Margaret

MOTHER! I cannot mind my wheel;
My fingers ache, my lips are dry.
O, if you felt that pain I feel—
But O, who ever felt as I?
No longer could I doubt him true:
All other men may use deceit,-
He always said my eyes were blue,
And often swore my lips were sweet.

Leigh bunt

James Henry Leigh Hunt was born at Southgate in Middlesex in 1784. At the age of sixteen appeared Juvenalia; or, A Collection of Poems written between the Ages of Twelve and Sixteen. In 1808 he left his place at the War Office to edit The Examiner. For an attack upon the Prince Regent he was committed to prison for two years and fined £1000. He went to Italy in 1821 to aid Shelley and Byron in the starting of The Liberal, but Shelley died and Byron removed to Greece, and so the enterprise collapsed. Hunt remained abroad for some years, and to this period belongs his best work. In 1842 he secured a pension, in 1850 his Autobiography appeared, and in 1859 he died. Byron said of Hunt, 'He is an honest charlatan who has persuaded himself into a belief of his own impostures, and talks Punch in pure simplicity of heart.' Further, he says, 'Hunt is an extraordinary character, and not exactly of the present age. He reminds me much of Pym and Hampden times —much talent, great independence of spirit, and an austere, yet not repulsive, aspect.' Shelley in a dedicatory letter is much more appreciative. 'One more gentle, honourable, innocent, and brave; one of more exalted toleration for all who do and think evil, and yet himself more free from evil; one who knows better how to receive and how to confer a benefit, though he must ever confer far more than he can receive; one of simpler, and, in the highest sense of the word, of purer life and manners, I never knew.'

Jenny Kissed Me

JENNY kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in ;
Time, you thief, who love to get

Sweets into your list, put that in :

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,

Say that health and wealth have missed me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,

Jenny kissed me.

Silent Kisses

WE'LL breathe not a kiss to the tell-tale air,
Nor proclaim the fond triumph for others to share,
For the rose never speaks while it opes to the dew,
And lovers say little whose feelings are true;
The soul-speaking eyes are the language of blisses,
And we'll talk with our eyes amidst silent kisses.

'Tis silence gives soul to the beauty of night;
'Tis silence keeps secrets, the lover's delight:
The stream moves in stillness, when soft on its breast
The willows' fond leaves lie in kisses at rest :
The heart throbs in stillness, and we in our blisses
Will honour its feeling by sweet silent kisses.

Yes; when our lips move, yet have nothing to say,
And our eyes in each other's warm beam fade away,
'Tis then my heart springs up and trembles to thee,
As the arrow still trembles when fix'd in the tree;
Oh, never let ear rob a part of our blisses!
Oh, all for the heart be our sweet silent kisses.

Leigh Bunt

The roses all turn pale, too;

The doves all take the veil, too;
The blind will see the show:
What! you become a nun, my dear !
I'll not believe it, no.

If you become a nun, dear,
The bishop Love will be ;

The Cupids every one, dear,

Will chaunt' We trust in thee':

The incense will go sighing,

The candles fall a dying,

The water turn to wine:

What! you go take the vows, my dear!
You may-but they'll be mine.

To his Wife

WHILE SHE WAS MODELLING THE POET'S BUST

AH, Marian mine! the face you look on now
Is not exactly like my wedding day's:
Sunk is its cheek, deeper retired its gaze,
Less white and smooth its temple-flatten'd brow.
Sorrow has been there with his silent plough
And strait stern hand. No matter! if it raise
Aught that affection fancies it may praise,
Or makes me worthier of Apollo's bough.

Loss after all, such loss especially,

Is transfer, change, but not extinction. No! Part in our children's apple-cheeks I see ; And for the rest,-while you look at me so, Take care you do not smile it back to me,

And miss the copied furrows as you go!