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H! were I rich and mighty,
With store of gems and gold,
And you, a beggar at my gate,
Lay starving in the cold;

I wonder, could I bear

To leave you pining there ?

Or, if I were an angel,
And you an earth-born thing,
Beseeching me to touch you
In rising with my wing;
I wonder should I soar
Aloft, nor heed you more?

Or, dear, if I were only
A maiden cold and sweet,
And you, a humble lover,
Sighed vainly at my feet;
I wonder if my heart

Would know no pain or smart?

LEWIS MORRIS.

MISCONCEPTIONS.

I.

HIS is a spray the Bird clung to,
Making it blossom with pleasure,
Ere the high tree-top she sprung to,
Fit for her nest and her treasure.

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,-
Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on!

ROBERT BROWNING.

ILICET.

@HEN first the rose-light creeps into my room
And stirs the liquid gloom,

My heart awakes, and sighs with its old pain,
Its ringing pulses jar with their old strain,
And Love, my lord and bane,

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
By looking at those lovely eyes of hers,
That passionate Love prefers

To his own brand for setting hearts on fire?

C

O fool! to dream that what began with pain
Could end it! Rather, noiseless, let me fly
Out of her world, and die,

Where hopeless longing knows that all is vain.

EDMUND W. GOSSE.

GATHERED ROSES.

NLY a bee made prisoner,

Caught in a gathered rose !

Was he not 'ware, a flower so fair
For the first gatherer grows?

Only a heart made prisoner,

Going out free no more!

Was he not 'ware, a face so fair

Must have been gathered before?

F. W. BOURDILLON.

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