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The silk star-braided coverlid

Unto her limbs itself doth mould Languidly ever, and amid

Her full black ringlets downward rolled. Glows forth each softly shadowed arm,

With bracelets of the diamond bright; Her constant beauty doth inform

Stillness with love and day with light.

She sleeps! her breathings are not heard,

In palace chambers far apart; The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd,

That lie upon her charméd heart. She sleeps! on either side upswells,

The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest; She sleeps-nor dreams, but ever dwells

A perfect form in perfect rest.

TENNYSON.

Loveliness is ne'er so
Lovely as when 't is veiled in blushes. The
Lily's spotless hue is not so witching
As the ruby tint of modesty.

MRS. JAMIESON.

SONG.

The lark now leaves his wat’ry nest,

And climbing, shakes his dewy wings; He takes his window for the east;

And to implore your light, he sings, Awake, awake, the morn will never rise, Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, The ploughman from the sun his season

takes; But still the lover wonders what they are, Who look for day before his mistress

wakes. Awake, awake, break through your vails of

lawn! Then draw your curtains, and begin the

dawn.

DAVENANT.

MADRIGAL.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light

All that Love's world compriseth; Do but look on her hair, it is bright

As Love's star when it riseth! Do but mark her forehead, smoother Than words that soothe her! And from her arch'd brow such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there triumphs to the life, All the gain, all the good, of the elements'

strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow

Before rude hands have touch'd it ? Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow,

Before the soil hath smutch'd it ? Have you

felt the wool of the beaver ? Or the swan's down, ever? Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar ? Or the nard i' the fire ? Or have tasted the bag o' the bee, Oh! so white! oh! so soft! oh! so sweet

is she!

BEN JONSON.

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Love is like the glass That throws its own rich colour over all, And makes all beautiful. The morning looks Its very loveliest when the fresh air Has tinged the cheek we love with its glad

red;

And the hot noon flits by most rapidly When dearest eyes gaze with us on the page Bearing the poet's words of love ;--and then The twilight walk when the link'd arms can

feel The beating of the heart; upon the air There is a music never heard but once,A light the eyes can never see again; Each star has its own prophecy of hope, And every song and tale that breathe of love Seem echoes of the heart.

LANDON.

THE PICTURE OF T. C. IN A

PROSPECT OF FLOWERS.

See with what simplicity

This nymph begins her golden days! In the green grass she loves to lye, And there with her fair aspect tames The wilder flow'rs, and gives them names; But only with the roses plays,

And them does tell What colours best become them, and what

smell,

Who can foretell for what high cause,

This darling of the Gods was born!
Yet this is she whose chaster laws
The wanton Love shall one day fear,
And, under her command severe,
See his bow broke, and ensigns torn.

Happy who can
Appease this virtuous enemy of man!

O then let me in time compound,

And parly with those conquering eyes ; Ere they have try'd their force to wound,

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