1833.

"It Was Not in the Winter"

And yet I cease not to behold
The love-light in her eye:

Her very frowns are fairer far

Than smiles of other maidens are.

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Hartley Coleridge.

"IT WAS NOT IN THE WINTER"

Ir was not in the winter
Our loving lot was cast;

It was the time of roses,

We pluck'd them as we pass'd.

That churlish season never frown'd

On early lovers yet:

Oh, no-the world was newly crown'd
With flowers when first we met!

T was twilight, and I bade you go,
But still you held me fast;

It was the time of roses,

We pluck'd them as we pass'd.

What else could peer thy glowing cheek,

That tears began to stud?

And when I ask'd the like of Love,

You snatch'd a damask bud;

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1827.

And op'd it to the dainty core,

Still glowing to the last.
It was the time of roses,

We pluck'd them as we pass'd.

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Thomas Hood.

FAIR INES

O SAW ye not fair Ines?
She's gone into the West,
To dazzle when the sun is down,
And rob the world of rest:
She took our daylight with her,
The smiles that we love best,

With morning blushes on her cheek,
And pearls upon her breast.

O turn again, fair Ines,

Before the fall of night,

For fear the Moon should shine alone,

And stars unrivall'd bright;

And blessed will the lover be

That walks beneath their light,

And breathes the love against thy cheek

I dare not even write!

Would I had been, fair Ines,

That gallant cavalier,

Who rode so gaily by thy side,

And whisper'd thee so near!

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16

1823.

Fair Ines

Were there no bonny dames at home,

Or no true lovers here,

That he should cross the seas to win

The dearest of the dear?

I saw thee, lovely Ines,

Descend along the shore,
With bands of noble gentlemen,
And banners waved before;

And gentle youth and maidens gay,
And snowy plumes they wore:

It would have been a beauteous dream,—
If it had been no more!

Alas, alas! fair Ines,

She went away with song,

With Music waiting on her steps,
And shoutings of the throng;

But some were sad, and felt no mirth,
But only Music's wrong,

In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,
To her you've loved so long.

Farewell, farewell, fair Ines!
That vessel never bore

So fair a lady on its deck,

Nor danced so light before,—

Alas for pleasure on the sea,

And sorrow on the shore!

The smile that bless'd one lover's heart

Has broken many more!

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48

Thomas Hood.

SONG

SWEET in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers,

Lull'd by the faint breezes sighing through

her hair;

Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbers Breathed to my sad lute 'mid the lonely air. 4

Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming To wind round the willow banks that lure him from above:

O that in tears, from my rocky prison streaming, I too could glide to the bower of my love!

Ah! where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her,

Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay, Listening, like the dove, while the fountains

echo round her,

To her lost mate's call in the forests far

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away.

Come then, my bird! For the peace thou ever

bearest,

Still Heaven's messenger of comfort to me

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At the Church Gate

Come-this fond bosom, O faithfullest and fairest, Bleeds with its death-wound, its wound of

The minster bell tolls out

Above the city's rout,

And noise and humming;

They 've hushed the minster bell;
The organ 'gins to swell;

She 's coming, she 's coming!

My lady comes at last,

Timid and stepping fast,

And hastening hither,

With modest eyes downcast;

She comes, she 's here, she 's past!
May Heaven go with her!

Kneel undisturbed, fair saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and duly;

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