From the forest shade advancing,
See, where comes a lovely May;
The dew, like gems, before her glancing,
As she brushes it away!
Straight I rose, and ran to meet her,
Seized her hand—the heavenly blue
Of her eyes smiled brighter, sweeter,
As she asked me—“Who are you?”
To that question came another—
What its aim I still must doubt—
And she asked me, “How’s your mother?
Does she know that you are out?”
“No! my mother does not know it,
Beauteous, heaven-descended muse!”
“Then be off, my handsome poet,
And say I sent you with the news!”
The Mishap.
“Why art thou weeping, sister?
Why is thy cheek so pale?
Look up, dear Jane, and tell me
What is it thou dost ail?
“I know thy will is froward,
Thy feelings warm and keen,
And that that Augustus Howard
For weeks has not been seen.
“I know how much you loved him;
But I know thou dost not weep
For him;—for though his passion be,
His purse is noways deep.