SONG.

I.

The stranger lighted from his steed,

And ere he spake a word, He seiz'd my lady's lilly hand,

And kiss'd it all unheard.

2.

The stranger walk'd into the hall,
And ere he spake a word,
He kiss'd my lady's cherry lips,
And kiss'd 'em all unheard.

3.

The stranger walk'd into the bower,

But my lady first did go,

Aye hand in hand into the bower,
Where my lord's roses blow.

4.

My lady's maid had a silken scarf,

And a golden ring had she,

And a kiss from the stranger, as off he went Again on his fair palfrey.

Asleep! O sleep a little while, white pearl!
And let me kneel, and let me pray to thee,
And let me call Heaven's blessing on thine eyes.
And let me breathe into the happy air,

That doth enfold and touch thee all about,

Vows of my slavery, my giving up,

My sudden adoration, my great love!

SHARING EVE'S APPLE.

I.

BLUSH not so! O blush not so! Or I shall think you knowing; And if you smile the blushing while, Then maidenheads are going.

2.

There's a blush for won't, and a blush for shan't,

And a blush for having done it :

There's a blush for thought and a blush for nought, And a blush for just begun it.

3.

O sigh not so! O sigh not so!

For it sounds of Eve's sweet pippin;

By these loosen'd lips you have tasted the pips
And fought in an amorous nipping.

4.

Will you play once more at nice-cut-core,
For it only will last our youth out,
And we have the prime of the kissing time,
We have not one sweet tooth out.

5.

There's a sigh for yes, and a sigh for no,
And a sigh for I can't bear it!

O what can be done, shall we stay or run?
O cut the sweet apple and share it!

SONG.

I

HAD a dove and the sweet dove died;

And I have thought it died of grieving:

O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied,
With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving;
Sweet little red feet! why should you die—
Why should you leave me, sweet bird! why?
You liv'd alone in the forest-tree,

Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me?
I kiss'd you oft and gave you white peas;
Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?

SONNET.

To a Lady seen for a few Moments at Vauxhall.

TIME'S sea hath been five years at its slow ebb,
Long hours have to and fro let creep the sand,
Since I was tangled in thy beauty's web,

And snared by the ungloving of thine hand.
And yet I never look on midnight sky,

But I behold thine eyes' well memory'd light;

I cannot look upon the rose's dye,

But to thy cheek my soul doth take its flight.
I cannot look on any budding flower,

But my fond ear, in fancy at thy lips
And harkening for a love-sound, doth devour

Its sweets in the wrong sense:-Thou dost eclipse Every delight with sweet remembering,

And grief unto my darling joys dost bring.

ACROSTIC:

Georgiana Augusta Keats.

GIVE

me your patience, sister, while I frame Exact in capitals your golden name;

Or sue the fair Apollo and he will

Rouse from his heavy slumber and instill

Great love in me for thee and Poesy.

5

Imagine not that greatest mastery

And kingdom over all the Realms of verse,

Nears more to heaven in aught, than when we nurse And surety give to love and Brotherhood.

Anthropophagi in Othello's mood;

ΙΟ

Ulysses storm'd and his enchanted belt

Glow with the Muse, but they are never felt
Unbosom'd so and so eternal made,

Such tender incense in their laurel shade

To all the regent sisters of the Nine

15

As this poor offering to you, sister mine.

Kind sister! aye, this third name says you are;
Enchanted has it been the Lord knows where;
And may it taste to you like good old wine,
Take you to real happiness and give
Sons, daughters and a home like honied hive.

20

SONNET.

On visiting the Tomb of Burns.

THE town, the churchyard, and the setting sun,

The clouds, the trees, the rounded hills all seem, Though beautiful, cold-strange—as in a dream, I dreamed long ago, now new begun.

The short-liv'd, paly Summer is but won

From Winter's ague, for one hour's gleam;
Though sapphire-warm, their stars do never beam:
All is cold Beauty; pain is never done :

For who has mind to relish, Minos-wise,

The Real of Beauty, free from that dead hue
Sickly imagination and sick pride

Cast wan upon it! Burns! with honour due

I oft have honour'd thee. Great shadow, hide

Thy face; I sin against thy native skies.

MEG MERRILIES.

十

I.

OLD MEG she was a Gipsy,
And liv'd upon the Moors:
Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
And her house was out of doors.

2.

Her apples were swart blackberries,
Her currants pods o' broom;

Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,
Her book a churchyard tomb.