Part 11 (2/2)

_Anonymous_.

FORCING A WAY

How many strive to force a way Where none can go save those who pay, To verdant plains of soft delight The homage of the silent night, When countless stars from pole to pole Around the earth unceasing roll In roseate shadow's silvery hue, s.h.i.+ne forth and gild the morning dew.

And must we really part for good, But meet again here where we've stood?

No more delightful trysting-place, We've watched sweet Nature's smiling face.

No more the landscape's lovely brow, Exchange our mutual breathing vow.

Then should the twilight draw around No loving interchange of sound.

Less for renown than innate love, These to my wish must recreant prove; Nor whilst an impulse here remain, Can ever hope the soul to gain; For memory scanning all the past, Relaxes her firm bonds at last, And gives to candor all the grace The heart can in its temple trace.

_Anonymous_.

THY HEART

Thy heart is like some icy lake, On whose cold brink I stand; Oh, buckle on my spirit's skate, And lead, thou living saint, the way To where the ice is thin-- That it may break beneath my feet And let a lover in!

_Anonymous_.

A LOVE-SONG BY A LUNATIC

There's not a spider in the sky, There's not a glowworm in the sea, There's not a crab that soars on high, But bids me dream, dear maid, of thee!

When watery Phoebus ploughs the main, When fiery Luna gilds the lea, As flies run up the window-pane, So fly my thoughts, dear love, to thee!

_Anonymous_.

THE PARTERRE

I don't know any greatest treat As sit him in a gay parterre, And sniff one up the perfume sweet Of every roses b.u.t.toning there.

It only want my charming miss Who make to blush the self red rose; Oh! I have envy of to kiss The end's tip of her splendid nose.

Oh! I have envy of to be What gra.s.s 'neath her pantoffle push, And too much happy seemeth me The margaret which her vestige crush.

But I will meet her nose at nose, And take occasion for her hairs, And indicate her all my woes, That she in fine agree my prayers.

THE ENVOY I don't know any greatest treat As sit him in a gay parterre, With Madame who is too more sweet Than every roses b.u.t.toning there.

_E.H. Palmer_

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