She comes from the past and revisits my room; She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom; So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair, And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair. PISCATOR AND PISCATRIX. LINES WRITTEN TO AN ALBUM PRINT. As on this pictured page I look, This pretty tale of line and hook As though it were a novel-book Amuses and engages: I know them both, the boy and girl; She is the daughter of the Earl, The lad (that has his hair in curl) My lord the County's page has. A pleasant place for such a pair! The fields lie basking in the glare; No breath of wind the heavy air Of lazy summer quickens. Hard by you see the castle tall; The village nestles round the wall, As round about the hen its small Young progeny of chickens. It is too hot to pace the keep; To climb the turret is too steep; My lord the earl is dozing deep, His noonday dinner over: The postern-warder is asleep (Perhaps they've bribed him not to peep): And so from out the gate they creep, And cross the fields of clover. Their lines into the brook they launch; He lays his cloak upon a branch, To guarantee his Lady Blanche 's delicate complexion: He takes his rapier, from his haunch, That beardless doughty champion staunch; He'd drill it through the rival's paunch That question'd his affection! O heedless pair of sportsmen slack! You never mark, though trout or jack, Or little foolish stickleback, Your baited snares may capture. What care has SHE for line and hook? She turns her back upon the brook, Upon her lover's eyes to look In sentimental rapture. O loving pair! as thus I gaze Upon the girl who smiles always, The little hand that ever plays Upon the lover's shoulder; In looking at your pretty shapes, A sort of envious wish escapes (Such as the Fox had for the Grapes) The Poet your beholder. To be brave, handsome, twenty-two; With nothing else on earth to do, But all day long to bill and coo: It were a pleasant calling. And had I such a partner sweet; A tender heart for mine to beat, A gentle hand my clasp to meet;-- I'd let the world flow at my feet, And never heed its brawling. THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY. The rose upon my balcony the morning air perfuming, Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the spring; You ask me why her breath is sweet, and why her cheek is blooming, It is because the sun is out and birds begin to sing. The nightingale, whose melody is through the greenwood ringing, Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds were blowing keen: And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing, It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green.