Tell me how many times it has known pain;
      Tell me what thing will make it feel delight;
    Tell me when it is modest, when ’tis vain;
      Tell me when it is wrong and when ’tis right: 
    But tell me this, all other things above,—­
    Can it feel, Sage, the thing that man calls “Love”?

To Phyllis Reading a Letter.

    A smile is curving o’er her creamy cheek,
      Her bosom swells with all a lover’s joy,
      When love receives a message that the coy
    Young love-god made a strong and true heart speak
    From far-off lands; and like a mountain-peak
      That loses in one avalanche its cloy
      Of ice and snow, so doth her breast employ
    Its hidden store of blushes; and they wreak
    Destruction, as they crush my aching heart,—­
      Destruction, wild, relentless, and as sure
    As the poor Alpine hamlet’s; and no art
      Can hide my agony, no herb can cure
    My wound.  Her very blush says, “We must part.” 
      Why was it always my fate to endure?

A Rose from her hair.

    She gave me a rose from her hair,
      And she hid her young heart within it. 
    I could hardly speak from despair,
    Till she gave that rose from her hair,
    And leaned out over the stair
      With a blush as she stooped to pin it. 
    She gave me a rose from her hair,
      And she hid her young heart within it.

When I told her my Love.

    When I told her my love,
      She was maidenly shy,
    And she bit at her glove.

    I gave Cupid a shove;
      Yes, I begged him to try,
    When I told her my love

    What was she thinking of
      As she uttered that sigh
    And she bit at her glove?

    And pray what does it prove
      That she stopped there to sigh,
    When I told her my love
    And she bit at her glove?

My Lady, you Blushed.

    My lady, you blushed. 
      Was my love a surprise? 
    How quickly they hushed!

    A curl of yours brushed
      All else from my eyes. 
    My lady, you blushed.

    You say that I gushed,
      And they all heard my sighs? 
    How quickly they hushed!

    Your roses were crushed;
      N’importe wherefores and whys. 
    My lady, you blushed.

The American Slave.

    Come, muster your pleasantest smile, my dear,
      And put on your prettiest gown. 
    Forget about Jack for a while, my dear,
      His lordship has just come to town.

    He’s come here to get him a wife, my dear,
      And you have been put up for sale
    With a marvellous income for life, my dear,
      To balance your side of the scale.

    His lordship is feeble and old, my dear,—­
      What odds?  All the sooner he’ll die. 
    And he has a sore need of your gold, my dear: 
      See the good you can do if you’ll try.