"Hush in the canal below Lady, do you know the tune? - And love-lamps in the casement hung." LUCY'S BIRTHDAY. Types of youth and love and hope! No better divan need the Sultan re- | It was but a moment she sat in this PISCATOR AND PISCATRIX. LINES WRITTEN TO AN ALBUM PRINT. As on this pictured page I look, Amuses and engages: I know them both, the boy and girl; My lord the County's page is, A pleasant place for such a pair! Hard by you see the castle tall; The village nestles round the wall, As round about the hen its small Young progeny of chickens. It is too hot to pace the keep; His noonday dinner over: The postern-warder is asleep (Perhaps they've bribed him not to peep): And so from out the gate they creep, Their lines into the brook they launch; 's delicate complexion : He takes his rapier from his haunch, That beardless doughty champion staunch; He'd drill it through the rival's paunch That question'd his affection! THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY. THE rose upon my balcony the morning air perfuming, Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the spring; You ask me why her breath is sweet, and why her cheek is blooming, It is because the sun is out and birds begin to sing. The nightingale, whose melody is through the greenwood ringing, Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds were blowing keen: And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing, It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green. Thus each performs his part, Mamına; the birds have found their voices, The blowing rose a flush, Mamına, her bonny cheek to dye; And there's sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which wakens and rejoices, And so I sing and blush, Mamına, and that's the reason why. And, as the piteous tale is said, "Our lady's old and feeble now," And yet she spurn'd her lover's vow, No kindly mate the lady cheers; With threescore and ten years!" Ah! dreary thoughts and dreams are those, But wherefore yield me to despair, Ho, While yet the poet's bosom glows, While yet the dame is peerless fair! Sweet lady mine! while yet 'tis time Requite my passion and my truth, And gather in their blushing prime The roses of your youth! AT THE CHURCH GATE. ALTHOUGH I enter not, Ofttimes I hover: The Minster bell tolls out And noise and humming: She's coming, she's coming! My lady comes at last, And hastening hither, With modest eyes downcast : she's past- May heaven go with her! Kneel, undisturb'd, fair Saint! I will not enter there, But suffer me to pace Like outcast spirits who wait THE AGE OF WISDOM. pretty page, with the dimpled chin, That never has known the Barber's All your wish is woman to win, |