SERENADE. L ute! breathe thy lowest in my Lady’s ear, Sing while she sleeps, “Ah! belle dame, aimez-vous?” Till, dreaming still, she dream that I am here, And wake to find it, as my love is, true; Then, when she listens in her warm white nest, Say in slow music,—softer, tenderer yet, That lute-strings quiver when their tone ’s at rest, And my heart trembles when my lips are set. Stars! if my sweet love still a-dreaming lies, Shine through the roses for a lover’s sake And send your silver to her lidded eyes, Kissing them very gently till she wake; Then while she wonders at the lay and light, Tell her, though morning endeth star and song, That ye live still, when no star glitters bright, And my love lasteth, though it finds no tongue.
A LOVE SONG OF HENRI QUATRE. C ome, rosy Day! Come quick—I pray— I am so glad when I thee see! Because my Fair, Who is so dear, Is rosy-red and white like thee. She lives, I think, On heavenly drink Dawn-dew, which Hebe pours for her; Else—when I sip At her soft lip How smells it of ambrosia? She is so fair None can compare; And, oh, her slender waist divine! Her sparkling eyes Set in the skies The morning stars would far outshine! Only to hear Her voice so clear The village gathers in the street; And Tityrus, Grown one of us, Leaves piping on his flute so sweet. The Graces three, Where’er she be, Call all the Loves to flutter nigh; And what she ’ll say,— Speak when she may,— Is full of sense and majesty!

THOMAS ASHE.

1836-1889.

NO AND YES. I f I could choose my paradise, And please myself with choice of bliss, Then I would have your soft blue eyes And rosy little mouth to kiss! Your lips, as smooth and tender, child, As rose-leaves in a coppice wild. If fate bade choose some sweet unrest, To weave my troubled life a snare, Then I would say “her maiden breast And golden ripple of her hair;” And weep amid those tresses, child, Contented to be thus beguiled.
AT ALTENAHR. 1872. Meet we no angels, Pansie? C ame, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet, In white, to find her lover; The grass grew proud beneath her feet, The green elm-leaves above her:— Meet we no angels, Pansie? She said, “We meet no angels now;” And soft lights streamed upon her; And with white hand she touched a bough; She did it that great honour:— What! meet no angels, Pansie? O sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes Down-dropped brown eyes so tender! Then what said I?—Gallant replies Seem flattery, and offend her:— But,—meet no angels, Pansie?