LETITIA E. LANDON.

Perlaps he's come to worship her:
She fears, she hopes, she thinks he is.

Advancing stepless, quick, and still,
As in the grass a serpent glides,
He fascinates her fluttering will,

Then terrifies with dreadful strides:
At first, there's nothing to resist :

He fights with all the forms of peace; He comes about her like a mist,

With subtle, swift, unseen increase;
And then, unlooked for, strikes amain
Some stroke that frightens her to death;
And grows all harmlessness again,

Ere she can cry, or get her breath.
At times she stops, and stands at bay;
But he, in all more strong than she,
Subdues her with his pale dismay,
Or more admired audacity.

All people speak of him with praise:
How wise his talk; how sweet his tone;
What manly worship in his gaze!

It nearly makes her heart his own.
With what an air he speaks her name:
His manner always recollects
Her sex and still the woman's claim

Is taught its scope by his respects.
Her charms, perceived to prosper first
In his beloved advertencies,
When in her glass they are rehearsed,
Prove his most powerful allies.

Ah, whither shall a maiden flee,
When a bold youth so swift pursues,
And siege of tenderest courtesy,

With hope perseverant, still renews!
Why fly so fast? Her flattered breast
Thanks him who finds her fair and good;
She loves her fears; veiled joys arrest
The foolish terrors of her blood;
By secret, sweet degrees, her heart,
Vanquished, takes warmth from his
desire:

She makes it more, with bashful art,
And fuels love's late dreaded fire.

The gallant credit he accords

To all the signs of good in her,
Redeems itself; his praiseful words
What they attribute still confer.
Her heart is thrice as rich in bliss,
She's three times gentler than before:
He gains a right to call her his,

Now she through him is so much more!
Ah, might he, when by doubts aggrieved,
Behold his tokens next her breast,

At all his words and sighs perceived
Against its blithe upheaval pressed.
But still she flies: should she be won,

It must not be believed or thought
She yields: she's chased to death, undone,
Surprised, and violently caught.

THE LOVER.

He meets, by heavenly chance express,
His destined wife; some hidden hand
Unveils to him that loveliness

Which others cannot understand.
No songs of love, no summer dreams
Did e'er his longing fancy fire
With vision like to this; she seems
In all things better than desire.
His merits in her presence grow,

To match the promise in her eyes, And round her happy footsteps blow The authentic airs of Paradise.

The least is well, yet nothing's light

In all the lover does; for he
Who pitches hope at such a height

Will do all things with dignity.
She is so perfect, true, and pure,

Her virtue all virtue so endears,
That often, when he thinks of her,
Life's meanness fills his eyes with tears,

LETITIA E. LANDON.

THE SHEPHERD-BOY.
LIKE some vision olden

Of far other time,
When the age was golden,
In the young world's prime
Is thy soft pipe ringing,
O lonely shepherd-boy,
What song art thou singing,
In thy youth and joy?

Or art thou complaining

Of thy lowly lot,
And thine own disdaining,

Dost ask what thou hast not?
Of the future dreaming,
Weary of the past,
For the present scheming,
All but what thou hast.

I tell ye, banks of Krumley,

ALICE CAREY.

"T is not your sunny days
That set your meadows up and down
With blossoms all ablaze.

The flowers that love her crowd to bloom
Along her trodden ways.

O dim and dewy Krumley,
"T is not your birds at all
That make the air one warble
From rainy spring to fall.
They only mock the sweeter songs
That from her sweet lips fall.

O bold, bold winds of Krumley,
Do ye mean my heart to break,
So light ye lift her yellow hair,
So lightly kiss her cheek?

O flower and bird, O wave and wind,
Ye mean my heart to break!

The illuminated air,

The pleasure after prayer,

Proclaim the unoriginated Power!

The mystery that hides him here and

there.

Bears the sure witness he is everywhere.

HER LAST POEM.

EARTH with its dark and dreadful ills,
Recedes and fades away;

Lift up your heads, ye heavenly hills;
Ye gates of death, give way!

My soul is full of whispered song,
My blindness is my sight;
The shadows that I feared so long
Are full of life and light.

My pulses faint and fainter beat,
My faith takes wider bounds;
I feel grow firm beneath my feet
The green, immortal grounds.

The faith to me a courage gives.
Low as the grave to go, -

I know that my Redeemer lives, -
That I shall live I know.

The palace walls I almost see
Where dwells my Lord and King
O grave, where is thy victory?
O death, where is thy sting?

SYDNEY DOBELL.