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It's plain that her Cupid has two pairs of wings;
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
Her love and my love are different things;

And I-am left all alone!

I brought her one morning, a rose for her brow; Where is she gone, where is she gone?

She told me such honors were never worn now: And I-am left all alone!

But I saw her at night with a rose in her hair, And I guess who it came from-of course I don't


We all know that girls are as false as they're fair;

Where is she gone, where is she gone? I'm sure the lieutenant's a horrible beau:

And I-am left all alone!

Whenever we go on the Downs for a ride,—
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
She looks for another to trot by her side;
And I-am left all alone!

And whenever I take her downstairs from a


She nods to some puppy to put on her shawl; I'm a peaceable man, and I don't like a brawl;Where is she gone, where is she gone?

But I'd give a trifle to horsewhip them all,

And I-am left all alone!


She tells me her mother belongs to the sect,

Where is she gone, where is she gone? Which holds that all waltzing is quite incorrect; And I-am left all alone!

But a fire's in my heart and a fire's in my brain, When she waltzes away with Sir Phelim O'Shane; I don't think I ever can ask her again:

Where is she gone, where is she gone? And Lord! since the summer she's grown very


And I-am left all alone!

She said that she liked me a twelvemonth ago, Where is she gone, where is she gone?

And how should I guess that she'd torture me so?
And I-am left all alone!

Some day she'll find out it was not very wise
To laugh at the breath of a true lover's sighs;
After all, Fanny Myrtle is not such a prize :
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
Louisa Dalrymple has exquisite eyes;
And I'll be no longer alone!



But did I say I loved him not! O God!
If I said thus, I say since truth was truth


There never was a falsehood half so false. say I love him, and I say beside That but to say I love him is as nothing; 'Tis but a tithe and scantling of the truth! And oh how much I love him what can tell? Not words, not tears,-heaven only knows how


And every evening when I say my prayers,
I pray to be forgiven for the sin,
Of loving aught on earth with such a love!


In the night I dreamed of you;
All the place was filled
With your presence; in my heart
The strife was stilled!

All night I have dreamed of you,
Now the morn is gray,-
How shall I arise and face
The empty day?



Was it for this we met three years ago:

Took hands, spake low, sat side by side, and heard



The sleeping trees beneath us touched and stirred
By some mild twilight wind as soft as snow,
And with the sun's last kisses still aglow?
Was it for this the end was so deferred?

For this thy lips at length let through the word
That saved my soul, as all Love's angels know?
Was it for this, that sweet word being said,
We kissed and clung together in our bliss
And walked within Love's sunlight and Love's

Was it for this-to dwell henceforth apart,

One housed with death, and one with beggared heart?

Nay, surely, love, it was for more than this. PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.


She was only a woman, famished for loving,
Mad with devotion, and such slight things;
And he was a very great musician,

And used to finger his fiddle-strings.

Her heart's sweet gamut is cracking and breaking For a look, for a touch,—for such slight things; But he's such a very great musician

Grimacing and fingering his fiddle-strings. THEOPHILE MANZIALI.

Rose kissed me to-day,

Will she kiss me to-morrow?
Let it be as it may,
Rose kissed me to-day.
But the pleasure gives way
To a savor of sorrow.
Rose kissed me to-day—

Will she kiss me to-morrow?



Kissing her hair I sat against her feet,

Wove and unwove it, wound and found it sweet; Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes,

Deep as deep flowers and dreamy like dim skies; With her own tresses bound and found her fair, Kissing her hair.

Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me,
Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea;
What pain could get between my face and hers?
What new sweet thing would love not relish

Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me there, Kissing her hair?


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