O sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes,
Down-dropped brown eyes, so tender!
Then what said I?-gallant replies
Seem flattery, and offend her:-
But,-meet we no angels, Pansie?

Thomas Ashe [1836-1889]

TO DAPHNE

LIKE apple-blossoms, white and red;
Like hues of dawn, which fly too soon;
Like bloom of peach, so softly spread;
Like thorn of May and rose of June-
Oh, sweet! oh, fair! beyond compare,
Are Daphne's cheeks,

Are Daphne's blushing checks, I swear.

That pretty rose, which comes and goes
Like April sunshine in the sky,

I can command it when I choose-
See how it rises if I cry:

Oh, sweet! oh, fair! beyond compare,
Are Daphne's cheeks,

Are Daphne's blushing cheeks, I swear.

Ah! when it lies round lips and eyes,
And fades away, again to spring,
No lover, sure, could ask for more

Than still to cry, and still to sing:
Oh, sweet! oh, fair! beyond compare,
Are Daphne's cheeks,

Are Daphne's blushing cheeks, I swear.

Walter Besant [1836-1901]

"GIRL OF THE RED MOUTH"

GIRL of the red mouth,

Love me! Love me!

Girl of the red mouth,

Love me!

The Daughter of Mendoza

'Tis by its curve, I know, Love fashioneth his bow, And bends it-ah, even so!

Oh, girl of the red mouth, love me!

Girl of the blue eye,

Love me! Love me!

Girl of the dew eye,

Love me!

Worlds hang for lamps on high;
And thought's world lives in thy
Lustrous and tender eye--

Oh, girl of the blue eye, love me!

Girl of the swan's neck,

Love me! Love me!

Girl of the swan's neck,
Love me!

As a marble Greek doth grow

To his steed's back of snow,

Thy white neck sits thy shoulder so,-
Oh, girl of the swan's neck, love me!

Like the echo of a bell,

Like the bubbling of a well,—

Sweeter! Love within doth dwell,—

551

Oh, girl of the low voice, love me!
Martin MacDermott [1823-1905]

THE DAUGHTER OF MENDOZA

O LEND to me, sweet nightingale,
Your music by the fountain,

And lend to me your cadences,
O river of the mountain!

That I may sing my gay brunette,
A diamond spark in coral set,
Gem for a prince's coronet—
The daughter of Mendoza.

How brilliant is the morning star,
The evening star how tender,-
The light of both is in her eyes,

Their softness and their splendor.
But for the lash that shades their light
They were too dazzling for the sight,
And when she shuts them, all is night—
The daughter of Mendoza.

O ever bright and beauteous one,
Bewildering and beguiling,
The lute is in thy silvery tones,
The rainbow in thy smiling;
And thine, is, too, o'er hill and dell,
The bounding of the young gazelle,

The arrow's flight and ocean's swell-
Sweet daughter of Mendoza!

What though, perchance, we no more meet,
What though too soon we sever?
Thy form will float like emerald light

Before my vision ever.

For who can see and then forget
The glories of my gay brunette-

Thou art too bright a star to set,

Sweet daughter of Mendoza!

Mirabeau Bonaparte Lamar [1798-1859]

"IF SHE BE MADE OF WHITE AND RED"

If she be made of white and red,
As all transcendent beauty shows;
If heaven be blue above her head,
And earth be golden, as she goes:
Nay, then thy deftest words restrain;
Tell not that beauty, it is vain.

"When First I Saw Her"

If she be filled with love and scorn,
As all divinest natures are;

If 'twixt her lips such words are born,
As can but Heaven or Hell confer:
Bid Love be still, nor ever speak,

Lest he his own rejection seek.

553

Then might I pass her sunny face,
And know not it was fair;

Then might I hear her voice, nor guess
Her starry eyes were there.

Ah! banished so from stars and sun-
Why need it be my fate?

If only she might dream me good

And wise, and be my mate!

Lend her thy fillet, Love!
Let her no longer see:

If there is hope for me at all,
She must be blind like thee.

Edward Rowland Sill [1841-1887]

"WHEN FIRST I SAW HER'

WHEN first I saw her, at the stroke
The heart of nature in me spoke;
The very landscape smiled more sweet,
Lit by her eyes, pressed by her feet;
She made the stars of heaven more bright

By sleeping under them at night;
And fairer made the flowers of May

By being lovelier than they.

O, soft, soft, where the sunshine spread,
Dark in the grass I laid my head;
And let the lights of earth depart
To find her image in my heart;

Then through my being came and went
Tones of some heavenly instrument,
As if where its blind motions roll

The world should wake and be a soul.
George Edward Woodberry [1855-

MY APRIL LADY

WHEN down the stair at morning
The sun-rays round her float,
Sweet rivulets of laughter

Are bubbling in her throat;
The gladness of her greeting
Is gold without alloy;
And in the morning sunlight
I think her name is Joy.

When in the evening twilight
The quiet book-room lies,
We read old songs of sorrow,
While from her hidden eyes
The tears are falling, falling,
That give her heart relief;
And in the shadowy twilight,
I think her name is Grief.

My little April lady!

Of sunshine and of showers
She weaves the old spring magic,

And breaks my heart in flowers:
But when her moods are ended,
She nestles like a dove;
Then, by the pain and rapture,
I know her name is Love.

Henry Van Dyke (1852–