He took her fancy when he came,
He took her hand, he took a kiss,

He took no notice of the shame

That glowed her happy cheek at this.

He took to come of afternoons,

He took an oath he'd ne'er deceive, He took her master's silver spoons, And after that he took his leave.

THOMAS HOOD THE YOUNGER. Poems, Humorous and Pathetic. (Chatto and Windus) [By kind permission of the Publishers.]

LOVE comes unseen,-we only see it go. AUSTIN DOBSON. Vignettes in Rhyme. (H. King and Co.)

NONE but Death loves the lips by Love forsaken. AUSTIN DOBSON.

Vignettes in Rhyme. (H. King and Co.)

YES, wine is good, but Love is better still
For it assails the pulses of the heart
With swift yet soft suffusion. Love doth fill
Life's vacant hollows, worse than any smart,

RETROSPECT.

[EXTRACT]

THERE is no life so commonplace
But, if you search it, you shall find
A secret chamber of the mind,
Enshrining some fair sainted face,
Where worship still is done with tears
That freshen the grey dusky years.

That was its living water once,

Sweet-singing ever by the way,

And gleaming through its darkest day,―
The glory of its young Romance :

But O, the desert wastes that spread
Where Love lives on, and Hope is dead!
WALTER C. SMITH.
Raban; or, Life Splinters. (J. Maclehose, Glasgow.)
[By kind permission of the Author and the Publisher.]

VIOLET eyes and golden hair

Trap a heart, it hath no chances, Tangled in the glossy snare,

Blinded by the timid glances; And so many ways they shape it, Hardly may the heart escape it; If the victim seek to fly them, Eyes will plead, who can deny them? Fear o'ercome, if he grow bold, Eyes will be so icy cold

He must court the danger, wiling,
To win them back to warmth and smiling;
Vainly shall he seek for grace
At the fair tormentor's face,
She will hold without remorse,
Hold her prey by art or force;
Then perchance she'll use it kindly,
Or perchance she'll lose it blindly,
Or she'll practise slight and wronging
Till the poor heart breaks for longing;
What cares she? she had her sport,
There are others to be caught!

But, and if another trapper

Takes the little heart that lies
Hidden in the violet eyes
From the cloakings that enwrap her;
If he wear her in his breast,
It may be he will have rest;
There is cause to fear in sooth,
She may work him mickle ruth;
She may weary or deceive him,

She may hold him light and leave him,
And his own heart then must go
After, if he will or no;
Wheresoever she may be,

Must he follow, though she flee;
Though she hide her in the tomb,
He must follow, 'tis his doom;
When a man's true heart is given
From its mate 'tis vainly riven,
Never shall it come again,
They can never more be twain.

B. M. RANKING.
Fair Rosamond. (Provost.)

AH! years may come, and years may bring
The truth that is not bliss,
But will they bring another thing
That will compare with this?

A. H. CLOUGH. Poems. (Macmillan.)

THE MOON'S MINION. (From the Prose of C. Baudelaire.) THINE eyes are like the sea, my dear, The wand'ring waters, green and grey; Thine eyes are wonderful and clear,

And deep, and deadly, even as they;

The spirit of the changeful sea

Informs thine eyes at night and noon, She sways the tides, and the heart of thee, The mystic, sad, capricious Moon! The Moon came down the shining stair Of clouds that fleck the summer sky, She kissed thee, saying, "Child, be fair, And madden men's hearts, even as I; Thou shalt love all things strange and sweet, That know me and are known of me;

The lover thou shalt never meet,

The land where thou shalt never be !"

She held thee in her chill embrace,

She kissed thee with cold lips divine, She left her pallor on thy face,

That mystic ivory face of thine; And now I sit beside thy feet,

And all my heart is far from thee, Dreaming of her I shall not meet, And of the land I shall not see!

A. LANG. XXII Ballades in Blue China. (Kegan Paul.)

A DREAM.

:

BENEATH the loveliest dream there coils a fear :Last night came she whose eyes are memories now,

Her far-off gaze seemed all-forgetful how Love dimmed them once; so calm they shone and clear.

"Sorrow (I said) hath made me old, my dear;

'Tis I, indeed, but grief doth change the brow,―

A love like mine a seraph's neck might bow,Vigils like mine would blanch an angel's hair."

Ah, then I saw, I saw the sweet lips move!

I saw the love-mists thickening in her eyes,I heard the wordless melodies of love

Like murmur of dreaming brooks in Paradise ; And, when upon my neck she fell, my dove,

I knew her hair though heavy of amaranthspice.

THEODORE WATTS.

BROWN EYES OR BLUE EYES.

BROWN eyes, or blue eyes, hazel or grey,
What are the eyes that I drink to, to-day?
Some seem to mock at us, some seem to frown-
Some, when we talk, cast their drooping lids down.
No matter their colour, I drink to the eyes

That weep when I weep, when I laugh laugh replies!

Merry or scornful, angry or kind,

I love ev'ry mood, so the eyes be not blind!

For man's mood is changeful, and what should he do,

If woman's, in sympathy, did not change too?
No matter their colour, I drink to the eyes

That weep when I weep, when I laugh laugh replies!

Brown eyes, or grey eyes, hazel or blue,

We watch for then, live for them, die for them too!

Stars of our morning, sunbeams through life,
Beacons in darkness, and danger, and strife.
No matter their colour, I drink to the eyes
That weep when I weep, when I laugh laugh
replies!

HAMILTON AÏDÉ.

Songs without Music. (D. Bogue.)

VOLUPSA'S HYMN.

(After an interview with her lover, in which she sees that his love is departing from her.)

"Yet comes a moment that her pangs allays:
She sings to God, and, singing to Him, prays :'

THE heavenly choirs to Thee belong,
Thou hearkenest to their holy song

Whose melody is Thine.
Then listen to a maiden's prayer :
The throbbings of her anguish bear,
That beat against Thy shrine.
Though far he wander from my heart,
Let not his love from me depart;

For Thou art distant too,
And fetchest me when I would pray,
And teachest me what words to say,

With contrite heart and true.

THOMAS TUSser.

THE OLD STORY OVER AGAIN.

WHEN I was a maid,

Nor of lovers afraid,

My mother cried, "Girl, never listen to men.”
Her lectures were long,

But I thought her quite wrong,

And said I, "Mother, whom should I listen to, then?"

Now teaching, in turn,

What I never could learn,

I find, like my mother, my lessons all vain ; Men ever deceive,

Silly maidens believe,

And still 'tis the old story over again.

So humbly they woo,

What can poor maidens do,

But keep them alive when they swear they must die?

Ah! who can forbear,

As they weep in despair,

Their crocodile tears in compassion to dry?

Yet, wedded at last,

When the honeymoon's past,

The lovers forsake us, the husbands remain ; Our vanity's check'd,

And we ne'er can expect

They will tell us the old story over again.

JAMES KENNY.

"WITH every pleasing, every prudent part, Say, what can Chloe want?"-She wants a heart. ALEXANDER POPE.

MY LOVE AND MY HEART. Oн, the days were ever shiny When I ran to meet my love; When I press'd her hand so tiny

Through her tiny tiny glove. Was I very deeply smitten?

Oh, I loved like anything! But my love she is a kitten,

And my heart's a ball of string. She was pleasingly poetic,

And she loved my little rhymes, For our tastes were sympathetic, In the old and happy times. Oh, the ballads I have written, And have taught my love to sing!

But my love she is a kitten,

And my heart's a ball of string! Would she listen to my offer,

On iny knees I would impart
A sincere and ready proffer

Of my hand and of my heart.
And below her dainty mitten
I would fix a wedding ring-
But my love she is a kitten,

And my heart's a ball of string!
Take a warning, happy lover,

From the moral that I show; Or too late you may discover

What I learn'd a month ago. We are scratch'd or we are bitten By the pets to whom we cling. Oh, my love she is a kitten,

And my heart's a ball of string.

H. S. LEIGH.

Gillott and Goosequill. (Brit. and Col. Pub. Co.)