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Which round them dwells, but parts them

not,

A lorn, but undivided lot.

Can death dissever love, or part

The loved one from the lover's heart?
No, no! he does but guard the prize
Sacred from mortal injuries,

Making it purer, holier seem,

As the ice closing o'er the stream

Keeps, while storms ravage earth and air,
All baser things from mingling there.

HENRY NEELE.

THE LOCK.

LITTLE curl, I love thee more
Than the wave the ocean shore;
Than the birds that blithely sing,
Love the mild approach of spring;
For thou once wert used to flow,
O'er my Mary's sunlit brow;

But thy future place of rest
E'er shall be my faithful breast.
Through each change, or good, or ill,
I will kiss thee, prize thee still;
For thy mistress is to me

What the rosebud's to the bee,
What the sunshine and the shower
To the new-blown summer flower;
If her love-fraught smiles she give,
Then, in heav'nly bliss I live;
But if smiles her cheek depart,
Woes unnumber'd pierce my heart.

JOSEPH MIDDLETON.

MEET ME AT SUNSET.

MEET me at sunset, the hour we love best, Ere day's last crimson blushes have died in the west,

When the shadowless ether is blue as thine

eye,

And the breeze is as balmy and soft as thy

sigh;

D

When giant-like forms lengthen fast o'er the ground

From the motionless mill and the linden trees round;

When the stillness below, the mild radiance above,

Softly sink on the heart and attune it to love.

Meet me at sunset-oh! meet me once

more,

'Neath the wide-spreading thorn where you met me of yore,

When our hearts were as calm as the broad

summer sea

That lay gleaming before us, bright, boundless, and free;

And with hand clasp'd in hand, we sat trance-bound and deem'd

That life would be ever the thing it then

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Meet me at sunset, beloved! as of old,When the boughs of the chestnut are waving in gold;

When the pure starry clematis bends with its bloom,

And the jasmine exhales a more witching perfume.

That sweet hour shall atone for the anguish

of years,

And though fortune still frown, bid us smile through our tears;

Through the storms of the future shall soothe and sustain;

Then meet me at sunset-oh! meet me

again!

A. A. WATTS.

LIKE a rose, when May

Breathes o'er its bending bloom, she seem'd

to shrink

Into her modest self, and a low sigh

Shook blushes (sweet rose leaves!) from her

beauty.

BULWER.

RUTH.

SHE stood breast high amid the corn,
Clasp'd by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush,
Deeply ripened;-such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell,
Which were blackest none could tell;
But long lashes veil'd a light,
That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim;-
Thus she stood amid the stooks
Praising God with sweetest looks:-

Sure, I said, Heav'n did not mean,
Where I reap thou should'st but glean;
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,

Share my harvest and my home.

HOOD.

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