'Twas twilight, and I bade you go, But still you held me fast; It was the Time of Roses,-- We pluck'd them as we pass'd.-- What else could peer thy glowing cheek, That tears began to stud? And when I ask'd the like of Love, You snatched a damask bud; And oped it to the dainty core, Still glowing to the last.-- It was the Time of Roses,-- We plucked them as we pass'd! TIME, HOPE, AND MEMORY. I heard a gentle maiden, in the spring, Set her sweet sighs to music, and thus sing: "Fly through the world, and I will follow thee, Only for looks that may turn back on me; "Only for roses that your chance may throw-- Though withered--Twill wear them on my brow, To be a thoughtful fragrance to my brain,-- Warm'd with such love, that they will bloom again." "Thy love before thee, I must tread behind, Kissing thy foot-prints, though to me unkind; But trust not all her fondness, though it seem, Lest thy true love should rest on a false dream." "Her face is smiling, and her voice is sweet; But smiles betray, and music sings deceit; And words speak false;--yet, if they welcome prove, I'll be their echo, and repeat their love." "Only if waken'd to sad truth, at last, The bitterness to come, and sweetness past; When thou art vext, then turn again, and see Thou hast loved Hope, but Memory loved thee." FLOWERS. I will not have the mad Clytie, Whose head is turned by the sun; The tulip is a courtly queen, Whom, therefore, I will shun; The cowslip is a country wench, The violet is a nun;-- But I will woo the dainty rose, The queen of every one. The pea is but a wanton witch, In too much haste to wed, And clasps her rings on every hand; The wolfsbane I should dread; Nor will I dreary rosemarye, That always mourns the dead;-- But I will woo the dainty rose, With her cheeks of tender red. The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me-- And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush, She is of such low degree; Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves, And the broom's betroth'd to the bee;-- But I will plight with the dainty rose, For fairest of all is she. BALLAD. She's up and gone, the graceless girl, And robb'd my failing years! My blood before was thin and cold But now 'tis turn'd to tears;-- My shadow falls upon my grave, So near the brink I stand, She might have stay'd a little yet, And led me by the hand! Aye, call her on the barren moor, And call her on the hill: 'Tis nothing but the heron's cry, And plover's answer shrill; My child is flown on wilder wings Than they have ever spread, And I may even walk a waste That widen'd when she fled. Full many a thankless child has been, But never one like mine; Her meat was served on plates of gold, Her drink was rosy wine; But now she'll share the robin's food, And sup the common rill, Before her feet will turn again To meet her father's will! RUTH.