PANSIE.

AME, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet,
In white, to find her lover.

The grass grew proud beneath her feet,
The green elm leaves above her-
Meet we no angels, Pansie?

She said, "We meet no angels now,"

And soft lights streamed upon her;
And with white hand she touched a bough,
She did it that great honour-

What, meet no angels, Pansie?

Oh sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes,
Down-dropp'd brown eyes so tender;

Then what, said I? gallant replies
Seem flattery and offend her;
But-meet no angels, Pansie?

THOMAS ASHE.

B

EVE Y

UD and leaflet, opening slowly,

Woo'd with tears by winds of Spring, Now, of June persuaded wholly, Perfumes, flow'rs, and shadows bring.

Evey, in the linden-alley,

All alone I met to-day,

Tripping to the sunny valley

Spread across with new-mown hay.

Brown her soft curls, sunbeam-sainted,
Golden, in the wavering flush ;
Darker brown her eyes are, painted

Eye and fringe with one soft brush.

Through the leaves a careless comer,
Never nymph of fount or tree
Could have press'd the floor of summer
With a lighter foot than she.

Can this broad hat, fasten'd under
With a bright blue ribbon's flow,
Change my pet so much, I wonder,
Of a month or two ago?

Half too changed to speak I thought her,
Till the pictured silence broke,
Sweet and clear as dropping water,
Into words she sung or spoke.

Few her words; yet, like a sister,
Trustfully she look'd and smiled;
'Twas but in my soul I kiss'd her
As I used to kiss the child.

Shadows, which are not of sadness,

Touch her eyes, and brow above. As pale wild roses dream of redness, Dreams her innocent heart of love.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

SERENADE.

I.

LEEP, lady fair!

Oh but thy couch should be

The fleeciest cloudlet of the summer air,
The softest billow of the summer sea ;-
Or that unforsaken rest

I keep warm in my true breast,
For thee, for thee !

Dream, lady sweet!

II.

The moon and planets bright

Now thread thy slumbers with unsounding feet, Now drench thy fancies with unshaped delight:

As my spirit fain would steep Thine, when only half asleep, This night, this night!

III.

Wake, lady mine!

See! are awake the flowers,

Their opening cusps bright tipped with dewy wine, And, buoyed on song, the moist lark trills and towers. Wake! If thou must be away

Nightly, let at least the day

Be ours, be ours!

ALFRED AUSTIN.