To run down by the early train,
Whirl down with shriek and whistle,
And feel the bluff north blow again,

And mark the sprouting thistle
Set up on waste patch of the lane
Its green and tender bristle ;

And spy the scarce-blown violet banks,
Crisp primrose-leaves and others,
And watch the lambs leap at their pranks,
And butt their patient mothers.

Alas! one point in all my plan

My serious thoughts demur to:

Seven years have passed for maid and man Seven years have passed for her too.

Perhaps my rose is over-blown,

Not rosy or too rosy;

Perhaps in farm-house of her own
Some husband keeps her cosey,
Where I should show a face unknown,
Good by, my wayside posy!

CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTL

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.

SHE walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies, And all that's best of dark and bright Meets in her aspect and her eyes, Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less

Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress

Or softly lightens o'er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek and o'er that brow
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.

CASTARA.

LORD BYRON

LIKE the violet, which alone Prospers in some happy shade, My Castara lives unknown,

To no ruder eye betrayed; For she's to herself untrue Who delights i' the public view.

Such is her beauty as no arts

Have enriched with borrowed grace. Her high birth no pride imparts,

For she blushes in her place. Folly boasts a glorious blood, She is noblest being good.

Cautious, she knew never yet

What a wanton courtship meant; Nor speaks loud to boast her wit, In her silence eloquent.

Of herself survey she takes,

But 'tween men no difference makes.

She obeys with speedy will

Her grave parents' wise commands; And so innocent, that ill

She nor acts, nor understands.
Women's feet run still astray
If to ill they know the way.

She sails by that rock, the court,
Where oft virtue splits her mast;
And retiredness thinks the port,

Where her fame may anchor cast.
Virtue safely cannot sit
Where vice is enthroned for wit

She holds that day's pleasure best
Where sin waits not on delight;
Without mask, or ball, or feast,

Sweetly spends a winter's night. O'er that darkness whence is thrust Prayer and sleep, oft governs lust. She her throne makes reason climb, While wild passions captive lie; And each article of time,

Her pure thoughts to heaven fly; All her vows religious be,

And she vows her love to me.

AT THE CHURCH GATE.

ALTHOUGH I enter not,
Yet round about the spot
Ofttimes I hover;
And near the sacred gate,
With longing eyes I wait,

Expectant of her.

The minster bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,

And noise and humming;
They've hushed the minster bell;
The organ 'gins to swell;

She's coming, coming!

My lady comes at last,
Timid and stepping fast,

And hastening hither,

With modest eyes downcast;

She comes, - she 's here, she's past!

May Heaven go with her!

Kneel undisturbed, fair saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and duly;

I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,

Lingering a minute,
Like outcast spirits, who wait,
And see, through heaven's gate,
Angels within it.

Guard well thy soul, beloved;

Truth, dwelling there, Shall shadow forth, beloved,

Her image rare.

Then shall I deem, beloved,
That thou art she;

And there'll be naught, beloved,
Fairer than thee.

ANONYMOUS.

HER LIKENESS.

A GIRL, who has so many wilful ways

She would have caused Job's patience to for sake him ;

Yet is so rich in all that's girlhood's praise,
Did Job himself upon her goodness gaze,

A little better she would surely make him.
Yet is this girl I sing in naught uncommon,
And very far from angel yet, I trow.
Her faults, her sweetnesses, are purely human;
Yet she's more lovable as simple woman
Than any one diviner that I know.
Therefore I wish that she may safely keep

This womanhede, and change not, only grow; From maid to matron, youth to age, may creep, And in perennial blessedness, still reap

On every hand of that which she doth sow.

DINAH MARIA MULOCK.

BLACK AND BLUE EYES.

THE brilliant black eye

May in triumph let fly

All its darts without caring who feels 'em ; But the soft eye of blue,

Though it scatter wounds too,

Is much better pleased when it heals 'em! Dear Fanny!

The black eye may say,

"Come and worship my ray;

By adoring, perhaps you may move me!" But the blue eye, half hid,

Says, from under its lid,

"I love, and am yours, if you love me!" Dear Fanny!

Then tell me, O why,

In that lovely blue eye,

Not a charm of its tint I discover ;

Or why should you wear

The only blue pair

That ever said "No" to a lover?