AT THE CHURCH GATE.

ALTHOUGH I enter not,
Yet round about the spot
Ofttimes I hover;

And near the sacred gate,
With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.

The minster bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,

And noise and humming;
They've hush'd the minster bell:

The organ 'gins to swell:

She's coming, she's coming!

My lady comes at last,

Timid, and stepping fast,

And hastening hither,

With modest eyes downcast :
She comes-she's here-she's past-
May Heaven go with her!

Kneel undisturb'd, fair saint!

Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and duly;

I will not enter there,

To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace

Round the forbidden place,

Lingering a minute,

Like outcast spirits who wait
And see through heaven's gate
Angels within it.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

NOCTURNE.

BELLAGGIO.

UP to her chamber window
A slight wire trellis goes,
And up this Romeo's ladder
Clambers a bold white rose.

I lounge in the ilex shadows,
I see the lady lean,
Unclasping her silken girdle,
The curtain's folds between.

She smiles on her white-rose lover,
She reaches out her hand,
And helps him in at the window--
I see it where I stand!

To her scarlet lips she holds him,
And kisses him many a time—
Ah, me! it was he that won her
Because he dared to climb!

T. B. ALDRICH.

But now her looks are coy and cold,
To mine they ne'er reply,
And yet I cease not to behold

The love-light in her eye:

Her very frowns are fairer far

Than smiles of other maidens are.

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

A DITTY.

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one to the other given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,

There never was a better bargain driven :
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

His heart in me keeps him and me in one,

My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his because in me it bides: My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

FIDELE.

FEAR no more the heat o' the sun
Nor the furious winter's rages;

Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone and ta'en thy wages:

Golden lads and girls all must,

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.