THE PLEDGE OF LOVE. THIS band, which bound thy yellow hair, Is mine, sweet girl! thy pledge of love; It claims my warmest, dearest care, Like relics left of saints above. Oh! I will wear it near my heart; The dew I gather from thy lip Is not so dear to me as this; That I but for a moment sip, And banquet on a transient bliss: This will recall each youthful scene, When memory bids them bud again. Oh! little lock of golden hue, I would not lose you for the world! Not though a thousand more adorn TO * FROM MELEAGER. BYRON. Now are the vernal hours; The white-robed violet blooms, And hyacinth, glad with showers, The breathing air perfumes; And, scatter'd o'er the mountain's side, The fragrant lily gleams in virgin pride. Now are the vernal hours- The loveliest flower of flowers, Meadows! why do ye wreathe Though spring your wardrobe dresses; Ye no such glorious charms display, MERIVALE. THE ROSE. As late each flower that sweetest blows I pluck'd the garden's pride! Within the petals of a Rose Around his brows a beamy wreath All purple, glow'd his cheek, beneath I softly seized the unguarded Power, And plac'd him, caged within the flower, But when unweeting of the guile Awoke the prisoner sweet, He struggled to escape awhile, And stamp'd his faery feet. Ah! soon the soul-entrancing sight He gazed! he thrill'd with deep delight! "And O!" he cried-"of magic kind What charms this throne endear! Some other Love let Venus find I'll fix my empire here." COLERIDGE. WOMAN. WOMAN, gentle woman has a heart Fraught with the sweet humanities of life; Swayed by no selfish aim, she bears her part In all our joys and woes; in pain, in strife, Fonder and still more faithful! when the smart Of care assails the bosom, or the knife Of keen endurance cuts us to the soul, First to support us, foremost to console. Oh! what were man in dark misfortune's hour Without her cherishing aid? A nerveless thing, Sinking ignobly 'neath the passing power Of every blast of fortune. She can bring A balm for every wound; as when the shower More heavily falls, the bird of eve will sing In richer notes; sweeter is woman's voice When through the storm it bids the soul rejoice. A. A. WATTS. |