That I might feel how gladly hers was throbbing!

Ah! ne'er shall I forget until I die
How happily the dreamy days went by,
While I grew well, and lay with soft heart-beats,
Heark'ning the pleasant murmur from the streets,
And Polly by me like a sunny beam,
And life all changed, and love a drowsy dream!
'T was happiness enough to lie and see
The little golden head bent droopingly
Over its sewing, while the still time flew,

And my fond eyes were dim with happy dew!
And then, when I was nearly well and strong,
And she went back to labor all day long,
How sweet to lie alone with half-shut eyes,
And hear the distant murmurs and the cries,
And think how pure she was from pain and
sin,

And how the summer days were coming in!
Then, as the sunset faded from the room,
To listen for her footstep in the gloom,
To pant as it came stealing up the stair,
To feel my whole life brighten unaware
When the soft tap came to the door, and when
The door was opened for her smile again!
Best, the long evenings!--when, till late at night,
She sat beside me in the quiet light,
And happy things were said and kisses won,
And serious gladness found its vent in fun.
Sometimes I would draw close her shining head,
And pour her bright hair out upon the bed,
And she would laugh, and blush, and try to scold,
While "Here," I cried, "I count my wealth in
gold!"

Once, like a little sinner for transgression,
She blushed upon my breast, and made confession :
How, when that night I woke and looked around,
I found her busy with a charm profound, -
One chestnut was herself, my girl confessed,
The other was the person she loved best,
And if they burned together side by side,
He loved her, and she would become his bride;
And burn indeed they did, to her delight,
And had the pretty charm not proven right?
Thus much, and more, with timorous joy, she
said,

Her tiny foot and little boot upon it,
Embroidered petticoat and silk gown new,
And shawl she wears as few fine ladies do?
And she will keep, to charm away all ill,
The lucky sixpence in her pocket still;
And we will turn, come fair or cloudy weather,
To ashes, like the chestnuts, close together!

ROBERT BUCHANAN.

WIDOW MALONE.

DID you hear of the Widow Malone,
Ohone !
Who lived in the town of Athlone,
Alone !

O, she melted the hearts
Of the swains in them parts:
So lovely the Widow Malone,

Ohone !

So lovely the Widow Malone.
Of lovers she had a full score,
Or more,
And fortunes they all had galore,
In store;

From the minister down
To the clerk of the Crown
All were courting the Widow Malone,
Ohone !

All were courting the Widow Malone.
But so modest was Mistress Malone,
"T was known
That no one could see her alone,
Ohone !

Let them ogle and sigh,
They could ne'er catch her eye,
So bashful the Widow Malone,
Ohone !

So bashful the Widow Malone.
Till one Misther O'Brien, from Clare,
(How quare!

It's little for blushing they care
Down there.)

Put his arm round her waist,
Gave ten kisses at laste,
"O," says he, "you're my Molly Malone,
My own!

O," says he, "you 're my Molly Malone!'
And the widow they all thought so shy,
My eye!
Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh,
For why?

And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste,

So I think, after that, I may talk to the priest." Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her

neck,

So soft and so white, without freckle or speck; And he looked in her eyes, that were beaming with light,

And he kissed her sweet lips- Don't you think he was right?

"Now Rory, leave off, sir-you'll hug me no

more,

That's eight times to-day you have kissed me before."

"Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure, For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More.

SAMUEL LOVER.

KISSING HER HAIR.

KISSING her hair, I sat against her feet:
Wove and unwove it, -wound, and found it sweet;
Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes,
Deep as deep flowers, and dreamy like dim skies;

With her own tresses bound, and found her fair, -
Kissing her hair.

Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me,
Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea:
What pain could get between my face and hers?
What new sweet thing would Love not relish worse?
Unless, perhaps, white Death had kissed me
there,
Kissing her hair.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

WHEN THE SULTAN GOES TO ISPAHAN.

WHEN the Sultan Shah-Zaman

Goes to the city Ispahan,
Even before he gets so far
As the place where the clustered palm-trees are,
At the last of the thirty palace-gates,
The Pet of the Harem, Rose in Bloom,
Orders a feast in his favorite room,
Glittering squares of colored ice,
Sweetened with syrups, tinctured with spice;
Creams, and cordials, and sugared dates;
Syrian apples, Othmanee quinces,
Limes, and citrons, and apricots;
And wines that are known to Eastern princes.
And Nubian slaves, with smoking pots
Of spiced meats, and costliest fish,
And all that the curious palate could wish,

Pass in and out of the cedarn doors.

Scattered over mosaic floors

Are anemones, myrtles, and violets;
And a musical fountain throws its jets
Of a hundred colors into the air.
The dark sultana loosens her hair,
And stains with the henna plant the tips
Of her pearly nails, and bites her lips
Till they bloom again; but alas, that rose
Not for the Sultan buds and blows!

Not for the Sultan Shah-Zaman
When he goes to the city Ispahan.

Then at a wave of her sunny hand,
The dancing girls of Samarcand
Float in like mists from Fairy-land!
And to the low voluptuous swoons
Of music, rise and fall the moons
Of their full brown bosoms. Orient blood
Runs in their veins, shines in their eyes;
And there in this Eastern paradise,
Filled with the fumes of sandal-wood,
And Khoten musk, and aloes, and myrrh,
Sits Rose in Bloom on a silk divan,
Sipping the wines of Astrackhan;
And her Arab lover sits with her.
That's when the Sultan Shah-Zaman
Goes to the city Ispahan.

Now, when I see an extra light
Flaming, flickering on the night,
From my neighbor's casement opposite,
I know as well as I know to pray,

I know as well as a tongue can say,
That the innocent Sultan Shah-Zaman
Has gone to the city Ispahan.

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

BONNIE WEE THING.

BONNIE wee thing! cannie wee thing! Lovely wee thing! wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom,

Lest my jewel I should tine. Wishfully I look, and languish,

In that bonnie face o' thine; And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, Lest my wee thing be na mine.

Wit and grace, and love and beauty, In ae constellation shine;

To adore thee is my duty,

Goddess o' this soul o' mine! Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom, Lest my jewel I should tine.

ROBERT BURNS.

666

THE LUTE-PLAYER.

FROM HASSAN BEN KHALED."

"MUSIC!' they shouted, echoing my demand,
And answered with a beckon of his hand
The gracious host, whereat a maiden, fair
As the last star that leaves the morning air,
Came down the leafy paths. Her veil revealed
The beauty of her face, which, half concealed
Behind its thin blue folds, showed like the moon
Behind a cloud that will forsake it soon.
Her hair was braided darkness, but the glance
Of lightning eyes shot from her countenance,
And showed her neck, that like an ivory tower
Rose o'er the twin domes of her marble breast.
Were all the beauty of this age compressed
Into one form, she would transcend its power.
Her step was lighter than the young gazelle's,
And as she walked, her anklet's golden bells
Tinkled with pleasure, but were quickly mute
With jealousy, as from a case she drew
With snowy hands the pieces of her lute,
And took her seat before me.
As it grew
To perfect shape, her lovely arms she bent
Around the neck of the sweet instrument,
Till from her soft caresses it awoke
To consciousness, and thus its rapture spoke :
'I was a tree within an Indian vale,
When first I heard the love-sick nightingale
Declare his passion; every leaf was stirred
With the melodious sorrow of the bird,
And when he ceased, the song remained with me.
Men came anon, and felled the harmless tree,
But from the memory of the songs I heard,
The spoiler saved me from the destiny
Whereby my brethren perished. O'er the sea
I came, and from its loud, tumultuous moan
I caught a soft and solemn undertone;
And when I grew beneath the maker's hand
To what thou seest, he sang (the while he planned)
The mirthful measures of a careless heart,
And of my soul his songs became a part.
Now they have laid my head upon a breast
Whiter than marble, I am wholly blest.
The fair hands smite me, and my strings com
plain

With such melodious cries, they smite again,
Until, with passion and with sorrow swayed,
My torment moves the bosom of the maid,
Who hears it speak her own. I am the voice
Whereby the lovers languish or rejoice ;
And they caress me, knowing that my strain
Alone can speak the language of their pain.'

Better than wine that music was to me;
Not the lute only felt her hands, but she
Played on my heart-strings, till the sounds be-

came

Incarnate in the pulses of my frame.

Speech left my tongue, and in my tears alone Found utterance. With stretched arms I im

plored

Continuance, whereat her fingers poured

A tenderer music, answering the tone

Her parted lips released, the while her throat Throbbed, as a heavenly bird were fluttering there,

And gave her voice the wonder of his note. 'His brow,' she sang, 'is white beneath his hair;

The fertile beard is soft upon his chin,
Shading the mouth that nestles warm within,
As a rose nestles in its leaves; I see

His eyes, but cannot tell what hue they be,
For the sharp eyelash, like a sabre, speaks
The martial law of Passion; in his cheeks

The quick blood mounts, and then as quickly

With answering love, that led to other strains, Until the lute, which shared with her the smart,

Rocked as in storm upon her beating heart.
Thus to its wires she made impassioned cries:
'I swear it by the brightness of his eyes;
I swear it by the darkness of his hair;

By the warm bloom his limbs and bosom wear;
By the fresh pearls his rosy lips enclose;
By the calm majesty of his repose;
By smiles I coveted, and frowns I feared,
And by the shooting myrtles of his beard, -
I swear it, that from him the morning drew
Its freshness, and the moon her silvery hue,
The sun his brightness, and the stars their
fire,

And musk and camphor all their odorous breath:
And if he answer not my love's desire,
Day will be night to me, and Life be Death !'"

BAYARD TAYLOR.

I laughed in triumph and in pleasure -
So strange the sport, so undesigned !
Her mother turned and asked me, gravely,
"What thought was passing through my mind?"

'Tis Love that blinds the eyes of mothers;
'Tis Love that makes the young maids fair!
She touched my hand; my rings she counted;
Yet never felt the shadows there.

Keep, gamesome Love, beloved Infant, Keep ever thus all mothers blind; And make thy dedicated virgins,

In substance as in shadow, kind!

AUBREY De Vere.