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TO FANNY.

WELCOME, welcome, do I sing,
Far more welcome than the spring;
He that parteth from you never
Shall enjoy a spring for ever.
He that to your voice is near,

Breaking from your iv'ry pale,
Need not walk abroad to hear

The delightful nightingale.
He that looks still on your eyes,

Though the winter have begun,
To benumb our arteries,

Shall not want the summer's sun.

He that still may see your cheeks,

Where all rareness still reposes; Is a fool if e'er he seeks

Other lilies, other roses.

He to whom your soft lip yields,

And perceives your breath in kissing, All the odours of the fields,

Never, never shall be missing.

He that question would anew

What fair Eden was of old, Let him rightly study you,

And a brief of that behold.

Welcome, welcome, do I sing,
Far more welcome than the spring;
He that parteth from you never
Shall enjoy a spring for ever.

LANSDOWNE MS. NO. 777.

LOVE'S HOME.

If thou would'st have me paint The home to which, could love fulfil its

prayers, This hand would lead thee, listen :- A deep

vale Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world, Near a clear lake, margined by fruits of gold And whispering myrtles; glassing softest

skies

As cloudless, save with rare and roseate

shadows, As I would have thy fate! A palace lifting to eternal summer Its marble walls, from out a glassy bower Of coolest foliage, musical with birds, Whose songs should syllable thy name! At

noon

We'll sit beneath the arching vines, and

wonder Why earth could be unhappy, while the

heavens Still left us youth and love! We'd have

no friends That were not lovers; no ambition, save To excel them all in love; we'd read no

books That were not tales of love—that we might

smile To think how poorly eloquence of words Translates the poetry of hearts like ours! And when night came, amidst the breathless

heavens We'd

guess what star should be our home when love

Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light
Stole, through the mists of alabaster lamps,
And every air was heavy with the sighs
Of orange groves, and music from sweet lutes,
And murmurs of low fountains that gush

forth l'the midst of roses !- Dost thou like the

picture ?

BULWER.

A SONNET UPON A STOLEN KISS.

Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes, Which, waking, kept my boldest thoughts

in awe;

And free access, unto that sweet lip, lies, From whence I long the rosie breath to

draw. Methinks no wrong it were, if I should

steal From those two melting rubies, one poor

None sees the theft that would the thief

reveal, Nor rob I her of ought which she can

miss :
Nay, should I twenty kisses take away,
There would be little sign I had done so;
Why then should I this robbery delay?
Oh! she may wake, and therewith angry

grow!
Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one,
And twenty hundred thousand more for

loan.

WITHER.

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.

Year after year unto her feet,

The while she slumbereth alone, Over the purple coverlet

The maiden's jet black hair hath grown, On either side her trancèd form,

Forth streaming from a braid of pearl ; The slumberous light is rich and warm,

And moves not on the rounded curl.

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