Thy birth was in the forest shades; And all the beauty of the place Is in thy heart and on thy face.

The twilight of the trees and rocks Is in the light shade of thy locks, Thy step is as the wind that weaves Its playful way among the leaves.

Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen; Their lashes are the herds that look On their young figures in the brook.

The forest depths by foot unpress'd Are not more sinless than thy breast; The holy peace that fills the air Of those calm solitudes is there.

--_William Cullen Bryant_

All's Well

The clouds, which rise with thunder, slake Our thirsty souls with rain; The blow most dreaded falls to break From off our limbs a chain; And wrongs of man to man but make The love of G.o.d more plain.

As through the shadowy lens of even The eye looks farthest into heaven On gleams of star and depths of blue The glaring sunshine never knew!

--_John Greenleaf Whittier_

A Violinist

The lark above our heads doth know A heaven we see not here below; She sees it, and for joy she sings; Then falls with ineffectual wings.

Ah, soaring soul! faint not nor tire!

Each heaven attain'd reveals a higher, Thy thought is of thy failure; we List raptured, and thank G.o.d for thee.

--_Francis William Bourdillon_

To Helen

Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary way-worn wanderer bore To his own native sh.o.r.e.

On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy cla.s.sic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece, And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand, Ah! Psyche, from the regions which Are holy land!

--_Edgar Allan Poe_

The Truth of Woman

Woman's faith, and woman's trust-- Write the characters in dust; Stamp them on the running stream, Print them on the moon's pale beam, And each evanescent letter Shall be clearer, firmer, better, And more permanent, I ween, Than the thing those letters mean.

I have strain'd the spider's thread 'Gainst the promise of a maid; I have weigh'd a grain of sand 'Gainst her plight of heart and hand; I hold my true love of the token, How her faith proved light and her word was broken: Again her word and truth she plight, And I believed them again ere night.

--_Sir Walter Scott_

Ageanax

Dear voyager, a lucky star be thine, To Mytilene sailing over sea, Or foul or fair the constellations shine, Or east or west the wind-blown billows flee.

May halcyon-birds that hover o'er the brine Diffuse abroad their own tranquillity, Till ocean stretches stilly as the wine In this deep cup which now we drain to thee.

From lip to lip the merry circle through We pa.s.s the tankard and repeat thy name; And having pledged thee once, we pledge anew, Lest in thy friends' neglect thou suffer shame.

G.o.d-speed to ship, good health to pious crew, Peace by the way, and port of n.o.ble fame!

--_Edward Cracroft Lefroy_

Names

I asked my fair, one happy day, What I should call her in my lay; By what sweet name from Rome or Greece: Lalage, Neaera, Chloris, Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris, Arethusa or Lucrece.

"Ah!" returned my gentle fair, "Beloved, what are names but air?

Choose whatever suits the line; Call me Sappho, call me Chloris, Call me Lalage or Doris, Only, only call me Thine!"

--_Samuel Taylor Coleridge_

A Summer Day in Old Sicily

G.o.ds, what a sun! I think the world's aglow This garment irks me. Phoebus, it is hot!

'Twere sad if Glycera should find me shot By flame-tipp'd arrows from the Archer's bow.

Perchance he envies me,--the villain! O For one tree's shadow or a cliff-side grot!

Where shall I shelter that he slay me not?

In what cool air or element?--I know.

The sea shall save me from the sweltering land: Far out I'll wade, till creeping up and up, The cold green water quenches every limb.

Then to the jealous G.o.d with lifted hand I'll pour libation from a rosy cup, And leap, and dive, and see the tunnies swim.

--_Edward Cracroft Lefroy_

On a Nightingale in April

The yellow moon is a dancing phantom Down secret ways of the flowing shade; And the waveless stream has a murmuring whisper Where the alders wade.

Not a breath, not a sigh, save the slow stream's whisper: Only the moon is a dancing blade That leads a host of the Crescent warriors To a phantom raid.

Out of the lands of Faerie a summons, A long strange cry that thrills thro' the glade:-- The grey-green glooms of the elm are stirring, Newly afraid.