The nightingales made vocal June's palace paved with gold; I watched the rose you gave me Its warm red heart unfold; But breath of rose and bird's song Were fraught with wild regret. 'T is madness to remember; 'T were wisdom to forget. III. I stood among the gold corn, Alas! no more, I knew, To gather gleaner's measure Of the love that fell from you. For me, no gracious harvest-- Would God we ne'er had met! 'T is hard, Love, to remember, but 'T is harder to forget. IV. The streamlet now is frozen, The nightingales are fled, The cornfields are deserted, And every rose is dead. I sit beside my lonely fire, And pray for wisdom yet-- For calmness to remember Or courage to forget. [Decoration] _OH, LET ME DREAM._ FROM "A NINE DAYS' WONDER." Oh! let me dream of happy days gone by, Forgetting sorrows that have come between, As sunlight gilds some distant summit high, And leaves the valleys dark that intervene. The phantoms of remorse that haunt The soul, are laid beneath that spell; As, in the music of a chaunt Is lost the tolling of a bell. Oh! let me dream of happy days gone by, etc. In youth, we plucked full many a flower that died, Dropped on the pathway, as we danced along; And now, we cherish each poor leaflet dried In pages which to that dear past belong. With sad crushed hearts they yet retain Some semblance of their glories fled; Like us, whose lineaments remain, When all the fires of life are dead. Oh! let me dream, etc. [Illustration: Full-page Plate] _LOVE, THE PILGRIM._ SUGGESTED BY A SKETCH BY E. BURNE-JONES. Every day a Pilgrim, blindfold, When the night and morning meet, Entereth the slumbering city, Stealeth down the silent street; Lingereth round some battered doorway, Leaves unblest some portal grand, And the walls, where sleep the children, Toucheth, with his warm young hand. Love is passing! Love is passing!-- Passing while ye lie asleep: In your blessèd dreams, O children, Give him all your hearts to keep! Blindfold is this Pilgrim, Maiden. Though to-day he touched thy door, He may pass it by to-morrow-- --Pass it--to return no more. Let us then with prayers entreat him,-- Youth! her heart, whose coldness grieves, May one morn by Love be softened; Prize the treasure that he leaves. Love is passing! Love is passing! All, with hearts to hope and pray, Bid this pilgrim touch the lintels Of your doorways every day. [Decoration] [Decoration] WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 1824-1889. _LOVELY MARY DONNELLY._ Oh, lovely Mary Donnelly, my joy, my only best! If fifty girls were round you, I 'd hardly see the rest; Be what it may the time o' day, the place be where it will, Sweet looks o' Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.