"MEET WE NO ANGELS, PANSIE?"

Came, on a Sabbath morn, my sweet, In white, to find her lover; The gra.s.s grew proud beneath her feet, The green elm-leaves above her:-- Meet we no angels, Pansie?

She said, "We meet no angels now"; And soft lights streamed upon her; And with white hand she touched a bough; She did it that great honor:-- What! meet no angels, Pansie?

O sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes, Down-dropped brown eyes, so tender!

Then what said I?--gallant replies Seem flattery, and offend her:-- But,--meet we no angels, Pansie?

Thomas Ashe [1836-1889]

TO DAPHNE

Like apple-blossoms, white and red; Like hues of dawn, which fly too soon; Like bloom of peach, so softly spread; Like thorn of May and rose of June-- Oh, sweet! oh, fair! beyond compare, Are Daphne's cheeks, Are Daphne's blushing cheeks, I swear.

That pretty rose, which comes and goes Like April sunshine in the sky, I can command it when I choose-- See how it rises if I cry: Oh, sweet! oh, fair! beyond compare, Are Daphne's cheeks, Are Daphne's blushing cheeks, I swear.

Ah! when it lies round lips and eyes, And fades away, again to spring, No lover, sure, could ask for more Than still to cry, and still to sing: Oh, sweet! oh, fair! beyond compare, Are Daphne's cheeks, Are Daphne's blushing cheeks, I swear.

Walter Besant [1836-1901]

"GIRL OF THE RED MOUTH"

Girl of the red mouth, Love me! Love me!

Girl of the red mouth, Love me!

'Tis by its curve, I know, Love fashioneth his bow, And bends it--ah, even so!

Oh, girl of the red mouth, love me!

Girl of the blue eye, Love me! Love me!

Girl of the dew eye, Love me!

Worlds hang for lamps on high; And thought's world lives in thy l.u.s.trous and tender eye-- Oh, girl of the blue eye, love me!

Girl of the swan's neck, Love me! Love me!

Girl of the swan's neck, Love me!

As a marble Greek doth grow To his steed's back of snow, Thy white neck sits thy shoulder so,-- Oh, girl of the swan's neck, love me!

Girl of the low voice, Love me! Love me!

Girl of the sweet voice, Love me!

Like the echo of a bell,-- Like the bubbling of a well,-- Sweeter! Love within doth dwell,-- Oh, girl of the low voice, love me!

Martin MacDermott [1823-1905]

THE DAUGHTER OF MENDOZA

O lend to me, sweet nightingale, Your music by the fountain, And lend to me your cadences, O river of the mountain!

That I may sing my gay brunette, A diamond spark in coral set, Gem for a prince's coronet-- The daughter of Mendoza.

How brilliant is the morning star, The evening star how tender,-- The light of both is in her eyes, Their softness and their splendor.

But for the lash that shades their light They were too dazzling for the sight, And when she shuts them, all is night-- The daughter of Mendoza.

O ever bright and beauteous one, Bewildering and beguiling, The lute is in thy silvery tones, The rainbow in thy smiling; And thine, is, too, o'er hill and dell, The bounding of the young gazelle, The arrow's flight and ocean's swell-- Sweet daughter of Mendoza!

What though, perchance, we no more meet,-- What though too soon we sever?

Thy form will float like emerald light Before my vision ever.

For who can see and then forget The glories of my gay brunette-- Thou art too bright a star to set, Sweet daughter of Mendoza!

Mirabeau Bonaparte Lamar [1798-1859]

"IF SHE BE MADE OF WHITE AND RED"

If she be made of white and red, As all transcendent beauty shows; If heaven be blue above her head, And earth be golden, as she goes: Nay, then thy deftest words restrain; Tell not that beauty, it is vain.

If she be filled with love and scorn, As all divinest natures are; If 'twixt her lips such words are born, As can but Heaven or h.e.l.l confer: Bid Love be still, nor ever speak, Lest he his own rejection seek.

Herbert P. Horne [1864-

THE LOVER'S SONG

Lend me thy fillet, Love!

I would no longer see: Cover mine eyelids close awhile, And make me blind like thee.

Then might I pa.s.s her sunny face, And know not it was fair; Then might I hear her voice, nor guess Her starry eyes were there.

Ah! banished so from stars and sun-- Why need it be my fate?

If only she might dream me good And wise, and be my mate!

Lend her thy fillet, Love!

Let her no longer see: If there is hope for me at all, She must be blind like thee.

Edward Rowland Sill [1841-1887]