Her virgin bosom swell;

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live

Here in this happy dell."

Thus Nature spake-the work was doneHow soon my Lucy's race was run!

She died, and left to me

This heath, this calm, and quiet scene; The memory of what has been,

And never more will be.

-William Wordsworth

L

IKE 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 her 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. -William Habington.

Behind the black

Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river

Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous

gleam of the moonlight,

Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit.

Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden

Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessions

Unto the night, as it went on its way, like a silent Carthusian.

Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night dews,

Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moonlight

Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings, As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of the oak trees,

Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie.

Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies. Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee? Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me?

Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie!

Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me!

Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor, Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers.

Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers,

Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens,

Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship,

Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple

As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, "Upharsin."

And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies,

Wandered alone, and she cried, "O Gabriel! O my beloved'

When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee?"

Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill sounded

Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighboring thickets,

Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence.

"Patience!" whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness;

And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, "To-morrow!"

-H. W. Longfellow.

I

WILL paint her as I see her,

Ten times have the lilies blown
Since she looked upon the sun.
And her face is lily-clear,
Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty
To the law of its own beauty.
Oval cheeks encolored faintly,
Which a trail of golden hair
Keeps from fading off to air;

And a forehead fair and saintly,
Which two blue eyes undershine,
Like meek prayers before a shrine.

Face and figure of a child

Though too calm, you think, and tender
For the childhood you would lend her.

Yet child-simple, undefiled,

Frank, obedient,-waiting still
On the turnings of your will.

Moving light, as all your things,

As young birds, or early wheat
When the wind blows over it.

Only free from flutterings

Of loud mirth that scorneth measure
Taking love for her chief pleasure,

Choosing pleasures, for the rest,

Which come softly,-just as she, When she nestles at your knee.

Quiet talk she liketh best,

In a bower of gentle looks,Watering flowers, or reading books. And her voice, it murmurs lowly, As a silver stream may run, Which yet feels, you feel, the sun. And her smile, it seems half holy, As if drawn from thoughts more far Than our common jestings are.

And if any poet knew her,

He would sing of her with falls
Used in lovely madrigals.

And if any painter drew her,

He would paint her unaware
With a halo round the hair.

And if reader read the poem,

He would whisper, "You have done a Consecrated little Una."

And a dreamer (did you show him That same picture) would exclaim, "'Tis my angel with a name!"

And a stranger, when he sees her

In the street even, smileth stilly,
Just as you would at a lily.

And all voices that address her
Soften, sleeken every word,
As if speaking to a bird.