ELL me what thou lovest best?
Vernal motion? Summer rest?
Winter, with his merry rhymes?
Or the grand Autumnal times?
Dost thou Saxon beauty prize?
Or, in England, love-lit eyes?
Or the brown Parisian's grace?
Or the warm-soul'd Bordelaise?
Or the forehead broad and clear,
Which the Italian Damas wear,
Braiding round their night-black hair,
Circe-like? Or the Spanish air,

Where the Moor has mixed his blood
With the dull Castilian flood,

Giving life to sleepy pride?

Tell me, where would'st thou abide,

Choosing for thyself a season,

And a mate,-for sweet love's reason?

Question and Reply.

Nought for country should I care,
So my mate were true and fair:
But for her-O! she should be
(Thus far I'll confess to thee)-
Like a bud when it is blowing;
Like a brook when it is flowing;
(Marr'd by neither heat nor cold);
Fashion'd in the lily's mould,
Stately, queen-like, very fair;
With a motion like the air;
Glances full of morning light,
When the morn is not too bright;
With a forehead marble pale,
When sad pity tells her tale;
And a soft scarce tinted cheek,
(Flushing but when she doth speak);
For her voice 't should have a tone
Sweetest when with me alone;

And Love himself should seek his nest

Within the fragrance of her breast!

BARRY CORNWALL.

13

SK me not how much I love thee !

Do not question why!

I have told thee the tale

In the evening pale,

With a tear, and a sigh!

I told thee when love was hopeless;
But now he is wild and sings-

That the stars above

Shine ever on Love,

Oh, a king would have loved and left thee, And away thy sweet love cast;

But I am thine

Whilst the stars shall shine,

To the last-to the last!

BARRY CORNWALL.

T

HE summer brook flows in the bed

The winter torrent tore asunder;
The skylark's gentle wings are spread

Where walk the lightning and the thunder:
And thus you'll find the sternest soul
The gayest tenderness concealing,
And minds that seem to mock control,
Are order'd by some fairy feeling.

Then, maiden! start not from the hand
That's harden'd by the swaying sabre-
The pulse beneath may be as bland
A's evening after day of labour:

And, maiden! start not from the brow

That thought has knit, and passion darken'd

In twilight hours, 'neath forest bough,

The tenderest tales are often hearken'd.

THOMAS DAVIS.

SONG.

WANDER'D by the brook side,
I wander'd by the mill,

I could not hear the brook flow,

The noisy wheel was still.
There was no burr of grasshopper,
No chirp of any bird,

But the beating of my own heart,
Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm tree,

I watch'd the long, long shade,
And as it grew still longer,

I did not feel afraid.
For I listen'd for a footfall,

I listen'd for a word,

But the beating of my own heart,
Was all the sound I heard.

He came not-no, he came not,
The night came on alone,
The little stars sat one by one,

Each on his golden throne;