Would I had loved thee never,
Florence Vane!

But, fairest, coldest, wonder!
Thy glorious clay

Lieth the green sod under,

Alas, the day!

And it boots not to remember
Thy disdain;

To quicken love's pale ember,
Florence Vane.

The lilies of the valley

By young graves weep,

The daisies love to dally

Where maidens sleep;

May their bloom, in beauty vying,

Never wane

Where thine earthly part is lying, Florence Vane!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

1809.

LA GRISETTE.

Ан, Clemence! when I saw thee last
Trip down the Rue de Seine,
And turning, when thy form had passed,

I said, "We meet again,'

I dreamed not in that idle glance

Thy latest image came,

And only left to memory's trance
A shadow and a name.

The few, strange words my lips had taught
Thy timid voice to speak;

Their gentler sighs, which often brought
Fresh roses to thy cheek;

The trailing of thy long, loose hair
Bent o'er my couch of pain,

All, all returned, more sweet, more fair;
O, had we met again!

I walked where saint and virgin keep
The vigil lights of Heaven,

I knew that thou hadst woes to weep,
And sins to be forgiven;

I watched where Genevieve was laid,

I knelt by Mary's shrine,

Beside me low, soft voices prayed;

Alas! but where was thine?

And when the morning sun was bright,
When wind and wave were calm,
And flamed, in thousand-tinted light,
The rose of Notre Dame,

I wandered through the haunts of men,
From Boulevard to Quai,

Till, frowning o'er Saint Etienne,
The Pantheon's shadow lay.

In vain, in vain; we meet no more,
Nor dream what fates befall;
And long upon the stranger's shore
My voice on thee may call,

When years have clothed the line in moss
That tells thy name and days,

And withered, on thy simple cross,

The wreaths of Père-la-Chaise !

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

1802-1839.

JOSEPHINE.

We did not meet in courtly hall,
Where Birth and Beauty throng,

Where Luxury holds festival,

And Wit awakes the song;

We met where darker spirits meet,
In the home of Sin and Shame,
Where Satan shows his cloven feet,
And hides his titled name;

And she knew she could not be, Love,
What once she might have been,
But she was kind to me, Love,
My pretty Josephine.

We did not part beneath the sky,
As warmer lovers part,

Where Night conceals the glistening eye,
But not the throbbing heart;

We parted on that spot of ground

Where first we laughed at love,

And ever the jests were loud around,
And the lamps were bright above:
"The heaven is very dark, Love,
The blast is very keen,

But merrily rides my bark, Love,

Good night, my Josephine!"

She did not speak of ring or vow,

But filled the cup with wine, And took the roses from her brow

To make a wreath for mine;

And bade me, when the gale should lift

My light skiff on the wave,

To think as little of the gift,

As of the hand that gave:

"Go gaily o'er the sea, Love,

And find your own heart's queen;

And look not back to me, Love,

Your humble Josephine!"

That garland breathes and blooms no more, Past are those idle hours;

I would not, could I choose, restore

The fondness or the flowers;

Yet oft their withered witchery
Revives its wonted thrill,
Remembered, not with Passion's sigh,
But O, remembered still:

And even from your side, Love,
And even from this scene,

One look is o'er the tide, Love,
One thought with Josephine!

Alas! your lips are rosier,

Your eyes of softer blue,

And I have never felt for her,

As I have felt for you;

Our love was like the snow-flakes,

Which melt before you pass,

Or the bubble on the wine, which breaks Before you lip the glass.

You saw these eyelids wet, Love,

Which she has never seen;

But let me not forget, Love,

My poor, poor Josephine!