112 WE PARTED IN SADNESS. Each felt that the past we could never recover, Each felt that the future no hope could re store; She shudder'd at wringing the heart of her lover, I dared not to say I must meet her no more. Long years have gone by, and the spring-time smiles ever, As o'er our young loves it first smiled in their birth. Long years have gone by, yet that parting, O! never Can it be forgotten by either on earth. The note of each wild bird that carols toward heaven, Must tell her of swift-winged hopes that were mine, And the dew that steals over each blossom at even, Tells me of the tear-drop that wept their decline. HOFFMAN. ROSALIE CLARE. WHO owns not she's peerless, who calls her not fair, Who questions the beauty of ROSALIE CLARE? Let him saddle his courser and spur to the field, And though harnessed in proof he must perish or yield; For no gallant can splinter, no charger may dare The lance that is couched for young ROSALIE CLARE. When goblets are flowing, and wit at the board Sparkles high, while the blood of the red grape is pour'd, And fond wishes for fair ones around offer'd up From each lip that is wet from the dew of the cup, What name on the brimmer floats oftener there, Or is whisper'd more warmly, than ROSALIE CLARE? They may talk of the land of the olive and vine, Of the maids of the Ebro, the Arno, or Rhine; Of the houris that gladden the East with their smiles, Where the sea's studded over with green summer isles: H But what flower of far-away clime can compare With the blossom of ours-bright ROSALIE CLARE? Who owns she's not peerless, who calls her not fair? Let him meet but the glances of ROSALIE CLARE! Let him list to her voice, let him gaze on her form, And if, seeing and hearing, his soul do not warm, Let him go breathe it out in some less happy air Than that which is blessed by sweet ROSALIE CLARE. CHARLES. SONG. UNLESS with my Amanda bless'd, Awaken'd by the genial year, In vain the birds around me sing; THOMSON. THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. COME live with me, and be my love, And we will sit upon the rocks, And I will make thee beds of roses, A gown made of the finest wool, Fair lined slippers for the cold, A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs ;- 116 THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD. MARLOWE. THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD. IF all the world and Love were young, Time drives the flock from field to fold, The flowers do fade, and wanton fields Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, |