C

OME live with me, and be my love,

And we will all the pleasures prove That valleys, groves, and hills, and fields Woods or steep mountains, yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee beds of roses
With a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair-lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw, and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come, live with me, and be my love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning;
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

-Christopher Marlowe.

I'

F that the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold:
And Philomel becometh dumb,
And all complain of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,-
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,-
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee, and be thy love.
But could youth last, and love still breed
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.

"Fly to the desert, fly with me
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But oh! the choice what heart can doub
Of tents with love, or thrones without?

"Our rocks are rough, but smiling there
Th' acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less
For flowering in a wilderness.

"Our sands are bare, but down their slope

The silvery footed antelope

As gracefully and gaily springs

As o'er the marble courts of kings.

"Then come,-thy Arab maid will be
The loved and lone acacia tree,
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loneliness.
"O, there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart,
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it through life had sought;

"As if the very lips and eyes
Predestined to have all our sighs,
And never be forgot again,
Sparkled and spoke before as then!

-Percy Bysshe Shelley.

A gem away, that thou hadst sworn
Should ever in thy heart be worn.
"Come, if the love thou hast for me
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,-
Fresh as the fountain underground,
When first 'tis by the lapwing found.
"But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worshiped image from its base,
To give to me the ruined place,

"Then, fare thee well!-I'd rather make
My bower upon some icy lake
When thawing suns begin to shine
Than trust to love so false as thine!"
There was a pathos in this lay,

That even without enchantment's art
Would instantly have found its way
Deep into Selim's burning heart;
But breathing, as it did, a tone

To earthly lutes and lips unknown;
With every chord fresh from the touch
Of music's spirit, 'twas too much!
Starting, he dashed away the cup,-
Which, all the time of this sweet air,
His hand had held, untasted, up,

As if 'twere fixed by magic there,-
And naming her so long unnamed,
So long unseen, wildly exclaimed,
"O Nourmahal! O Nourmahal!

Hadst thou but sung this witching strain,

I could forget-forgive thee all,

And never leave those eyes again."

H

ERE'S the garden she walked across, Arm in arm, such a short while since : Hark! now I push its wicket, the moss

Hinders the hinges, and makes them wince. She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, As back with that murmur the wicket swung; For she laid the poor snail my chance foot spurned, To feed and forget it the leaves among.

Down this side of the gravel-walk

She went while her robe's edge brushed the box;

And here she paused in her gracious talk

To point me a moth on the milk white phlox.

Roses, ranged in valiant row,

I will never think that she passed you by !

She loves you, noble roses, I know;

But yonder see where the rock-plants lie! This flower she stopped at, finger on lip,—

Stooped over, in doubt, at settling its claim; Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, Its soft meandering Spanish name. What a name! was it love or praise?

Speech half asleep, or song half awake? I must learn Spanish one of these days, Only for that slow sweet name's sake.

Roses, if I live and do well,

I may bring her one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell,

S

HE was a phantom of delight

When first she gleamed upon my sight;

A lovely apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair,
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn

From May time and the cheerful dawn:

A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,

A spirit, yet a woman too!

Her household motions light and free,

And steps of virgin liberty;

A countenance in which did meet

Sweet records, promises as sweet;

A creature not too bright or good

For human nature's daily food,

For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;

A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveler between life and death:
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect woman, nobly planned
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel-light.

-William Wordsworth.

86 Are

ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?" Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so wild?" "As God's above," said Alice the nurse, "I speak the truth: you are my child.

"The old earl's daughter died at my breast
I speak the truth, as I live by bread!
I buried her like my own sweet child,
And put my child in her stead."

"Falsely, falsely have ye done,

O mother," she said, "if this be true
To keep the best man under the sun
So many years from his due."

"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse
"But keep the secret for your life,
And all you have will be Lord Ronald's,
When you are man and wife."

"If I'm a beggar born," she said,

"I will speak out, for I dare not lie.

Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold,

And fling the diamond necklace by. " "Nay now, my child," said Alice the nur "But keep the secret all you can." She said, Not so: but I will know If there be any faith in man."

"Nay now, what faith?" said Alice the nurse,
"The man will cleave unto his right."
"And he shall have it," the lady replied
“Though I should die to-night."

"Yet give one kiss to your mother, dear!
Alas, my child, I sinned for thee. "
"O mother, mother, mother," she said,
"So strange it seems to me!

"Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear,
My mother dear, if this be so,

And lay your hand upon my head, And bless me, mother, ere I go."

She clad herself in a russet gown,

She was no longer Lady Clare:
She went by dale, and she went by down,
With a single rose in her hair.

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought
Leapt up from where she lay,

Dropp'd her head in the maiden's hand,
And follow'd her all the way.

Down stepp'd Lord Ronald from his tower:
"O Lady Clare, you shame your worth!
Why come you dress'd like a village maid,
That are the flower of the earth!”

K

ISSING 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.