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"Hush in the canal below
Don't you hear the plash of oars
Underneath the lantern's glow,
And a thrilling voice begins
To the sound of mandolins ?
Begins singing of amore
And delire and dolore-
O the ravishing tenore !

Lady, do you know the tune?
Ah, we all of us have hummed it!
I've an old guitar has thrummed it,
Under many a changing moon.
Shall I try it? Do RE MI.
What is this? Ma foi, the fact is,
That my hand is out of practice,
And my poor old fiddle cracked is,
And a man - I let the truth out,
Who's had almost every tooth out,
Cannot sing as once he sung,
When he was young as you are young,
When he was young and lutes were
strung,

-

And love-lamps in the casement hung."

LUCY'S BIRTHDAY.
SEVENTEEN rosebuds in a ring,
Thick with sister flowers beset,
In a fragrant coronet,
Lucy's servants this day bring.
Be it the birthday wreath she wears
Fresh and fair, and symbolling
The young number of her years,
The sweet blushes of her spring.

Types of youth and love and hope!
Friendly hearts your mistress greet,
Be you ever fair and sweet,
And grow lovelier as you ope!

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No better divan need the Sultan re- | It was but a moment she sat in this

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PISCATOR AND PISCATRIX. LINES WRITTEN TO AN ALBUM PRINT.

As on this pictured page I look,
This pretty tale of line and hook
As though it were a novel-book

Amuses and engages:

I know them both, the boy and girl;
She is the daughter of the Earl,
The lad (that has his hair in curl)

My lord the County's page is,

A pleasant place for such a pair!
The fields lie basking in the glare;
No breath of wind the heavy air
Of lazy summer quickens.

Hard by you see the castle tall; The village nestles round the wall, As round about the hen its small

Young progeny of chickens.

It is too hot to pace the keep;
To climb the turret is too steep;
My lord the earl is dozing deep,

His noonday dinner over: The postern-warder is asleep (Perhaps they've bribed him not to peep):

And so from out the gate they creep,
And cross the fields of clover.

Their lines into the brook they launch;
He lays his cloak upon a branch,
To guarantee his Lady Blanche

's delicate complexion :

He takes his rapier from his haunch, That beardless doughty champion staunch;

He'd drill it through the rival's paunch

That question'd his affection!

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THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY.

THE rose upon my balcony the morning air perfuming,

Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the spring;

You ask me why her breath is sweet, and why her cheek is blooming, It is because the sun is out and birds begin to sing.

The nightingale, whose melody is through the greenwood ringing, Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds were blowing keen:

And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing,

It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green.

Thus each performs his part, Mamına;

the birds have found their voices, The blowing rose a flush, Mamına, her bonny cheek to dye;

And there's sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which wakens and rejoices,

And so I sing and blush, Mamına, and that's the reason why.

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And, as the piteous tale is said,
Of lady cold and lover true,
Each, musing, carries it to bed,
And sighs and envies you!

"Our lady's old and feeble now,"
They'll say; "she once was fresh
and fair,

And yet she spurn'd her lover's vow,
And heartless left him to despair :
The lover lies in silent earth,

No kindly mate the lady cheers;
She sits beside a lonely hearth,

With threescore and ten years!"

Ah! dreary thoughts and dreams are those,

But wherefore yield me to despair, Ho, While yet the poet's bosom glows,

While yet the dame is peerless fair! Sweet lady mine! while yet 'tis time Requite my passion and my truth, And gather in their blushing prime The roses of your youth!

AT THE CHURCH GATE.

ALTHOUGH I enter not,
Yet round about the spot

Ofttimes I hover:
And near the sacred gate,
With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.

The Minster bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,

And noise and humming:
They've hush'd the Minster bell :
The organ 'gins to swell :

She's coming, she's coming!

My lady comes at last,
Timid, and stepping fast,

And hastening hither,

With modest eyes downcast :
She comes she's here

she's past-

May heaven go with her!

Kneel, undisturb'd, fair Saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and duly ;

I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,
Lingering a minute

Like outcast spirits who wait
And see through heaven's gate
Angels within it.

THE AGE OF WISDOM.

pretty page, with the dimpled chin,

That never has known the Barber's
shear,

All your wish is woman to win,
This is the way that boys begin,
Wait till you come to Forty Year.

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