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It fell upon a little western flower,-
Before, milk-white; now purple with love's

wound,

And maidens call it, love-in-idleness.

WILLIAM SHAKSPERE.

YESTERDAY.

"ESTERDAY, darling-only yesterday,

WHY NOT?

WHEN woman loves, and will not show it,

I asked a scholar, and a poet,

But neither wise fool seemed to know it;
So, lady, I ask you.

Were you in love (let me suppose it),

What should your lover do?

The heavens were bright, and all the on why yo, love, to han disclose it,

You know him and he knows it;

earth was fair;

Love's golden radiance fell upon our way-
Love's dreamy music filled the scented air:

A thousand wild flowers trembled round our

feet,

We saw the lilac boughs above us sway; And heard the woodlark singing high and sweet,

Yesterday, darling-only yesterday.

Yesterday, darling-only yesterday,

With lips apart and hair of russet brown, You came, dear heart, across the flower-decked way,

Sweeping the grasses with your trailing
gown;

Upon your cheek there was a wild-rose glow,
And in your eyes there was a sunset ray;
You came with arms outstretched-you loved

me so,

Yesterday, darling-only yesterday.

Yesterday, darling-only yesterday,

A soft breeze stealing from the sunny south
Blew from your brow the tangled fringe away,
And wooed the kisses from your crimson
mouth;

The boughs caressed you as you came along,
The red sun kissed you with its parting ray,
The woodlark praised you in his happy song,
Yesterday, darling-only yesterday.

Yesterday, darling-only yesterday;

Ah, me! ah, me! but yesterday is-dead: The sun still shines across the flower-decked way,

And still the woodlark warbles overhead; But in the shadows of a great despair,

I weep, dear heart, upon the weary way, For love's bright dream, that made the earth so fair

Yesterday, darling-only yesterday.
M. M. FORRESTER.

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In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dy'd. The lily I condemned for thy hand,

And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair: The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,

One blushing shame, another white despair; A third, nor red nor white had stolen of both. And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath; But for his theft, in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see. But sweet or colour it had stolen from thee. WILLIAM SHAKSPERE.

SONG.

(From "Merchant of Venice," Act III., Scene 2.)
ELL me, where is fancy bred,
Or in the heart, or in the head?
How begot, how nourished?

Reply. It is engender'd in the eyes,
With gazing fed; and fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies:
Let us all ring fancy's knell;
I'll begin it,Ding, dong, bell.

All. Ding, dong, bell.

WILLIAM SHAKSPERE.

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KNOW, not, love, when first you found me,
What instinct led you here:

I know the world has changed around me
Since once you came so near.

I yield a thousand claims to nourish this,
At last the dearest hope, the nearest tie;
And looking but to you for happiness,
Happy am I.

How lightly passed the maiden leisure
That youth and freedom chose,
The careless days of peace and pleasure,
The nights of pure repose!

So swift a touch could set the tune amiss!
So brief a shadow blot the morning sky!
Yet if the heart be made for happiness,
Happy am I.

O love, your coming taught me trouble;

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E'en so-but why the tale reveal

Of those, whom year by year unchanged, Brief absence joined anew to feel,

Astounded, soul from soul estranged.

At dead of night their sails were filled,
And onward each rejoicing steered-
Ah, neither blame, for neither willed,

Or wist, what first with dawn appeared!

To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,

Brave barks! In light and darkness too. Through winds and tides one compass guidesTo that, and your own selves, be true.

But, O blithe breeze! and O great seas,
Though ne'er that earliest parting past,
On your wide plain they join again,
Together lead them home at last.

One port, methought, alike they sought,
One purpose bold where'er they fare,-

O bounding breeze, O rushing seas!

At last, at last, unite them there.

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

THE CHESS-BOARD.

Y little love, do you remember, Ere we were grown so sadly wise, Those evenings in the bleak December, Curtained warm from the snowy weather, When you and I played chess together, Checkmated by each other's eyes? Ah! still I see your soft white hand

Hovering warm o'er queen and knight; Brave pawns in valiant battle stand; The double castles guard the wings; The bishop, bent on distant things, Moves sidling through the fight. Our fingers touch, our glances meet

And falter, falls your golden hair Against my cheek; your bosom sweet Is heaving; down the field, your queen

Rides slow her soldiery all between,
And checks me unaware.

Ah me! the little battle's done,
Dispersed is all its chivalry.
Full many a move since then, have we
'Mid life's perplexing checkers made,
And many a game with fortune played—
What is it we have won ?

This, this, at least-if this alone-
That never, never, never more,
As in those old, still nights of yore-
Ere we were grown so sadly wise-
Can you and I shut out the skies,
Shut out the world and wintry weather,

And eyes exchanging warmth with eyes, Play chess as then we played together!

EDWARD ROBERT, EARL LYTTON. (Owen Meredith.")

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EDWARD ROBERT, EARL LYTTON.

"TAKE, OH TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY."

Also found in (From "The Passionate Pilgrim."" "Measure for Measure, "Act IV., Scene 1. It occurs in the Rollo" of Beaumont and Fletcher, to whom it is often attributed.)

MAKE, oh take those lips away,

That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn!
But my kisses bring again,
Seals of love, but sealed in vain!
WILLIAM SHAKSPERE

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