In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell,—
Which were blackest none could tell :
But long lashes veil'd a light
That had else been all too bright.

And her hat with shady brim
Made her tressy forehead dim:
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks.

Sure, I said, heaven did not mean
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean :
Lay thy sheaf adown, and come!
Share my harvest and my home!

THE TIME OF ROSES.

It was not in the winter

Our loving lot was cast:

It was the Time of Roses,

We pluck'd them as we pass'd.

That churlish season never frown'd
On early lovers yet:

O no! the world was newly crown'd
With flowers when first we met.

'Twas twilight, and I bade you go;
But still you held me fast:

It was the Time of Roses,—

We pluck'd them as we pass'd.

What else could peer thy glowing cheek, That tears began to stud?

And when I ask'd the like of Love,

You snatch'd a damask bud,

And oped it to the dainty core,

Still glowing to the last.

It was the Time of Roses :

We pluck'd them as we pass'd.

CHARLES WELLS.

1800-1879.

SONG.

Kiss no more the Vintages,

Thou hot-lipp'd Sun!
Flow no more the merry wine

From the dark tun!

Above my bed hang dull nightshade,
And o'er my brows the willow!
With maiden flowers from dewy bowers
Cover my last pillow!

Away! away to the green sward!
My young heart breaks :

Break the earth, and lay me deep!
Love my breath takes.

Angels! pity, and hear this ditty
Breathed from a poor girl's lips:
O'er her lover ever hover,
Scattering earthly bliss!

Come, thou iron-crowned Death!

Into my stretched arms, Bridegroom to my maiden breast;

End my sad alarms!

Lead on, lead on, thou Love of Bone!

Over the heath wild;

And 'neath the grass secure fast

Thy melancholy child!

SIR HENRY TAYLOR.

1800

SONG.

The morning broke, and Spring was there,
And lusty Summer near her birth;
The birds awoke and waked the air,

The flowers awoke and waked the earth.

"Up!" quoth he: "what joy for me,
On dewy plain, in budding brake!
A sweet bird sings on every tree,
And flowers are sweeter, for my sake."

Lightly o'er the plain he stepp'd,

Lightly brush'd he through the wood, And snared a little bird that slept

And had not waken'd when she should.

Lightly through the wood he brush'd
Lightly stepp'd he o'er the plain :
And yet a little flower was crush'd
That never raised its head again.

WILLIAM BARNES.

1801

NOT FAR TO GO.

As upland fields were sun-burn'd brown,
And heat-dried brooks were running small,
And sheep were gather'd, panting all,

Below the hawthorn on the down,-
The while my mare, with dipping head,
Pull'd on my cart, above the bridge,—
I saw come on, beside the ridge,
A maiden white in skin and thread,
And walking, with an elbow load,
The way I drove along my road.

As there with comely steps up-hill

She rose, by elm trees all in ranks,
From shade to shade, by flowery banks
Where flew the bird with whistling bill,—
I kindly said-" Now won't you ride,
This burning weather, up the knap?
I have a seat that fits the trap,
And now is swung from side to side."
"O no!" she cried,-" I thank you, no!
I've little further now to go."

Then, up the timber'd slope, I found
The prettiest house a good day's ride
Would bring you by, with porch and side
By rose and jessamine well bound;
And near at hand a spring and pool,
With lawn well-sunn'd and bower cool :
And, while the wicket fell behind

Her steps, I thought-If I would find
A wife I need not blush to show
I've little further now to go.

MY FORE-ELDERS.

When from the child, that still is led
By hand, a father's hand is gone,—
Or when a few-year'd mother dead

Has left her children growing on,-
When men have left their children staid,
And they again have boy and maid,—
O, can they know, as years may roll,
Their children's children, soul by soul?
If this with souls in heaven can be,
Do my fore-elders know of me?

My elders' elders, man and wife,

Were borne full early to the tomb,

With children still in childhood life

To play with butterfly or bloom.
And did they see the seasons mould
Their faces on, from young to old,
As years might bring them, turn by turn,
A time to laugh or time to mourn?
If this with souls in heaven can be,
Do my fore-elders know of me?

How fain I now would walk the floor
Within their mossy porch's bow,
Or linger by their church's door,

Or road that bore them to and fro,
Or nook where once they built their mow,
Or gateway open to their plough

(Though now indeed no gate is swung That their live hands had ever hung),— If I could know that they would see Their child's late child, and know of me.

JOHN HENRY NEWMAN.

1801

THE ELEMENTS.

(A tragic chorus.)

Man is permitted much

To scan and learn

In Nature's frame :

Till he well-nigh can tame

Brute mischiefs, and can touch
Invisible things, and turn

All warring ills to purposes of good.

Thus, as a God below,

He can controul

And harmonize what seems amiss to flow

As sever'd from the whole

And dimly understood.