And in blossomed vale and grove
Every shepherd knelt to love.

Then a rosy, dimpled cheek,
And a blue eye, fond and meek;
And a ringlet-wreathen brow,
Like hyacinths on a bed of snow:
And a low voice, silver sweet,
From a lip without deceit;
Only those the hearts could move
Of the simple swains to love.

But that time is gone and past,
Can the summer always last?
And the swains are wiser grown,
And the heart is turned to stone,
And the maiden's rose may wither;
Cupid's fled, no man knows whither.
But another Cupid's come,
With a brow of care and gloom:
Fixed upon the earthly mould,
Thinking of the sullen gold;
In his hand the bow no more,
At his back the household store,
That the bridal gold must buy:
Useless now the smile and sigh:
But he wears the pinion still,
Flying at the sight of ill.

O, for the old true-love time,
When the world was in its prime!

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

[1785-1806.]

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.

Come, press my lips, and lie with

me

Beneath the lowly alder-tree,

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, And not a care shall dare intrude, To break the marble solitude So peaceful and so deep.

And hark! the wind-god, as he flies,
Moans hollow in the forest trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze,
Mysterious music dies.

Sweet flower! that requiem wild is
mine,

It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf altar of the dead;
My grave shall be in yon lone spot,
Where as I lie, by all forgot,

A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my
ashes shed.

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.

MILD offspring of a dark and sullen

sire!

Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Was nursed in whirling storms, And cradled in the winds.

Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway,

And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,

Thee on this bank he threw

To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the

year,

bloom

On January's front severe,

And o'er the wintry desert drear
To waft thy waste perfume!
Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow;
And as I twine the mournful wreath,
I'll weave a melancholy song:
And sweet the strain shall be and long,
The melody of death.

Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell
With the pale corpse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom
A sweet decaying smell.

Unnoticed and alone,

It was my guide, my light, my all,

It bade my dark forebodings cease;

93

But the shadows of eve that encompass

the gloom,

The abode of the dead and the place of

the tomb.

Shall we build to Ambition? O, no! Affrighted, he shrinketh away;

For, see! they would pin him below,

In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay,

To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To Beauty? ah, no!-she forgets The charms which she wielded beforeNor knows the foul worm that he frets

The skin which but yesterday fools could adore,

For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of

Pride

The trappings which dizen the proud?
Alas! they are all laid aside;
And here's neither dress nor adornment
allowed,

thrall,

It led me to the port of peace.

Now safely moored, my perils o'er,
I'll sing, first in night's diadem,
Forever and forevermore

The Star!-the Star of Bethlehem!

HERBERT KNOWLES.

[1798-1827.]

LINES WRITTEN IN RICHMOND

CHURCHYARD, YORKSHIRE.

"It is good for us to be here; if thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles; one for thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias." MATT. xvii. 4.

METHINKS it is good to be here;

If thou wilt, let us build - but for whom?

Nor Elias nor Moses appear,

of the shroud.

Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, Which compassion itself could relieve!

Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear,

Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here!

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow?

Ah, no! for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow!

Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown!

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,

And look for the sleepers around us to rise; The second to Faith, which insures it fulfilled;

And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice,

Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies.