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose, “The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.

O young lord-lover, what sighs are those
For one that will never be thine?

But mine, but mine,” so I sware to the rose,
“Forever and ever, mine !”

And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clashed in the hall;

And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall

From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood–
Our wood, that is dearer than all ;—

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs,

He sets the jewel-print of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes—

To the woody hollows in which we meet,
And the valleys of Paradise.

The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake—
They sighed for the dawn and thee.

THE WELCOME. 113

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither l the dances are done;

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;

Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.

There has fallén a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear !
She is coming, my life, my fate 1
The red rose cries, “She is near, she is near !”
And the white rose weeps, “She is late;”
The larkspur listens, “I hear, I hear;”
And the lily whispers, “I wait.”

She is coming, my own, my sweet !
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead—
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.
ALFRED TENNYSON.

The Welcome.
I.

OME in the evening, or come in the morning— Come when you're looked for, or come without warning; Kisses and welcome you’ll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you ! Light is my heart since the day we were plighted; Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don’t sever !”

II.

I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them
Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom;
I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you;
I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won’t tire you.
O ! your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed farmer
Or saber and shield to a knight without armor;
I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me,
Then, wandering, I’ll wish you, in silence, to love me.

III.

We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyrie;
We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy;
We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river,
Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her—
O! she'll whisper you—“Love, as unchangeably beaming.
And trust, when in secret, most tunefully streaming;
Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver,
As our souls flow in one down eternity's river.”

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So come in the evening, or come in the morning:
Come when you're looked for, or come without warning;
Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you,
And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you !
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted;
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted;
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever,
And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don’t sever !”
THOMAS DAVIS.

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