The world to them may homage make, And garlands for their forehead weave; And what the world can give, they take-- But they bring more than they receive. They shine upon the world; their ears To one demand alone are coy: They will not give us love and tears, They bring us light and warmth and joy. On one she smiled, and he was blest; She smiles elsewhere--we make a din! But ’twas not love which heaved her breast, Fair child! it was the bliss within. _CALAIS SANDS._ A thousand knights have reined their steeds To watch this line of sand-hills run, Along the never-silent strait, To Calais glittering in the sun; To look toward Ardres’ Golden Field Across this wide aërial plain, Which glows as if the Middle Age Were gorgeous upon earth again. Oh, that to share this famous scene, I saw, upon the open sand, Thy lovely presence at my side,-- Thy shawl, thy look, thy smile, thy hand! How exquisite thy voice would come, My darling, on this lonely air! How sweetly would the fresh sea-breeze Shake loose some band of soft brown hair! Yet now my glance but once hath roved O’er Calais and its famous plain; To England’s cliffs my gaze is turned, O’er the blue strait mine eyes I strain. Thou comest! Yes! the vessel’s cloud Hangs dark upon the rolling sea. Oh that yon sea-bird’s wings were mine, To win one instant’s glimpse of thee! I must not spring to grasp thy hand, To woo thy smile, to seek thine eye; But I may stand far off, and gaze, And watch thee pass unconscious by,-- And spell thy looks, and guess thy thoughts, Mixed with the idlers on the pier. Ah! might I always rest unseen, So I might have thee always near! To-morrow hurry through the fields Of Flanders to the storied Rhine! To-night those soft-fringed eyes shall close Beneath one roof, my queen! with mine. _FADED LEAVES._ I. THE RIVER. Still glides the stream, slow drops the boat Under the rustling poplars’ shade; Silent the swans beside us float: None speaks, none heeds; ah, turn thy head! Let those arch eyes now softly shine, That mocking mouth grow sweetly bland; Ah! let them rest, those eyes, on mine! On mine let rest that lovely hand! My pent-up tears oppress my brain, My heart is swoln with love unsaid. Ah! let me weep, and tell my pain, And on thy shoulder rest my head! Before I die,--before the soul, Which now is mine, must re-attain Immunity from my control, And wander round the world again; Before this teased, o’er-labored heart Forever leaves its vain employ, Dead to its deep habitual smart, And dead to hopes of future joy. II. TOO LATE.