Bluebells.

Thus hid in dew, and as the dew expired,
Now greener than the green of emeralds,
Fancy, awakened by their loveliness,

Believed one moment that she heard a chime
From these Bluebells, as from the magic reins
Of that green armoured elfin chivalry,

That wont of old, beneath the moon and stars,
In many a glittering squadron, through the woods
And down the glens of Scotia to deploy,
In long succession, while the lady fern
The cavalcade o'ershadowed, and the hind
Or shepherd lonely and belated, viewed
With beating heart, and with the holy sign
Across his bosom drawn unconsciously,
Ride by, the Fairy Queen and all her Court!

WILSON.

95

HOME OF THE BLUEBELLS.

On the swelling downs where sweet air stirs
The bluebells lightly, and where prickly furze
Buds lavish gold.

H, how sweet it is to love!

Ah, how gay is young desire ! And what pleasing pains we prove When we first approach love's fire: Pains of love are sweeter far

Than all other pleasures are.

Sighs which are from lovers blown
Do but gently heave the heart;
E'en the tears they shed alone,

Cure like trickling balm their smart: Lovers when they lose their breath, Bleed away in easy death.

Love and time with reverence use,
Treat them like a parting friend;
Nor the golden gifts refuse

Which in youth sincere they send: For each year their price is more, And they less simple than before.

Ah, how Sweet!

Love, like spring-tides full and high,
Swells in every youthful vein ;
But each tide does less supply,

Till they quite shrink in again.
If a flow in age appear,

'Tis but rain, and runs not clear.

JOHN DRYDEN.

RHYMES.

IF I had but two little wings,
And were a little feathery bird,
To you I'd fly, my dear!
But thoughts like these are idle things,
And I stay here.

But in my sleep to you I fly :

I'm always with you in my sleep!

The world is all one's own.

But then one wakes, and where am I?
All, all alone.

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids;
So I love to wake ere break of day:

For though my sleep be gone,

Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids
And still dreams on.

97

THE DEW NO MORE SHALL WEEP.

HE dew no more shall weep,

The primrose's pale cheek to deck;
The dew no more shall sleep,
Nuzzled in the lily's neck:

Much rather would it tremble here,
And leave them both to be thy tear.

Not the soft gold which

Steals from the amber-weeping tree, Makes sorrow half so rich

As the drops distill'd from thee: Sorrow's best jewels be in these

Caskets, of which heaven keeps the keys.

When sorrow would be seen

In her bright majesty—

For she is a queen !

Then is she dress'd by none but thee: Then, and only then, she wears

Her richest pearls;—I mean, thy tears.