In our old fields of childish pleasure,

Where now, as then, the cowslips blow,
She fills her basket's ample measure,-
And that is not ten years ago.

But though first love's impassioned blindness
Has passed away in colder light,

I still have thought of you with kindness,
And shall do, till our last good-night.
The ever-rolling silent hours

Will bring a time we shall not know,

When our young days of gathering flowers Will be an hundred years ago.

17

CLXIII.

GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON, 1788-1824

SHE walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.

CLXIV.

B

RIGHT be the place of thy soul !
No lovelier spirit than thine

E'er burst from its mortal control,

In the orbs of the blessed to shine.
On earth thou wert all but divine,
As thy soul shall immortally be;

And our sorrow may cease to repine
When we know that thy God is with thee.

Light be the turf of thy tomb!

May its verdure like emeralds be!

There should not be the shadow of gloom,
In aught that reminds us of thee.

Young flowers and an evergreen tree
May spring from the spot of thy rest :
But nor cypress nor yew let us see;

For why should we mourn for the blest?

They know not I knew thee,

Who knew thee too well :-
Long, long shall I rue thee,

Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met

In silence I grieve,

That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee?—
With silence and tears.

CLXVI.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

THER

HERE be none of Beauty's daughters
With a magic like thee;

And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charmed ocean's pausing,

The waves lie still and gleaming

And the lulled winds seem dreaming.