A GOLDEN GIRL. LUCY is a golden girl; But a man, a man, should woo her! They who seek her shrink aback, When they should, like storms, pursue her. All her smiles are hid in light; All her hair is lost in splendor; But she hath the eyes of Night And a heart that 's over-tender. Yet the foolish suitors fly (Is 't excess of dread or duty ?) From the starlight of her eye, Leaving to neglect her beauty! Men by fifty seasons taught Leave her to a young beginner, Who, without a second thought, Whispers, wooes, and straight must win her. Lucy is a golden girl! Toast her in a goblet brimming! May the man that wins her wear BARRY CORNWALL. THE MILKING-MAID. THE year stood at its equinox, And bluff the North was blowing, A bleat of lambs came from the flocks, I met a maid with shining locks She wore a kerchief on her neck, Too pointless for the city. She kept in time without a beat, As true as church-bell ringers, Unless she tapped time with her feet, Or squeezed it with her fingers; Her clear, unstudied notes were sweet As many a practised singer's. I stood a minute out of sight, To eye the pail, and creamy white To eye the comely milking-maid, And all the while she milked and milked But not a sweeter, fresher maid Whose pleasant face and silky braid I have not yet forgotten. Seven springs have passed since then, as I Seven springs have come and passed me by, I've half a mind to shake myself To run down by the early train, Whirl down with shriek and whistle, And spy the scarce-blown violet banks, Alas! one point in all my plan My serious thoughts demur to: Seven years have passed for maid and man, Seven years have passed for her too. 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. AT THE CHURCH GATE. 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. LOVE. IF IT BE TRUE THAT ANY BEAUTEOUS | Forgive me if I cannot turn away THING. If it be true that any beauteous thing Repose upon the eyes which it resembleth, From those sweet eyes that are my earthly heaven, For they are guiding stars, benignly given I live and love in God's peculiar light. MICHAEL ANGELO (Italian). Translation of J. E. TAYLOR. WERE I AS BASE AS IS THE LOWLY PLAIN. WERE I as base as is the lowly plain, For who adores the Maker needs must love his Yet should the thoughts of me your humble work. MICHAEL ANGELO (Italian). Translation of J. E. TAYLOR. SONNET. MUSES, that sing Love's sensual empirie, GEORGE CHAPMAN. swain THE MIGHT OF ONE FAIR FACE. Instructs me in the bliss that saints approve; THE night has a thousand eyes, The mind has a thousand eyes, FRANCIS W. BOURDILLON. |