Yet surely God hath placed before our feet
Some sweeter sweetness and completer bliss,
And something that shall prove more truly meet.
Soothly I know not:-when the live lips kiss
There is no more that our prayers shall entreat,
Save only Death. Perhaps there is as this
Nothing so sweet.
Charles Sayle.
THE TRYSTING-TREE.
Meet me, love, where the woodbines grow
And where the wild rose smells most sweet;
And the breezes, as they softliest blow,
Meet;
Passing along through the field of wheat,
By the hedge where in spring the violets glow,
And the blue-bells blossom around one's feet;
Where latest lingers the drifted snow,
And the fir-tree grows o'er our trysting-seat,
Come-and your love, as long ago,
Meet.
Charles Sayle.