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To serve me then Fate seemed inclined,
No more we look'd nor sigh'd,
The maid whose arm was ever kind,
Is now my gentle bride,

At sweet sundown we often stray,

Across that meadow, blooming fair; Now envious tongues may truly say, "Each knows the other will be there."


I saw thee 'mid the flowers,
None could with thee compare,
The glowing rose grew paler,
The lily grew less fair,

Amid the stars resplendent,

Thou dost most light impart, 'Mid all the songs of nature,

The sweetest song thou art.

And when from earth departed,
With angels bliss to share,
Thou'lt be my own beloved,
The fairest angel there.

M. BARNETT. From the German.




What shall I say to thee, heart of my heart, How shall I prove thee my passion and pain, How can I tell thee that now we must part,

Knowing I never shall see thee again. How can I leave thee and bid thee to go, Seeing I love thee and worship thee so?

Nay do not speak to me heart of my heart,
Hold me not thus to thy bosom again,
Lest I forget that 'tis better to part,

Lest all our farewells be uttered in vain.
Take thy lips from me, love, take them away,
Lest in my anguish I bid thee to stay.

When it is over when thou art gone

Past all entreaty, all yielding and prayer; When thou art wand'ring in darkness alone,

Why could I leave thee to doubt and despair, Ask thine own heart and then thou shalt know 'Tis that I love thee and worship thee so. FREDERIC WEATHERLY.


Each song I send thee is a bridge,
Built by thy happy lover,-
A golden bridge, by which my love
To thee, sweet child, comes over

And all my dreams have angel-wings,
Made up of smiles and sighing;
Lighter than air, on which my love
To thee, dear heart, comes flying.



Love is a sickness full of woes,
All remedies refusing;

A plant that with most cutting grows,
Most barren with best using
Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries,
Hey, ho!

Love is a torment of the mind,
A tempest everlasting;
And Jove hath made it of a kind
Not well, nor full, nor fasting.
Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries,
Hey, ho!



I love, and he loves me again,
Yet dare I not tell who;


For if the nymphs should know my swain, I fear they'd love him too;

Yet if it be not known,

The pleasure is as good as none,

For that's a narrow joy is but our own.

I'll tell, that if they be not glad,
They yet may envy me;
But then if I grow jealous mad,
And of them pitied be,

It were a plague 'bove scorn,

And yet it cannot be forlorn,

Unless my heart would as my thought be torn.

He is, if they can find him, fair,
And fresh and fragrant too,
As summer's sky, or purged air,
And looks as lilies do


That are this morning blown;

Yet, yet I doubt he is not known,

And fear much more, that more of him be shown.

But he hath eyes so round and bright,
As make away my doubt,

Where Love may all his torches light
Though Hate had put them out;
But then to increase my fears,

What nymph so'er his voice but hears,
Will be my rival, though she have but ears.

I'll tell no more, and yet I love,
And he loves me; yet no
One unbecoming thought doth move
From either heart I know;

But so exempt from blame,

As it would be to each a fame,

If love or fear would let me tell his name.



Why I am not kind to-day?
Why, my friend, what's this you say?
Pray, can you recall to mind
That I ever have been kind?
But if it were ever so,
"Tis forgotten, long ago!
Or, if not forgotten yet,
From this hour I will forget!



I sat above the meadow,
Beneath the linden's shadow,

And held my darling's hand;
The leaves all still and dreaming,
The sun's rays softly streaming,
Upon the quiet land.

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