H! were I rich and mighty, I wonder, could I bear To leave you pining there ? Or, if I were an angel, Or, dear, if I were only Would know no pain or smart? LEWIS MORRIS. MISCONCEPTIONS. I. HIS is a spray the Bird clung to, Oh, what a hope beyond measure Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,— So to be singled out, built in, and sung to! II. This is the heart the Queen leant on, Thrilled in a minute erratic, Ere the true bosom she bent on, Meet for love's regal dalmatic, Oh what a fancy ecstatic Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on,- ROBERT BROWNING. ILICET. @HEN first the rose-light creeps into my room My heart awakes, and sighs with its old pain, Renews that wild desire that is my doom. To free myself from him, I rise and go, Down terrace-paths below, Whence watered gardens lead by winding ways To that green haunt and bay-environed maze, Where, in these summer days, She early walks whose soul attracts me so. Fool and forgetful! Shall I cool desire To his own brand for setting hearts on fire? C |