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Tell Me, My Heart, if This Be Love.

HEN Delia on the plain appears,

Awed by a thousand tender fears, I would approach, but dare not moveTell me, my heart, if this be love.

Whene'er she speaks, my ravished ear
No other voice than hers can hear;
No other wit but hers approve―
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

If she some other swain commend,
Though I was once his fondest friend,

His instant enemy I prove

Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

When she is absent, I no more
Delight in all that pleased before,
The clearest spring, the shadiest grove-
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

When fond of power, of beauty vain,
Her nets she spread for every swain,

I strove to hate, but vainly strove-
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.
-George Lord Lyttelton.

A

Genevieve.

LL thoughts, all passions, all delights,

Whatever stirs this mortal frame,

All are but ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay
Beside the ruined tower.

The moonshine stealing o'er the scene
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve !

She leaned against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight;
She stood and listened to my lay,
Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve !
She loves me best when'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.

I played a soft and doleful air,

I sang an old and moving story-
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.

She listened with a fitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
For well she knew I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand; And that for ten long years he wooed The lady of the land.

I told her how he pined; and ah !
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another's love
Interpreted my own.

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
And she forgave me that I gazed

Too fondly on her face.

But when I told the cruel scorn

That crazed that bold and lowly knight, And that he crossed the mountain woods, Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once

In green and sunny glade,

There came and looked him in the face

An angel beautiful and bright;
And that he knew it was a fiend,

This miserable knight !

And that, unknowing what he did,

He leaped amid a murderous band,

And saved from outrage worse than death The lady of the land;

And how she wept, and clasped his knees;

And how she tended him in vain;
And ever strove to expiate

The scorn that crazed his brain;

And that she nursed him in a cave,
And how his madness went away,
When on the yellow forest leaves

A dying man he lay;

–His dying words-but when I reached That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve;
The music and the doleful tale,

The rich and balmy eve;

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherished long.

She wept with pity and delight,

She blushed with love, and virgin shame; And like a murmur of a dream,

I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved,-she stepped aside,
As conscious of my look she stept-
Then suddenly with timorous eye
She fled to me and wept.

She half inclosed me with her arms,
She pressed me with a meek embrace;
And bending back her head, looked up,
And gazed upon my face.

'Twas partly love, and partly fear,
And partly 'twas a bashful art
That I might rather feel than see
The swelling of her heart.

I calmed her fears, and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride;
And so I won my Genevieve;
My bright and beauteous bride.
-Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

I

86

The Lover's Coming.

LEANED out of window, I smelt the white clover, Dark, dark was the burden, I saw not the gate; Now, if there be footsteps, he comes. my one lover— Hush, nightingale, hush! O sweet nightingale, wait

Till I listen and hear If a step draweth near, For my love he is late!

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'You night-moths that hover where honey brims over
From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep;
You glow-worms, shine out, and the pathway discover
To him that comes darkling along the rough steep.
Ah, my sailor, make haste,
For the time runs to waste,
And my love lieth deep-

"Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover,
I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night."
By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover;
Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight;
But I'll love him more, more
Than e'er wife loved before,
Be the days dark or bright.
-Jean Ingelow.

TELL

ELL him, for years I never nursed a thought That was not his;—that on his wandering way Daily and nightly, poured a mourner's prayers.

Tell him ev'n now that I would rather share

His lowliest lot-walk by his side, an outcastWork for him, beg with him-live upon the light Of one kind smile from him, than wear the crown The Bourbon lost.

-Edward Bulwer Lytton.

The Day is Fixed.

T last the happy day is named,

AT last day is na,

And on that day will be fulfilled
The vows that have been plighted;
The letter comes with eager haste,
To give the information,
And underneath the broken seal
Is found an invitation.

Three maidens fair the message scan-
Its lines with meaning freighted-
And, more than outward looks suggest,
Their breasts are agitated:

Each hoped to win that promised hand,
And change her single station,
And each who sought receives at last,
Receives-the invitation !

-Henry Davenport.

Hiawatha's Wooing.

T the feet of Laughing Water

AT

Hiawatha laid his burden,

Threw the red deer from his shoulders;
And the maiden looked up at him,
Looked up from her mat of rushes,
Said with gentle look and accent,
"You are welcome, Hiawatha!"
Very spacious was the wigwam,

Made of deer-skin dressed and whitened
With the gods of the Dacotahs
Drawn and painted on its curtains,
And so tall the doorway, hardly
Hiawatha stooped to enter,
Hardly touched his eagle feathers
As he entered at the doorway.

Then uprose the Laughing Water,
From the ground fair Minnehaha
Laid aside her mat unfinished,
Brought forth food and set before them,
Water brought them from the brooklet,
Gave them food in earthen vessels,
Gave them drink in bowis of basswood,
Listened while the guest was speaking,
Listened while her father answered
But not once her lips she opened,
Not a single word she uttered,

Yet, as in a dream she listened

To the words of Hiawatha,
As he talked of old Nokomis,

Who had nursed him in his childhood,
As he told of his companions,
Chibiabos, the musician,

And the very strong man, Kwasind,
And of happiness and plenty,
In the land of the Ojibways,

In the pleasant land and peaceful.
"After many years of warfare,
Many years of strife and bloodshed,
There is peace between the Ojibways
And the tribe of the Dacotahs:"
Thus continued Hiawatha,
And then added, speaking slowly,
"That this peace may last forever,
And our hands be clasped more closely,
And our hearts be more united,
Give me as my wife this maiden,
Minnehaha, Laughing Water,
Loveliest of Dacotah women?"

And the ancient arrow-maker
Paused a moment ere he answered,
Smoked a little while in silence,
Looked at Hiawatha proudly,
Fondly looked at Laughing Water;
And made answer very gravely:
"Yes, if Minnehaha wishes;
Let your heart speak, Minnehaha!"

And the lovely Laughing Water Seemed more lovely as she stood there, Neither willing nor reluctant,

As she went to Hiawatha,

Softly took the seat beside him,
While she said and blushed to say it,

"I will follow you, my husband!"
This was Hiawatha's wooing!
Thus it was he won the daughter
Of the ancient arrow-maker

In the land of the Dacotahs!
From the wigwam he departed,
Leading with him Laughing Water;
Hand in hand they went together,

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