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!

O, heedless pair of sportsmen slack!
You never mark, though trout or jack,
Or little foolish tickleback,

Your baited snares may capture.
What care has she for line and hook ?
She turns her back upon the brook,
Upon her lover's eyes to look
In sentimental rapture.

O loving pair! as thus I gaze
Upon the girl who smiles always,
The little hand that ever plays

Upon the lover's shoulder;
In looking at your pretty shapes,
A sort of envious wish escapes
(Such as the Fox had for the Grapes)
The Poet your beholder.

To be brave, handsome, twenty-two;
With nothing else on earth to do,
But all day long to bill and coo;
It were a pleasant calling.

And had I such a partner sweet;
A tender heart for mine to beat,
A gentle hand my clasp to meet;-
I'd let the world flow at my feet,

And never heed its brawling.

RONSARD TO HIS MISTRESS.

"Quand vous serez bien vieille, le soir à la chandelle Assise auprès du feu devisant et filant

Direz, chantant mes vers en vous esmerveillant, Ronsard m'a célébré du temps que j'étois belle."

SOME winter night, shut snugly in
Beside the fagot in the hall,
I think I see you sit and spin,
Surrounded by your maidens all.
Old tales are told, old songs are sung,
Old days come back to memory;
You say, "When I was fair and young,
A poet sang of me!"

There's not a maiden in your hall,
Though tired and sleepy ever so,
But wakes, as you my name recall,
And longs the history to know.
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,

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.