Like Raleigh-for her dainty tread,
When ways are miry-I could spread
My cloak, but, there's my heart instead.

Ah, Neighbour, you will never know
Why 'tis my step is quickened so;
Nor what the prayer I murmur low.

I see you 'mid your flowers at morn,
Fresh as the rosebud newly born;
I marvel, can you have a thorn?

If so, 'twere sweet to lean one's breast
Against it, and, the more it prest,
Sing like the Bird that sorrow hath blest.

I hear you sing! And thro' me Spring
Doth musically ripple and ring;

Little you think I'm listening!

You know not, dear, how dear you be;
All dearer for the secrecy:

Nothing, and yet a world to me.

So near, too! you could hear me sigh,

Or see my case with half an eye;

But must not.

There are reasons why.

GERALD MASSEY.

BLANCHE.

ERE I a breath of summer air,

I'd wander over bank and lea,
And bring, from every wild-flower there,
Sweet messages of love to thee.

Were I a stream, with low soft song,

I'd woo thee to some green retreat, And linger as I pass'd along,

In bliss to murmur at thy feet.

Were I a bird with mellow throat,

I would forsake the pleasant grove, And tune for thee the softest note That music dedicates to love.

For thee my daily wishes burn;
In dreams thy angel face I see ;
I bid my thoughts to others turn,
My thoughts unbidden turn to thee.

Such love thyself mayst live to prove ;
Yet thine will be unmixed with pain,
For never, surely, canst thou love,
But thou wilt be beloved again.

JAMES HEDDERWICK.

NO AND YES.

F I could choose my paradise,

And please myself with choice of bliss, Then I would have your soft blue eyes

And rosy little mouth to kiss ; Your lips, as smooth and tender, child, As rose-leaves in a coppice wild.

If fate bade choose some sweet unrest,
To weave my troubled life a snare,
Then I would say "her maiden breast,
And golden ripple of her hair;"
And weep amid those tresses, child,
Contented to be thus beguiled.

L

VE within the lover's breast
Burns like Hesper in the West,
O'er the ashes of the sun,

Till the day and night are done;
Then when dawn drives up his car-
Lo! it is the morning star.

Love thy love pours down on mine
As the sunlight on the vine,
As the snow rill on the vale,

As the salt breeze on the sail;
As the song unto the bird
On my lips thy name is heard.

As a dewdrop on the rose
In thy heart my passion glows;
As a skylark to the sky,
Up into thy breast I fly;
As a sea-shell of the sea
Ever shall I sing of thee.

GEORGE MEREDITH.