AUX ITALIENS.

To my early love from my future bride

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One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, I traversed the passage; and down at her side I was sitting, a moment more.

My thinking of her, or the music's strain,

Or something which never will be expressed, Had brought her back from the grave again, With the jasmine in her breast.

She is not dead, and she is not wed!

But she loves me now, and she loved me then! And the very first word that her sweet lips said, My heart grew youthful again.

The Marchioness there, of Carabas,

She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still; And but for her . . . well, we'll let that pass; She may marry whomever she will.

But I will marry my own first love,

With her primrose face, for old things are best; And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in my lady's breast.

The world is filled with folly and sin,

And love must cling where it can, I say:

For beauty is easy enough to win;

But one isn't loved every day.

And I think, in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth

and even,

If only the dead could find out when

To come back and be forgiven.

But oh the smell of that jasmine flower!
And oh that music! and oh the way
That voice rang out from the donjon tower,

Non ti scordar di me

Non ti scordar di me!

LORD LYTTON.

DORIS.

I sat with Doris, the shepherd maiden;
Her crook was laden with wreathéd flowers;
I sat and wooed her through sunlight wheeling,
And shadows stealing, for hours and hours.

And she, my Doris, whose lap incloses

Wild summer roses of rare perfume,

The while I sued her, kept hushed, and hearkened Till shades had darkened from glow to gloom.

She touched my shoulder with fearful finger: She said, "We linger; we must not stay; My flock's in danger, my sheep will wander:

Behold them yonder--how far they stray!"

DORIS.

I answered bolder, "Nay, let me hear you,
And still be near you, and still adore:
No wolf nor stranger will touch one yearling;
Ah! stay, my darling, a moment more."

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She whispered, sighing: "There will be sorrow
Beyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day;
My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded,
I shall be scolded, and sent away."

Said I replying; "If they do miss you,

They ought to kiss you when you get home; And well rewarded by friend and neighbor Should be the labor from which you come."

"They might remember,” she answered meekly, "That lambs are weakly and sheep are wild; But if they love me, 'tis none so fervent; I am a servant, and not a child."

Then each hot ember glowed quick within me, And love did win me to swift reply;

"Ah! do but prove me, and none shall blind you, Nor fray, nor find you, until I die."

She blushed and started and stood awaiting,
As if debating in dreams divine;

But I did brave them-I told her plainly
She doubted vainly; she must be mine.

So we twin-hearted, from all the valley
Did rouse and rally the nibbling ewes,
And homeward drave them, we two together,
Through blooming heather and gleaming dews

That simple duty fresh grace did lend her-
My Doris tender, my Doris true;

That I, her warder, did always bless her,
And often press her to take her due.

And now in beauty she fills my dwelling-
With love excelling, and undefiled;

And love doth guard her, both fast and fervent,
No more a servant, nor yet a child.

ARTHUR JOSEPH MUNBY.

THE SILENT LOVER.

Passions are likened best to floods and streams; The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb; So, when affections yield discourse, it seems The bottom is but shallow whence they come. They that are rich in words, in words discover That they are poor in that which makes a lover.

Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart,
The merit of true passion,

With thinking that he feels no smart
That sues for no compassion;

THE SILENT LOVER.

Since if my plaints serve not to approve

The conquest of thy beauty,

It comes not from defect of love,
But from excess of duty.

For knowing that I sue to serve
A saint of such perfection,
As all desire, but none deserve,
A place in her affection,

I rather choose to want relief
Than venture the revealing;
Where glory recommends the grief,
Despair distrusts the healing.

Thus those desires that aim too high
For any mortal lover,

When reason cannot make them die,
Discretion doth them cover.

Yet, when discretion doth bereave
The plaints that they should utter,
Then thy discretion may perceive
That silence is a suitor.

Silence in love bewrays more woe

Than words, though ne'er so witty; A beggar that is dumb, you know, May challenge double pity.