No, she is young, or I her love t' engage

Will grow discreet, and that will seem like age;
But speak it not; Death's equalising arm
Levels not surer than Love's stronger charm,
That bids all inequalities be gone,

That laughs at rank, that mocks comparison.

There is not young or old, if Love decrees,* He levels orders, he confounds degrees; There is not fair, or dark, or short, or tall, Or grave, or sprightly-Love reduces all; He makes unite the pensive and the gay, Gives something here, takes something there

away;

From each abundant good a portion takes,
And for each want a compensation makes;
Then tell me not of years-Love, power divine,
Takes, as he wills, from hers, and gives to mine.

And she, in truth, was lovely - Time had

strown

No snows on her, though he so long had flown;
The purest damask blossom'd in her cheek,

The

eyes said all that eyes are wont to speak;
Her pleasing person she with care adorn'd,
Nor arts that stay the flying graces scorn'd;
Nor held it wrong these graces to renew,
Or give the fading rose its opening hue;
Yet few there were who needed less the art
To hide an error, or a grace impart.

* Edward Fitzgerald says that these ten lines "almost set themselves to music."

George, yet a child, her faultless form admired, And call'd his fondness love, as truth required; But now, when conscious of the secret flame, His bosom's pain, he dared not give the name; In her the mother's milder passion grew, Tender she was, but she was placid too; From him the mild and filial love was gone, And a strong passion came in triumph on.

"Will she," he cried, "this impious love allow? "And, once my mother, be my mistress now? "The parent-spouse? how far the thought from her, "And how can I the daring wish aver?

"When first I speak it, how will those dear eyes
"Gleam with awaken'd horror and surprise;
"Will she not, angry and indignant, fly
"From my imploring call, and bid me die?

"Will she not shudder at the thought, and say,

My son and lift her eyes to heaven, and pray?

"Alas! I fear-and yet my soul she won "While she with fond endearments call'd me son! "Then first I felt-yet knew that I was wrong— "This hope, at once so guilty and so strong: "She gave-I feel it now-a mother's kiss, "And quickly fancy took a bolder bliss; "But hid the burning blush, for fear that eye "Should see the transport, and the bliss deny: "O! when she knows the purpose I conceal, "When my fond wishes to her bosom steal, "How will that angel fear? How will the woman

feel?

"And yet, perhaps, this instant, while I speak, "She knows the pain I feel, the cure I seek; "Better than I she may my feelings know,

"And nurse the passion that she dares not show; "She reads the look,—and sure my eyes have shown "To her the power and triumph of her own,— "And in maternal love she veils the flame

“That she will heal with joy, yet hear with shame.

"Come, let me then-no more a son-reveal "The daring hope, and for her favour kneel; "Let me in ardent speech my meanings dress, "And, while I mourn the fault, my love confess;

66

And, once confess'd, no more that hope resign, "For she or misery henceforth must be mine. "O! what confusion shall I see advance "On that dear face, responsive to my glance! "Sure she can love!"

IN an autumnal evening, cool and still,
The sun just dropp'd beneath a distant hill,
The children gazing on the quiet scene,
Then rose in glory night's majestic queen;
And pleasant was the checker'd light and shade,
Her golden beams and maple shadows made;
An ancient tree that in the garden grew,
And that fair picture on the gravel threw.

Then all was silent, save the sounds that make
Silence more awful, while they faintly break;
The frighten'd bat's low shriek, the beetle's hum,
With nameless sounds we know not whence they

come.

Such was the evening; and that ancient seat

The scene where then some neighbours chanced to

meet;

Up to the door led broken steps of stone,
Whose dewy surface in the moonlight shone,
On vegetation, that with progress slow,
Where man forbears to fix his foot, will grow ;
The window's depth and dust repell'd the ray
Of the moon's light and of the setting day;

*From "The Cathedral Walk,"