JEAN INGELOW.
1830-

EXPECTING.

I lean'd out of window, I smell'd the white clover;
Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate :
Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover :-
Hush, nightingale! hush; O sweet nightingale! wait,
Till I listen and hear
If a step draweth near!
For my Love he is late.

The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer,
A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree,
The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer :
To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see?
Let the star-clusters glow,

Let the sweet waters flow,
And cross quickly to me!

You night-moths that hover where honey brims over
From sycamore blossoms, or settle, or sleep!

You glow-worms,

shine out and the pathway discover

To him that comes darkling along the rough steep!

Ah, my sailor! make haste!

For the time runs to waste
And my love lieth deep.

Too deep for swift telling: and yet, my one lover!

I've conn'd thee an answer, it waits thee to-night.
By the sycamore pass'd he and through the white clover,-
Then all the sweet speech I had fashion'd took flight.

But I'll love him more, more,

Than e'er wife loved before,
Be the days dark or bright.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

1833

THE DOORSTEP.

The conference meeting through at last,
We boys around the vestry waited
To see the girls come tripping past,
Like snow-birds willing to be mated.

Not braver he that leaps the wall
By level musket-flashes bitten,
Than I, who stepp'd before them all
Who long'd to see me get the mitten.

But no! she blush'd and took my arm :
We let the old folks have the highway,
And started tow'rd the Maple Farm
Along a kind of lover's by-way.

I can't remember what we said,-
'Twas nothing worth a song or story;
Yet that rude path by which we sped
Seem'd all transform'd and in a glory.

The snow was crisp beneath our feet,

The moon was full, the fields were gleaming; By hood and tippet shelter'd sweet,

Her face with youth and health was beaming.

The little hand outside her muff

(O sculptor! if you could but mould it) So lightly touch'd my jacket-cuff,

To keep it warm I had to hold it.

To have her there with me alone,

'Twas love and fear and triumph blended : At last we reach'd the foot-worn stone Where that delicious journey ended.

The old folks too were almost home :
Her dimpled hand the latches finger'd,
We heard the voices nearer come,

Yet on the doorstep still we linger'd.

She shook her ringlets from her hood,

And with a 66 Thank you, Ned!" dissembled; But yet I knew she understood

With what a daring wish I trembled.

A cloud pass'd kindly overhead,

The moon was slyly peeping through it,

Yet hid its face, as if it said

66 Come, now or never do it! do it!"

My lips till then had only known

The kiss of mother and of sister,—

But somehow, full upon her own

Sweet rosy darling mouth-I kiss'd her.

Perhaps 'twas boyish love: yet still,
O listless woman! weary lover!

To feel once more that fresh wild thrill
I'd give But who can live youth over?

TOUJOURS AMOUR.

Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin!
At what age does love begin?
Your blue eyes have scarcely seen
Summers three, my fairy queen!
But a miracle of sweets,
Soft approaches, sly retreats,
Show the little archer there,

Hidden in your pretty hair :
When didst learn a heart to win?

Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin!

"O!" the rosy lips reply,"I can't tell you if I try :

'Tis so long I can't remember,—
Ask some younger lass than I!"

Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face!
Do your heart and head keep pace ?
When does hoary love expire?
When do frosts put out the fire?
Can its embers burn below
All that chill December snow?
Care you still soft hands to press,
Bonny heads to smooth and bless?
When does Love give up the chase?
Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face!

"Ah!" the wise old lips reply,-
"Youth may pass and strength may die,

But of Love I can't foretoken

Ask some older sage than I.”

MINE.

Thou art mine, thou hast given thy word,
Close, close in my arms thou art clinging;
Alone for my ear thou art singing

A song which no stranger hath heard :
But afar from me yet, like a bird,

Thy soul in some region unstirr'd
On its mystical circuit is winging.

Thou art mine, I have made thee mine own,—
Henceforth we are mingled for ever:

But in vain, all in vain I endeavour,

Though round thee my garlands are thrown

And thou yieldest thy lips and thy zone,

To master the spell that alone

My hold on thy being can sever.

Thou art mine, thou hast come unto me :
But thy soul, when I strive to be near it,
The innermost fold of thy spirit,

Is as far from my grasp, is as free,
As the stars from the mountain-tops be,
As the pearl in the depths of the sea
From the portionless king who would wear it.

GEORGE ARNOLD.

1834-1865.

GLORIA.

IN TIME OF WAR.

The laurels shine in the morning sun,
The tall grass shakes its glittering spears,
And the webs the spiders last night spun
Are threaded with pearly tears.

At peace with the world and all therein,
I walk in the fields this summer morn:
What should I know of sorrow or sin
Among the laurels and corn?

But hark! through the corn a murmur comes,-
'Tis growing, 'tis swelling, it rises high :
The thunder of guns and the roll of drums,
And an army marching by.

Away with the sloth of peace and ease!

'Tis a nation's voice that seems to call : Who cares for aught in times like these Save to win, or else to fall?

Farewell, O shining laurels ! now,

I go with the army marching by:

Your leaves, should I win, may deck my brow,— Or my bier, if I should die.