Perhaps my rose is over-blown,

Not rosy, or too rosy;

Perhaps in farm-house of her own
Some husband keeps her cosy,

Where I should show a face unknown,

Good-by, my wayside posy!

Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830–1894]

"DO YOU REMEMBER"

Do you remember when you heard

My lips breathe love's first faltering word?
You do, sweet-don't you?

When, having wandered all the day,
Linked arm in arm, I dared to say,

"You'll love me-won't you?"

And when you blushed and could not speak,
I fondly kissed your glowing cheek,

Did that affront you?

Oh, surely not-your eye expressed No wrath-but said, perhaps in jest, "You'll love me-won't you?

I'm sure my eyes replied, "I will."
And you believe that promise still,

You do, sweet-don't you?

Yes, yes! when age has made our eyes

Unfit for questions or replies,

You'll love me-won't you?

Thomas Haynes Bayly [1797-1839]

BECAUSE

SWEET Nea! for your lovely sake
I weave these rambling numbers,
Because I've lain an hour awake,

And can't compose my slumbers;
Because your beauty's gentle light
Is round my pillow beaming,
And flings, I know not why, to-night,

Some witchery o'er my dreaming!

Because

Because we've passed some joyous days,
And danced some merry dances;
Because we love old Beaumont's plays,

And old Froissart's romances!
Because whene'er I hear your words
Some pleasant feeling lingers;
Because I think your heart has cords
That vibrate to your fingers.

Because you've got those long, soft curls,
I've sworn should deck my goddess;
Because you're not, like other girls,
All bustle, blush, and bodice!
Because your eyes are deep and blue,
Your fingers long and rosy;
Because a little child and you
Would make one's home so cosy!

Because your little tiny nose
Turns up so pert and funny;
Because I know you choose your beaux
More for their mirth than money;
Because I think you'd rather twirl
A waltz, with me to guide you,
Than talk small nonsense with an earl,
And a coronet beside you!

Because you don't object to walk,
And are not given to fainting;
Because you have not learned to talk
Of flowers, and Poonah-painting;
Because I think you'd scarce refuse
To sew one on a button;

Because I know you sometimes choose
To dine on simple mutton!

Because I think I'm just so weak
As, some of those fine morrows,
To ask
you if you'll let me speak

My story-and my sorrows;

761

Because the rest's a simple thing,

A matter quickly over

A church-a priest-a sigh-a ring

And a chaise-and-four to Dover.

Edward Fitzgerald [1809-1883]

I PLAYED with you 'mid cowslips blowing,
When I was six and you were four;

When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing,
Were pleasures soon to please no more.
Through groves and meads, o'er grass and heather,
With little playmates, to and fro,

We wandered hand in hand together;
But that was sixty years ago.

You grew a lovely roseate maiden,
And still our early love was strong;
Still with no care our days were laden,
They glided joyously along;

And I did love you very dearly

How dearly, words want power to show;
I thought your heart was touched as nearly;
But that was fifty years ago.

Then other lovers came around you,
Your beauty grew from year to year,
And many a splendid circle found you
The center of its glittering sphere.
I saw you then, first vows forsaking,

On rank and wealth your hand bestow;
O, then, I thought my heart was breaking,-
But that was forty years ago.

And I lived on, to wed another:
No cause she gave me to repine;
And when I heard you were a mother,
I did not wish the children mine.

To Helen

My own young flock, in fair progression,
Made up a pleasant Christmas row:
My joy in them was past expression;-
But that was thirty years ago.

You grew a matron plump and comely,
You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze;
My earthly lot was far more homely;
But I too had my festal days.

No merrier eyes have ever glistened

Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow,

Than when my youngest child was christened:-
But that was twenty years ago.

Time passed. My eldest girl was married,
And I am now a grandsire gray;
One pet of four years old I've carried

Among the wild-flowered meads to play.
In our old fields of childish pleasure,
Where now, as then, the cowslips blow,
She fills her basket's ample measure,—
And that is not ten years ago.

But though first love's impassioned blindness
Has passed away in colder light,

I still have thought of you with kindness,
And shall do, till our last good-night.

The ever-rolling silent hours

Will bring a time we shall not know,

When our young days of gathering flowers
Will be an hundred years ago.

763

Thomas Love Peacock [1785-1866]

TO HELEN

Ir wandering in a wizard's car

Through yon blue ether, I were able

To fashion of a little star

A taper for my Helen's table;

"What then?" she asks me with a laughWhy, then, with all heaven's luster glowing, It would not gild her path with half

The light her love o'er mine is throwing!

Winthrop Mackworth Praed [1802-1839]

AT THE CHURCH GATE

From "Pendennis"

ALTHOUGH I enter not,
Yet round about the spot
Ofttimes I hover;

And near the sacred gate,
With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.

The Minster bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,

And noise and humming;
They've hushed the Minster bell:

The organ 'gins to swell;

She's coming, she's coming!

My lady comes at last,

Timid, and stepping fast

And hastening hither,

With modest eyes downcast;
She comes-she's here she's past!
May heaven go with her!

Kneel undisturbed, fair Saint!

Pour out your praise or plaint

Meekly and duly;

I will not enter there,

To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace

Round the forbidden place,

Lingering a minute,