LOVE-SONGS MADE EASY.

WHAT MAKES MY HEART TO THRILL AND GLOW?

THE MAYFAIR LOVE-SONG.

WINTER and summer, night and morn,
I languish at this table dark;
My office window has a corn-

er looks into St. James's Park.
I hear the foot-guards' bugle-horn,
Their tramp upon parade I mark;
I am a gentleman forlorn,

I am a Foreign-Office Clerk.

My toils, my pleasures, every one,

I find are stale, and dull, and slow;
And yesterday, when work was done,
I felt myself so sad and low,

I could have seized a sentry's gun
My wearied brains out out to blow.
What is it makes my blood to run?

What makes my heart to beat and glow?

My notes of hand are burnt, perhaps?
Some one has paid my tailor's bill?
No: every morn the tailor raps;
My IO U's are extant still.
I still am prey of debt and dun;

My elder brother's stout and well.

What is it makes my blood to run?
What makes my heart to glow and swell?

I know my chief's distrust and hate;
He says I'm lazy and I shirk.
Ah! had I genius like the late

Right Honorable Edmund Burke !
My chance of all promotion's gone,
I know it is,-he hates me so.
What is it makes my blood to run,
And all my heart to swell and glow?
Why, why is all so bright and gay?
There is no change, there is no cause;
My office-time I found to-day
Disgusting as it ever was.

At three, I went and tried the Clubs,
And yawned and saunter'd to and fro;
And now my heart jumps up and throbs,
And all my soul is in a glow.

At half-past four I had the cab;
I drove as hard as I could go.
The London sky was dirty drab,
And dirty brown the London snow.
And as I rattled in a cant-

er down by dear old Bolton Row,

A something made my heart to pant,

And caused my cheek to flush and glow.

What could it be that made me find

Old Jawkins pleasant at the Club? Why was it that I laughed and grinned At whist, although I lost the rub? What was it made me drink like mad Thirteen small glasses of Curaçao ? That made my inmost heart so glad, And every fibre thrill and glow?

She's home again! she's home, she's home!
Away all cares and griefs and pain;
I knew she would-she's back from Rome;
She's home again! she's home again!
"The family's gone abroad," they said,
September last-they told me so;
Since then my lonely heart is dead,
My blood, I think's forgot to flow.

She's home again! Away all care!

O fairest form the world can show!
O beaming eyes! O golden hair!

O tender voice, that breathes so low !
O gentlest, softest, purest heart!

O joy, O hope!"My tiger, ho!"
Fitz-Clarence said; we saw him start-
He galloped down to Bolton Row.

THE GHAZUL, OR ORIENTAL LOVESONG.

THE ROCKS.

I WAS a timid little antelope;

My home was in the rocks, the lonely rocks.

I saw the hunters scouring on the plain;
I lived among the rocks, the lonely rocks.

I was a-thirsty in the summer-heat ;

I ventured to the tents beneath the rocks.

Zuleikah! brought me water from the well; Since then I have been faithless to the rocks.

I saw her face reflected in the well;
Her camels since have marched into the rocks.

I look to see her image in the well;
I only see my eyes, my own sad eyes.
My mother is alone among the rocks.

THE MERRY BARD.

ZULEIKAH! The young Agas in the bazaar are slim-waisted and wear yellow slippers. I am old and hideous. One of my eyes is out, and the hairs of my beard are mostly gray. Praise be to Allah! I am a merry bard.

There is a bird upon the terrace of the Emir's chief wife. Praise be to Allah! He has emeralds on his neck, and a ruby tail. I am a merry bard. He deafens me with his diabolical screaming.

There is a little brown bird in the basketmaker's cage. Praise be to Allah! He ravishes my soul in the moonlight. I am a merry bard.

The peacock is an Aga, but the little bird is a Bulbul.

I am a little brown Bulbul. Come and listen in the moonlight. Praise be to Allah! I am a

merry bard.

THE CAÏQUE.

YONDER to the kiosk, beside the creek,

Paddle the swift caïque.

Thou brawny oarsman with the sun-burnt cheek, Quick! for it soothes my heart to hear the Bulbul speak.

Ferry me quickly to the Asian shores,
Swift bending to your oars.

Beneath the melancholy sycamores,

Hark! what a ravishing note the love-lorn Bulbul pours!

Behold, the boughs seem quivering with delight, The stars themselves more bright,

As mid the waving branches out of sight

The Lover of the Rose sits singing through the night.

Under the boughs I sat and listened still,
I could not have my fill.

"How comes," I said, "such music to his bill? Tell me for whom he sings so beautiful a trill."

"Once I was dumb," then did the Bird disclose, "But looked upon the Rose;

And in the garden where the loved one grows,
I straightway did begin sweet music to compose.'

"O bird of song, there's one in this caïque
The Rose would also seek,

So he might learn like you to love and speak." Then answered me the bird of dusky beak,

"The Rose, the Rose of Love blushes on Leilah's cheek."

MY NORA.

BENEATH the gold acacia buds
My gentle Nora sits and broods,
Far, far away in Boston woods
My gentle Nora!