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 !) 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 caged 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, Get up and peep, and preen their wing, Sheveling out her braids of hair, And bare-foot tripping adown the stair, 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, Long white blossoms to sweet-briar; 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! Stocks and lupins blue in ribbands string; 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,- Satin green the girl was dress'd in, All her thick light hair was tress'd in, 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, Of some unseen zephyr sprite That has lured them from their brambles, Thus she tripp'd along the sweet As to fondle with mouths sweet- Dowsabel, sweet Dowsabel, |