THE BEATING OF MY HEART.

And on its full, deep breast serene,
Like quiet isles, my duties lie;
It flows around them and between,
And makes them fresh and fair and green,
Sweet homes wherein to live and die.

JAMES R. LOWELL.

The Beating of my Heart.

I

WANDERED by the brook-side,
I wandered by the mill;

I could not hear the brook flow

The noisy wheel was still.
There was no burr of grasshopper,
No chirp of any bird,

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm-tree:

I watched the long, long shade,
And, as it grew still longer,
I did not feel afraid;
For I listened for a footfall,

I listened for a word-.

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

He came not,-no, he came not-
The night came on alone.
The little stars sat one by one,

Each on his golden throne;

The evening wind passed by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirred-

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

105

Fast silent tears were flowing,
When something stood behind;
A hand was on my shoulder-
I knew its touch was kind;
It drew me nearer-nearer-
We did not speak one word,
For the beating of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.

Lines to an Indian Air.

I

ARISE from dreams of thee

In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet

Has led me-who knows how

To thy chamber window, sweet!

The wandering airs, they faint

On the dark and silent stream

The champak odors fail

Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint,

It dies upon her heart,

As I must on thine,

Beloved as thou art!

O lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain

On my lips and eyelids pale.

TO A CARRIER PIGEON.

My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast;
Oh! press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

107

To a Carrier Pigeon.

'OME hither, thou beautiful rover,

COM

Thou wanderer of earth and of air,
That bearest the sighs of the lover,
And bringest him news of his fair.
Bend hither thy light-waving pinion,

And show me the gloss of thy neck:
Come, perch on my hand, dearest minion,
And turn up thy bright eye, and peck.

Here is bread of the brightest and sweetest,
And here is a sip of red wine;

Though thy wing is the lightest and fleetest,
'Twill be fleeter when nerved by the vine.
I have written on rose-scented paper,

With thy wing-quill, a soft billet-doux; I have melted the wax in love's taper,'Tis the color of true heart's sky-blue.

I have fastened it under thy pinion,
With a blue ribbon round thy soft neck;
So go from me, beautiful minion,

While the pure ether shows not a speck,—
Like a cloud, in the dim distance fleeting,
Like an arrow, he hurries away;

And farther and farther retreating,
He is lost in the clear blue of day.

JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

I

Love.-(Songs of Seven.)

LEANED out of window, I smelt the white clover, Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate; "Now if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover

Hush, nightingale, hush! O, sweet nightingale, wait Till I listen and hear

If a step draweth near,

For my love, he is late!

"The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer,
A cluster of stars hangs like fruit on the tree :
The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer;-
To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see?
Let the star-clusters glow,

Let the sweet waters flow,

And cross quickly to me.

"You night-moths that hover where honey brims over
From sycamore blossoms, or settle, or sleep;
You glow-worms shine out, and the pathway discover
To him that comes darkling along the rough steep.
Ah, my sailor, make haste,

For the time runs to waste,
And my love lieth deep-

"Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover,
I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night."
By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover,
And all the sweet speech I had fashioned, took flight.
But I'll love him more, more
Than e'er wife loved before,
Be the days dark or bright.

JEAN INGELOW.

ABSENCE.

As to the Distant Moon.

A

S to the distant moon

The sea forever turns ;

As to the polar star

The earth forever yearns:
So doth my constant heart

Beat oft for thine alone,

And o'er its far-off heaven of dreams

Thine image high enthrone.

But ah! the sea and moon,

The earth and star meet never;

And space as wide, and dark, and high

Divideth us forever!

ANNE C. LYNCH.

109

Absence.

HAT shall I do with all the days and hours

WH

That must be counted ere I see thy face? How shall I charm the interval that lowers

Between this time and that sweet time of grace?

Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense--
Weary with longing? Shall I flee away
Into past days, and with some fond pretence
Cheat myself to forget the present day?

Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin
Of casting from me God's great gift of time?
Shall I, these mists of memory locked within,
Leave and forget life's purposes sublime?

O, how, or by what means, may I contrive

To bring the hour that brings thee back more near? How

may I teach my drooping hope to live

Until that blessed time, and thou art here?