Affections are as thoughts to her,
The measures of her hours;
Her feelings have the fragrancy,
The freshness of young flowers;
And lovely passions, changing oft.
So fill her, she appears

The image of themselves by turns,-
The idol of past years!

Of her bright face one glance will trace
A picture on the brain;

And of her voice in echoing hearts
A sound must long remain:
But memory, such as mine of her,
So very much endears,

When death is nigh my latest sigh
Will not be life's, but hers.

I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,

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
Deeply ripened;--such a blush
In the midst of brown was born.
Like red poppies grown with corn.

MY LOVE.

Round her eyes her tresses fell—

Which were blackest none could tell;
But long lashes veiled a light
That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim ;—
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks.

Sure, I said, heaven did not mean
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean;
Lay thy sheaf adown, and come,

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,
Which lesser souls may never know;

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;
And deeds of week-day holiness
Fall from her noiseless as the snow;
Nor hath she ever chanced to know
That aught were easier than to bless.

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;
It flows around them and between,

And makes them fresh and fair and green,
Sweet homes wherein to live and die.

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.
There was no burr of grasshopper,
No chirp of any bird;

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm-tree:

I watched the long, long shade,
And, as it grew still longer,

I did not feel afraid;
For I listened for a footfall,

I listened for a word;

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

He came not,-no, he came not-
The night came on alone.-
The little stars sat one by one,

Each on his golden throne;

The evening wind passed by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirred;

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

5*

121

Fast silent tears were flowing,
When something stood behind ·
A hand was on my shoulder-
I knew its touch was kind;
It drew me nearer—nearer—
We did not speak one word;
For the beating of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.