The very saints would fain forget,

And melt the moonbeam moats among, Along her breath like mignonette,

And arms along the pillow flung.

She little fears who little knows,

(My pretties, prithee, yet contain !)
Or else would keep her heart more close,
Nor let so loose the golden chain.
She little fears who little knows,
My pretties all are piping in,
And passing kiss her bosom eke,
And lips just parting as to speak,

In laughter dimpling down her chin.

She little fears, who little knows,

To leave ajar the golden gate; My pretties all their mirth abate

And flutter in her soul within ;

And where her sweet thoughts cagëd are,

They perch and pair and match and mate,

And murmur strange tales from afar,

Of love and death and woe and win,

Till all my soul is echo'd in

And all her holies lie ajar.

She little fears who little knows.

To-morrow when the morning comes,

With sweet aubades, and shawms, and drums,

And tabret, flute, and violin,

And one by one the birds begin,

And rosy day is dancing in,

And all the pigeons perch'd below
Caged in her gallery, as you know,

Get up and peep, and preen their wing,
And, as she bade them, shrill and sing,
And make them trim for journeying.
And when she's caught their calls and ditties,
And wakens up to tend her pretties,

Sheveling out her braids of hair,

And bare-foot tripping adown the stair,
Her heart within shall wake as loud,
And all her fancies pipe in pair,
And all my pretty thoughts in crowd

Go shimmering out to the tip-top air.
And loud with hers shall blend and borrow,

And rhyme Sweet Fantasy-" Good morrow."

PASSIONATE DOWSABELLA.

(A PASTORAL.)

PART I.

OH! the red rich honeysuckles,

And the lanes where bindweed buckles

Long white blossoms to sweet-briar ;
In the copse the blue jay chuckles,
And the cheeping linnet truckles

To the round songs of the thrush ;
Where the deep woods lie and hush,

Green against the sky and lush,

Where a lark is winging higher, higher, higher.

Oh! the soft sweet June, the month of roses!
Girls, a-binding columbines in posies,

Stocks and lupins blue in ribbands string;
Under every elm a shepherd dozes ;

Cold and dark the shade around him closes;

Else he pipes fond airs to rings of girls, Wreathing, round him, purple pansies in their golden heads of curls

As the wethers with the ewes in time go wanton gam

Dowsabella, Dowsabella, whither are you going?

All alone along the meads where all the kine are lowing; Round the porch the white rose-buds, their rich creamheads out-blowing

Scents delicious, nod and beck, their fairest sister knowing; Winding down the long grey grass, where sing the men a-mowing,

Winds the downy river on, with water-weeds a-flowing Round the sedge and yellow flags, and here a rush up

growing;

Willows, too, where warblers swing, and fair flies sleep a-going

Gauzy wings, and gold and blue, and all so glimmery soft is showing

Dowsabel, sweet Dowsabel,

Prythee, whither are you going?

Satin green the girl was dress'd in,
Shimmering white as the silver soughs

All her thick light hair was tress'd in,
Big with blossom'd lilac boughs;

Tangling and weighing her rich dun tresses Down on the pearl-white rose of her brows.

Eke her kirtle loose a-slide,

Down her rounded lissom side,
Glided from her girdle tied

T' where her happy step and light
Hardly trod, but as alight

Giddy rose-leaves, red and white,
Dancing to the songs indite

Of some unseen zephyr sprite

That has lured them from their brambles,
And their kisses satisfied.

Thus she tripp'd along the sweet
Flowers a-bobbing at her feet,

As to fondle with mouths sweet-
Sweet the white-rose of her feet-

And to nestle in their dimples

Ere they curtsied her aside.

Dowsabel, sweet Dowsabel,
(She who loved, and loved so well),
Where the white-green fennel-bed