DRINK to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from my soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope that there

It would not withered be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent it back to me;
Since then it grows and smells, Iswear,
Not of itself, but thee,

BEN JONSON.

THE NIGHT PIECE: TO JULIA.

HER eyes the glow-worme lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee;
And the elves also,
Whose little eyes glow,

Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

No Will-o'-th'-Wispe mislight thee,
Nor snake nor slow-worme bite thee;
But on, on thy way,
Not making a stay,
Since ghost there's none to affright
thee.

Let not the dark thee cumber,
What though the moon do slumber?
The starres of the night
Will lend thee their light,
Like tapers cleare, without number.

Then, Julia, let me wooe thee,
Thus, thus to come unto me;
And when I shall meet
Thy silvery feet,

My soule I'll poure into thee.

HERRICK.

THE clouds are flying, the woods are sighing,

A maiden is walking the grassy shore,

And as the wave breaks with might, with might,

She singeth aloud in the darksome night,

But a tear is in her troubled eye.

For the world feels cold, and the heart gets old,

And reflects the bright aspect of

Nature no more; Then take back thy child, holy Virgin, to thee!

I have plucked the one blossom
that hangs on earth's tree,
I have lived, and have loved,
and die.

ANONYMOUS.

Translated from Schiller.

THE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA. "RISE up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the

golden cushion down;

Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town! From gay guitar and violin the silver notes are flowing,

And the lovely lute doth speak between the trumpet's lordly blowing,

And banners bright from lattice light are waving everywhere, And the tall, tall plume of our cousin's bridegroom floats proudly in the air.

Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden cushion down; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town! "Arise, arise, Xarifa! I see Andalla's face

He bends him to the people with a calm and princely grace;

Through all the land of Xeres and banks of Guadalquiver

Rode forth bridegroom so brave as he, so brave and lovely never. Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow, of purple mixed with white, I guess 'twas wreathed by Zara, whom he will wed to-night. Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden cushion down; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town!"""

The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her cushion down,

Nor came she to the window to gaze with all the town;

But though her eyes dwelt on her knee, in vain her fingers strove, And though her needle pressed the silk, no flower Xarifa wove; One bonny rose-bud she had traced before the noise drew nigh— That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow drooping from her eye "No, no!" she sighs-"bid me not rise, nor lay my cushion down, To gaze upon Andalla with all the gazing town!"

And the young moon dropped from heaven,

And the lights hid one by one.

All silently their glances
Slipped down the cruel sea,
And "Wait," cried the night, and
wind, and storm,

"Wait till I come to thee!"

HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.

HERO TO LEANDER.

Он! go not yet my love,
The night is dark and vast;
The white moon is hid in her heaven
above,

And the waves climb high and fast.
Oh! kiss me, kiss me, once again,
Lest thy kiss should be the last.
Oh kiss me ere we part:
Grow closer to my heart,
My heart is warmer surely than the
bosom of the main.

Thy heart beats through thy rosy limbs,

So gladly doth it stir;

Thine eye in drops of gladness swims, I have bathed thee with the pleasant myrrh;

Thy locks are dripping balm;
Thou shalt not wander hence to-
night,

I'll stay thee with my kisses.
To-night the roaring brine
Will rend thy golden tresses;
The ocean with the morrow light
Will be both blue and calm;

And the billow will embrace thee with a kiss as soft as mine.

No western odors wander

On the black and moaning sea,

And when thou art dead, Leander, My soul must follow thee!

Oh! go not yet, my love,

Thy voice is sweet and low;

The deep salt wave breaks in above
Those marble steps below.
The turret stairs are wet
That lead into the sea.
The pleasant stars have set:
Oh! go not, go not yet,
Or I will follow thee.

TENNYSON.