What happy thoughts the summer yields
Like woman soft & fair
The voice of love is in the fields
While music fills the air.

As we sit, you and I, in the twilight
And breathe the soft breath of the roses
That mingled with lily and iris
Steals up from your quaint garden-closes;
In the mystical, soft evening weather
When the sunset burns amber and clear
I think that a life-time together
Would not be half long enough, dear!

I long — how I long, my heart's Lady,
To call you a name that is dearer,
To be — always your slave and your lover
And in time something fonder and nearer.
Come home to me, darling, my Lady!
Let the name that I call you be wife.

I love the Forest and its airy bounds,
Where friendly CAMPBELL takes his daily rounds;
I love the break neck hills, that headlong go,
And leave me high, and half the world below;
I love to see the Beach Hill mounting high,
The brook without a bridge, and nearly dry.
There's Bucket's Hill, a place of furze and clouds,
Which evening in a golden blaze enshrouds:
I hear the cows go home with tinkling bell,
And see the woodman in the forest dwell,
Whose dog runs eager where the rabbit's gone;
He eats the grass, then kicks and hurries on;

I

Love looked back as he took his flight,
And lo, his eyes were filled with tears.
Was it for love of lost delight
Love looked back as he took his flight?
Only I know while day grew night,
Turning still to the' vanished years,
Love looked back as he took his flight,
And lo, his eyes were filled with tears.

II

If you were Lady Beatrice
And I the Florentine,
I 'd never waste my time like this —
If you were Lady Beatrice

I will not make a sonnet from
Each little private martyrdom;
Nor out of love left dead with time
Construe a stanza or a rhyme.

We do not suffer to afford
The searched for and the subtle word:
There is too much that may not be
At the caprice of prosody.

O Love, where are the hours fled,
The hours of our young delight?
Are they forever gone and dead,
Or only vanished out of sight?

O can it be that we shall live
To know once more the joys gone by,
To feel the old, deep love revive,
And smile again before we die?

Could I but fancy it might be,
Could I the past bring back again,
And for one moment, holding thee,
Forget the present and its pain!

O Love, those hours are past away
Beyond our longing and our sighs —
Perhaps the Angels, some bright day,

A Crambo Song.

Great Phaebus in his vast career,
Who forms the self-succeeding year,
Thron'd in his amber chariot,
Sees not an object half so bright,
Nor gives such joy, such life, such light,
As dear delicious Harriote .

Pedants of dull phlegmatic turns,
Whose pulse not beats, whose blood not burns,
Read Malbranche, Boyle, and Marriote,
I scorn their philosophic strife,
And study Nature from the life,

Come live with me and be my Dear;
And till that happy bond shall lapse,
I'll set your Poutings in Brevier ,
Your Praises in the largest CAPS.

There's Diamond — 'tis for your Eyes;
There's Ruby — that will match your Lips;
Pearl , for your Teeth; and Minion -size
To suit your dainty Finger-tips.

In Nonpareil I'll put your Face;
In Rubric shall your Blushes rise;
There is no Bourgeois in your Case ;

" No more!" I said to Love. " No more!
I scorn your baby-arts to know!
Not now am I as once of yore;
My brow the Sage's line can show!"
" Farewell!" he laughed. " Farewell! I go!"
And clove the air with fluttering track.
" Farewell!" he cried far off; — but lo!
He sent a Parthian arrow back!

In the duo of Love
There is little libretto;
There are few rhymes but " dove"
In the duo of Love;
Yet we prize it above
All our Epic falsetto; —
In the duo of Love
There is little libretto.