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 And noise and humming; She's coming, she's coming! My lady comes at last, And hastening hither, With modest eyes downcast; She comes-she 's here, she's past! Kneel undisturbed, fair saint! I will not enter there, But suffer me to pace Lingering a minute, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. SHE IS A MAID OF ARTLESS GRACE. SIE is a maid of artless grace, If ship, or sail, or evening star, Tell me, thou gallant cavalier, If steed, or sword, or battle-field, Look out upon the stars, my love, Sleep not!-thine image wakes for aye Sleep not!-from her soft sleep should fly, Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break, And make this darkness gay, With looks whose brightness well might make Of darker nights a day. EDWARD COATE PINKNEY LOVE SONG. SWEET in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers, Lulled by the faint breezes sighing through her hair! numbers The wild bird, though most musical, Could only weep when thou didst sigh! Sleeps she, and hears not the melancholy For leaves and flowers, but these alone, Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming E'en when thou wouldst the moon be |