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WILD ROSE.

O call My Lady where she stood

"A Wild-Rose blossom of the wood,"
Makes but a poor similitude.

For who by such a slight would reach
An aim, consumes the worth in speech,
And sets a crimson rose to bleach.

My Love, whose store of household sense
Gives duty golden recompense,

And arms her goodness with defence:

The sweet reliance of whose gaze
Originates in gracious ways,

And wins that trust the trust repays :

Whose stately figure's varying grace
Is never seen unless her face
Turn beaming toward another place;

For such a halo round it glows,
Surprised attention only knows
A lively wonder in repose.

Can flowers that breathe one little day
In odorous sweetness life away,

And wavering to the earth decay,

Have any claim to rank with her,
Warmed in whose soul impulses stir
Then bloom to goodness; and aver

Her worth through spheral joys shall move
When suns and systems cease above,

And nothing lives but perfect Love?

THOMAS WOOLNER.

DAISY'S DIMPLES.

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I.

ITTLE dimples so sweet and soft,
Love the cheek of my love;

The mark of Cupid's dainty hand,
Before he wore a glove.

II.

Laughing dimples of tender love,

Sinile on my darling's cheek;
Sweet hallowed spots where kisses lurk,
And play at hide and seek.

III.

Fain would I hide my kisses there

At morning's rosy light,

To come and seek them back again

In silver hush of night.

J. ASHBY-STERRY.

GERTRUDE'S GLOVE.

LIPS of a kid-skin deftly sewn,

A scent as through her garden blown,
The tender hue that clothes her dove,
All these, and this is Gerty's glove.

A glove but lately dofft, for look-
It keeps the happy shape it took

Warm from her touch! What gave the glow?
And where's the mould that shaped it so?

It clasp'd the hand, so pure, so sleek,
Where Gerty rests a pensive cheek,
The hand that when the light wind stirs,
Reproves those laughing locks of hers.

Your fingers four, you little thumb !
Were I but you, in days to come

I'd clasp, and kiss,-I'd keep her-go!
And tell her that I told you so.

FREDERICK LOCKER.

ANGELICA.

AIR is my Love, so fair,

I shudder with the sense

Of what a light the world would lose
Could she go hence.

Sweet is my Love, so sweet,

The leaves that, fold on fold,Swathe up the odours of the rose, Less sweetness hold.

True is my Love, so true,
Her heart is mine alone,
The music of its rhythmic beat
Throbs through my own.

Dear is my Love, so dear,
If I but hear her name,

My eyes with tears of rapture swim,
My cheek is flame.

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