ILL affection still enfold me

When the day of life declines, When old age with ruthless rigor

Plows my face in furrowed lines; When the eye forgets its seeing,

And the hand forgets its skill, And the very words prove rebel

To the mind's once kingly will; When the deaf ear, strained to listen, Scarcely hears the opening word, And the unfathomed depths of feeling Are by no swift current stirred; When fond memory, like a limner, Many a line perspective casts, Spreading out our bygone pleasures On the canvas of the Past;

When the leaping blood grows sluggish, And the fire of youth has fled;

When the friends who now surround us Half are numbered with the dead;

When the years appear to shorten,

Scarcely leaving us a trace; When old Time with bold approaches Marks his dial on my face;

When our present hopes, all gathered,

Lie like dead flowers on our track; When the whole of our existence

Is one fearful looking back;
When each wasted hour of talent,
Hardly measured now at all,
Sends its witness back to haunt us,
Like the writing on the wall;

When the ready tongue is palsied,
And the form is bowed with care;
When our only hope is Heaven,
And our only help is prayer ;
When our idols, broken round us,
Fall amid the ranks of men ;
Until Death uplifts the curtain-
Will thy love endure till then?

WANDERED by the brookside

I wandered by the mill;

I could not hear the brook flow,-
The noisy wheel was still;
There was no burr of grasshopper,
No chirp of any bird,

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm tree;
I watched the long, long shade.
And as it grew still longer,
I did not feel afraid;
For I listened for a footfall
I listened for a word,-

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

He came not,-no, he came not,

The night came on alone,-
The little stars sat one by one,

Each on his golden throne;

The evening wind passed by my cheek,

The leaves above were stirred,

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

Fast silent tears were flowing,
When something stood behind;
A hand was on my shoulder,-
I know its touch was kind;

It drew me nearer,-nearer,—
We did not speak one word,

For the beating of our own hearts

Was all the sound we heard.

-Richard Monckton Milnes, (Lord Houghton.)

C

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.

IF

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.