PASSAGES FROM "DON JUAN." 149

Into each other—and beholding this,
Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss;

A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth and love,
And beauty, all concentrating like rays
Into one focus, kindled from above:

Such kisses as belong to early days, Where heart, and soul, and sense in concert move, And the blood's lava, and the pulse a blaze, Each kiss a heart-quake,-for a kiss's strength, I think, it must be reckoned by its length.

Alas! the love of woman! it is known

To be a lovely and a fearful thing;
For all of theirs upon that die is thrown,

And if 'tis lost, life hath no more to bring
To them, but mockeries of the past alone,

And their revenge is as the tiger's spring, Deadly, and quick, and crushing, yet, as real Torture is theirs, what they inflict they feel.

In her first passion woman loves her lover,
In all the others all she loves is love,
Which grows a habit she can ne'er get over,
And fits her closely-like an easy glove,

As you may find, whene'er you like to prove her;
One man alone at first her heart can move:

She then prefers him in the plural number,
Not finding that the additions much encumber.
LORD BYRON.

HOW MUCH.

Ask not how much I love thee:
Do not question why,

I have told thee the tale
In the evening pale,

With a tear and a sigh.

I told thee, when Love was hopeless-
But now he is wild and sings-

That the stars above

Shine ever on love,

Though they frown on the fate of kings.

O, a king would have loved and left thee,
And away thy sweet love cast;

But I am thine while the stars shall shine,
To the last,-to the last!

BARRY CORNWALL (PROCTER)

CUPID MISTAKEN.

As afternoon, one summer day,
Venus stood bathing in the river,
Cupid a-shooting went that way,

New-strung his bow, new-filled his quiver.

WON'T YOU?

With skill he chose his sharpest dart,
With all his might his bow he drew;
Swift to his beauteous parent's heart
The too well-guided arrow flew.

"I faint! I die!” the goddess cried.

"O cruel, couldst thou find no other To wreck thy spleen on? Parricide! Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother."

151

Poor Cupid, sobbing, scarce could speak, "Indeed, mamma, I did not know ye. Alas! how easy my mistake,

I took you for your likeness Cloë.” MATTHEW PRIOR.

WON'T YOU?

Do you remember when you heard
My lips breathe love's faltering word?
You do, sweet-don't you?

When, having wandered all the day, Linked arm in arm, I dared to say, "You'll love me-won't you?"

And when you blushed and could not speak,
I fondly kissed your glowing cheek,
Did that affront you?

Oh, surely not-your eye exprest
No wrath-but said, perhaps in jest,
"You'll love me-won't you?"

I'm sure my eyes replied, "I will,"
And you believe that promice still.
You do, sweet-don't you?
Yes, yes! when age has made our eyes
Unfit for questions or replies,

You'll love me-wont you?

THOMAS H. BAYLY.

DOLCINO TO MARGARET.

The world goes up and the world goes down,
And the sunshine follows the rain,

And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's frown
Can never come over again,

Sweet wife,

No, never come over again.

For woman is warm though man be cold,
And the night will follow the day,

Till the heart which at even was weary and old
Can rise in the morning gay,

Sweet wife,

To its work in the morning gay.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

WHERE IS MISS MYRTLE? 153

HOW MANY TIMES.

How many times do I love thee, dear?
Tell me how many thoughts there be
In the atmosphere

Of a new-fall'n year,

Whose white and sable hours appear
The latest flake of Eternity;
So many times do I love thee, dear.

How many times do I love, again?
Tell me how many beads there are
In a silver chain

Of the evening rain,

Unraveled from the tumbling main,
And threading the eye of a yellow star;
So many times do I love again.

THOMAS LOVELL BEDOES.

WHERE IS MISS MYRTLE?

Where is Miss Myrtle? can any one tell?

Where is she gone, where is she gone? She flirts with another, I know very well; And I-am left all alone!

She flys to the window when Arundel rings; She's all over smiles when Lord Archibald

sings,