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My beautiful myrtle !—I think thou dost know
were I !”
hour, I will call thee nought else but the Lord of my Bower.
THE QUEEN OF THE MAY.
Here's a bank with rich cowslips and cuckoo-buds
strewn, To exalt your bright looks, gentle Queen of the May! Here's a cushion of moss for your delicate shoon,
And a woodbine to weave you a canopy gay!
Here's a garland of red-maiden-roses for you,
Such a beautiful wreath is for beauty alone! Here's a golden king-cup, brimming over with dew,
To be kiss'd by a lip just as sweet as its own!
Here are bracelets of pearl from the fount in the dale, That the nymph of the wave on your wrists doth
bestow; Here's a lily-wrought scarf, your sweet blushes to veil,
Or to lie on that bosom like snow upon snow.
Here's a myrtle enwreath'd with a jessamine band,
To express the fond twining of beauty and youth ; Take this emblem of love in thy exquisite hand,
And do thou sway the evergreen sceptre of Truth !
Then around you we'll dance, and around you we'll
sing ! To soft pipe, and sweet tabor we'll foot it away! And the hills, and the vales, and the forests shall ring While we hail you our lovely young Queen of the
Awake thee, my lady-love !
Wake thee and rise !
Into thine eyes !
Behold how the early lark
Springs from the corn!
Winds her wee horn!
The swallow's glad shriek is heard
All through the air !
Loud as she dare !
Apollo's wing'd bugleman
Once and again !
Then wake thee, my lady-love !
Bird of my bower!
Bird at this hour.
SONG OF A GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE.
Where is the sea ?-I languish here
Where is my own blue sea?
And flags and breezes free !
I miss the voice of waves—the first
That woke my childish glee :
Where is my own blue sea ?
Oh! with your myrtles breath may rise,
Soft, soft, your winds may be ;
Where is my own blue sea ?
I hear the shepherds mountain flute,
I hear the whispering tree-
Where is my own blue sea.
(" A Greek islander being taken to the Vale of Tempe, and called upon to admire its beautiful scenery, replied “Yes, all is fair ; but the sea-Where is it.'” Mrs. Hemans.)
ARE OTHER EYES.
L. E. L.
Are other eyes beguiling, Love?
Are other white arms wreathing, Love?
Then gaze not on other eyes, Love;
many a brighter one
All thine own, 'mid gladness, Love;
O Mary, I love thee with purest devotion,
No passion more holy in mortal can be,
Are true, but not truer-than I am to thee.
Wherever my footsteps by fancy are taken
I hear thee, I see thee, thine image is there, Though far from thy bosom my love is unshaken,
I'm still the true Willy to Mary the fair.
Though round me the wild wintry waters are foaming
And Mary and Heaven are hid from my view, My heart and my mind they are never a roaming
I know thou art beauteous, believe thou art true.
Though wafted far from thee, think not thou’rt
- forsaken I pray with the tempest,-send sighs with the airBut live on believing that distance will waken
Even higher love in me for Mary the fair.