By the prim box path where I felt the glow

Of her dimpled, trusting arm,

And the sweep of her silk as she turned and smiled
A smile as fair as her pearls;

The breeze was in love with the darling child,
As it moved her curls.

She showed me her ferns and woodbine sprays,
Foxglove and jasmine stars,

A mist of blue in the beds, a blaze

Of red in the celadon jars:

And velvety bees in convolvulus bells,
And roses of bountiful June —

Oh, who would think the summer spells
Could die so soon!

For a glad song came from the milking shed,
On a wind of that summer south,

And the green was golden above her head,
And a sunbeam kissed her mouth;

Sweet were the lips where that sunbeam dwelt-
And the wings of Time were fleet

As I gazed; and neither spoke, for we felt
Life was so sweet!

And the odorous limes were dim above
As we leant on a drooping bough;
And the darkling air was a breath of love,
And a witching thrush sang Now!

For the sun dropt low, and the twilight grew
As we listened, and sighed, and leant

That day was the sweetest day — and we knew
What the sweetest meant.

TO LINA OSWALD,

AGED FIVE YEARS.

When vapid poets vex thee sore,

Thy Mentor's old, and would remind thee,
That if thy griefs are all before,

Thy pleasures are not all behind thee.

I TUMBLE out of bed betimes

To make my love these toddling rhymes;
And meet the hour, and meet the place
To bless her blithe good-morning face.
I send her all this heart can store;
I seem to see her as before,

An angel-child, divinely fair,

With meek blue eyes, and golden hair,
Curls tipt with changing light, that shed
A little glory round her head.

Has poet ever sung or seen a
Sweeter, wiser child than Lina?

Blue are her sash and snood, and blue's
The hue of her bewitching shoes;
But, saving these, she 's virgin dight,
A happy creature clad in white.

Again she stands beneath the boughs,
Reproves the pup, and feeds the cows;
Unvexed by rule, unscared by ill,
She wanders at her own sweet will;
For what grave fiat could confine

My little chartered libertine,

Yet free from feeling or from seeing

The burthen of her moral being?

But change must come, and forms and dyes Will change before her changing eyes;

She 'll learn to blush, and hope, and fear
And where shall I be then, my dear?

Little gossip, set apart

But one small corner of thy heart;
Still there is one not quite employed,
So let me find and fill that void;

Run then, and jump, and laugh, and play,
But love me though I'm far away.

GERTRUDE'S GLOVE.

Elle avait au bout de ses manches
Une paire de mains si blanches!

SLIPS of a kid-skin deftly sewn,
A scent as through her garden blown,
The tender hue that clothes her dove,
All these, and this is Gerty's glove.

A glove but lately dofft, for look -
It keeps the happy shape it took

Warm from her touch! What gave the glow?
And where's the mould that shaped it so?

It clasped the hand, so pure, so sleek,
Where Gerty rests a pensive cheek,
The hand that when the light wind stirs,
Reproves those laughing locks of hers.

You fingers four, you little thumb!
Were I but you, in days to come

I'd clasp, and kiss, and keep her
And tell her that I told you so.

- go!

DU RYS DE MADAME d'alleBRET.

How fair those locks which now the light wind stirs !
What eyes she has, and what a perfect arm!
And yet methinks that little Laugh of hers
That little Laugh is still her crowning charm.
Where 'er she passes, country-side or town,
The streets make festa, and the fields rejoice.
Should sorrow come, as 't will, to cast me down,
Or Death, as come he must, to hush my voice,
Her Laugh would wake me, just as now it thrills me
That little giddy Laugh wherewith she kills me.

LOVE, TIME, AND DEATH.

Ан me, dread friends of mine - Love, Time, and Death! Sweet Love who came to me on sheeny wing,

And

- her lips, her breath,

her to my arms
gave
And all her golden ringlets clustering:
And Time who gathers in the flying years
He gave me all, but where is all he gave?
He took my Love and left me barren tears,
Weary and lone I follow to the grave.
There Death will end this vision half divine, —
Wan Death, who waits in shadow evermore,
And silent, ere he give the sudden sign;

O, gently lead me thro' thy narrow door,

Thou gentle Death, thou trustiest friend of mine,
— Ah me, for Love — will Death my Love restore?

AN EPITAPH.

HER worth, her wit, her loving smile

Were with me but a little while;

She came, she went; yet though that Voice

Is hushed that made the heart rejoice, And though the grave is dark and chill, Her memory is fragrant still,

She stands on the eternal hill.

Here pause, kind soul, whoe'er you be, And weep for her, and pray for me.