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In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the Robin's

breast;

In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another

crest ;

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove ; In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts

of love.

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for

one so young, And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance

hung

And I said, “My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth

to me,

Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee."

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a colour and a

light, As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern

night.

And she turn'd- her bosom shaken with a sudden storm

of sighsAll the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes

Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do

me wrong;” Saying, “ Dost thou love me, cousin ? ” weeping, “ I have

loved thee long."

Love took up the glass of Time, and turn’d it in his

glowing hands; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the

chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music

out of sight.

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses

ring, And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fullness of

the Spring.

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Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately

ships, And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips.

O my cousin, shallow-hearted ! O my Amy, mine no

more !

O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, barren

shore !

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have

sung, Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish

tongue !

Is it well to wish thee happy ?-having known me-to

decline On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than

mine!

Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by day, What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathise

with clay.

As the husband is, the wife is : thou art mated with a

clown, And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag

thee down.

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its

novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his

horse.

What is this ? his eyes are heavy: think not they are

glazed with wine. Go to him: it is thy duty: kiss him: take his hand in thine.

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought : Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy

lighter thought.

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to under

stand

Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with

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Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's

disgrace, Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace.

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength

of youth ! Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living

truth!

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's

rule ! Cursed be the gold that gilds the straitend forehead of

the fool!

Well-'tis well that I should bluster !-Hadst thou less

unworthy proved Would to God-for I had loved thee more than ever

wife was loved.

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but

bitter fruit ?

I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the

root.

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