Affections are as thoughts to her, The image of themselves by turns,- Of her bright face one glance will trace And of her voice in echoing hearts When death is nigh my latest sigh I fill this cup to one made up A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon. Her health! and would on earth there stood Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name! EDWARD C. PINKNEY. S Ruth. HE stood breast high amid the corn, Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won. On her cheek an autumn flush MY LOVE. Round her eyes her tresses fell— Which were blackest none could tell; And her hat, with shady brim, Sure, I said, heaven did not mean Share my harvest and my home. THOMAS HOOD. My Love. OT as all other women are NOT Is she that to my soul is dear; Her glorious fancies come from far, Beneath the silver evening star; And yet her heart is ever near. Great feelings hath she of her own, God giveth them to her alone, And sweet they are as any tone Wherewith the wind may choose to blow Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair; No simplest duty is forgot; Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her sunshine share. 119 She doeth little kindnesses Which most leave undone, or despise; For naught that sets one heart at ease, And giveth happiness or peace, Is low-esteemed in her eyes. She hath no scorn of common things; And though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart entwines and clings, And patiently she folds her wings To tread the humble paths of earth Blessing she is: God made her so; She is most fair, and thereunto Her life doth rightly harmonize; Feeling or thought that was not true Ne'er made less beautiful the blue Unclouded heaven of her eyes. She is a woman; one in whom The spring-time of her childish years Hath never lost its fresh perfume, Though knowing well that life hath room For many blights and many tears. I love her with a love as still As a broad river's peaceful might, Which by high tower and lowly mill Goes wandering at its own will, And yet doth ever flow aright, THE BEATING OF MY HEART. And on its full, deep breast serene, Like quiet isles, my duties lie; And makes them fresh and fair and green, JAMES R. LOWELL. The Beating of my Heart. I WANDERED by the brook-side, I wandered by the mill; I could not hear the brook flow The noisy wheel was still. But the beating of my own heart I sat beneath the elm-tree: I watched the long, long shade, I did not feel afraid; I listened for a word; But the beating of my own heart He came not,-no, he came not- Each on his golden throne; The evening wind passed by my cheek, But the beating of my own heart 5* 121 |