My beautiful myrtle !—I think thou dost know
Upon whom this rich garland I mean to bestow;
For thou seems't with a voice full of fragrance to sigh-
“ Should I wreath that young shepherd how happy

were I !”
Come, bend me thy brow, gentle youth! and I'll twine
Round thy temples so pure this rich garland of mine ;
O thou look’st such a prince! from this day, from this

hour, I will call thee nought else but the Lord of my Bower.

THE QUEEN OF THE MAY.

GEORGE DARLEY.

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

May.

THE CALL.

GEORGE DARLEY.

Awake thee, my lady-love !

Wake thee and rise !
The sun through the bower peeps

Into thine eyes !

Behold how the early lark

Springs from the corn!
Hark, hark how the flower-bird

Winds her wee horn!

The swallow's glad shriek is heard

All through the air !
The stock-dove is murmuring

Loud as she dare !

Apollo's wing'd bugleman

Cannot contain,
But peals his loud trumpet-call

Once and again !

Then wake thee, my lady-love !

Bird of my bower!
The sweetest and sleepiest

Bird at this hour.

SONG OF A GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE.

MRS. HEMANS.

Where is the sea ?-I languish here

Where is my own blue sea?
With all its barks of fleet career,

And flags and breezes free !

I miss the voice of waves—the first

That woke my childish glee :
The measur'd chime, the thundering burst

Where is my own blue sea ?

Oh! with your myrtles breath may rise,

Soft, soft, your winds may be ;
Yet my sick heart within me dies

Where is my own blue sea ?

I hear the shepherds mountain flute,

I hear the whispering tree-
The echoes of my soul are mute-

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 rose-lips smiling, Love?
Ah, heed them not; you will not find
Lips more true or eyes more kind,
Than mine, Love.

Are other white arms wreathing, Love?
Are other fond sighs breathing, Love?
Ah, heed them not; but call to mind
The arms, the sighs, you leave behind-
All thine, Love.

Then gaze not on other eyes, Love;
Breathe not other sighs, Love;

find

many a brighter one
Than your own rose, but there are none
So true to thee, Love.

You may

All thine own, 'mid gladness, Love;
Fonder still, 'mid sadness, Love;
Though chang'd from all that now thou art,
In shame and sorrow, still thy heart
Would be the world to me, Love.

TO MARY.

O Mary, I love thee with purest devotion,

No passion more holy in mortal can be,
The wind to the hill, and the wave to the ocean,

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.