The Serenade.

    Under my casement, as I pray,
    My lover sings my cares away
    With many a half-forgotten lay.

    He leans against the linden-tree,
    And sings old songs of Arcady
    That he knows well are loved by me.

    Half through the night the sweet strains float
    Like wind-blown rose-leaves, note by note,
    Over the great wall and the moat,

    Up to my window, till they teem
    Into my soul, and almost seem
    To be there even when I dream.

    And his heart trembling beats with bliss
    If I but throw him one small kiss
    Just as I now throw this, and this

To the Rose in her hair.

    Poor little rose, I pity you—­
      Sweet as Oporto’s wind when fruity—­
    Tortured an evil hour or two,
      Just to adorn a wilful beauty.

    I know her well, too well, alas! 
      (Just watch the fairy as she dances.)
    She wears my heart—­but let that pass;
      It’s dead:  she killed it with her glances.

    Your fate, poor rose, is such as mine,—­
      To be despised when you are faded;
    Yet she’s an angel—­too divine
      To be by you or me upbraided.

Her Reverie.

    A lady combed her silken hair. 
    None but a looking-glass would dare
      To gaze on such a scene. 
    The blushes thronged her dimpled cheek;
    They coursed upon her shoulders, eke,
      And the white neck between.

    And she was thinking then, I trow,
    Of one who, in a whispered vow
      Beneath the budding elm,
    Had told her they would sail their barque
    On lakes where pale stars pierced the dark,
      With Cupid at the helm.

    Anon, a faint smile pursed her lips
    And shook her dainty finger-tips,
      As breezes shake the boughs;
    And then a quick, impetuous frown
    Came gathering from her ringlets down,
      And perched upon her brows.

    Ah, she was thinking then, I ween,
    Of me, poor clumsy dunce, who e’en
      Had torn her silken dress. 
    I waltzed too near her at the ball;
    Her beauty dazed me—­that was all;
      I felt a dizziness.

To Beauty.

    “Oh, Mistress Beauty,” said my sigh,
      “I’d laugh to scorn all other blisses,
    If you and I might live and die
      Together on such fare as kisses.

    “Your kirtle would not be of silk,
      The band around it but torn leather. 
    I think our wine would be plain milk;
      I think we’d oft see stormy weather.

    “But, oh, there are some things in life
      Worth more to men than fame or money;
    And one of them’s a sweet young wife,
      So pure, so honest, and so bonnie.”

Dreaming of You.

    My soul feels refreshed, like a rose kissed by dew,
    When waking I know I’ve been dreaming of you.