Ay, and the rose is but a little flower Which the red Queen of all the garden is: And Love, which lasteth but a little hour, A moment's rapture and a moment's kiss, Is what no man would miss. _VIOLETS AT HOME._ I. O happy buds of violet! I give thee to my sweet, and she Puts them where something sweeter yet Must always be. II. White violets find whiter rest: For fairest flowers how fair a fate! For me remain, O fragrant breast! Inviolate. _MY THRUSH._ All through the sultry hours of June, From morning blithe to golden noon, And till the star of evening climbs The gray-blue East, a world too soon, There sings a Thrush amid the limes. God's poet, hid in foliage green, Sings endless songs, himself unseen; Right seldom come his silent times. Linger, ye summer hours serene! Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes. · · · · · · · May I not dream God sends thee there, Thou mellow angel of the air, Even to rebuke my earthlier rhymes With music's soul, all praise and prayer? Is that thy lesson in the limes? Closer to God art thou than I: His minstrel thou, whose brown wings fly Through silent æther's sunnier climes. Ah, never may thy music die! Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes! [Decoration] [Decoration] DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK. 1826-1887. _TOO LATE._ _"Dowglas, Dowglas, tendir and treu."_ Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, In the old likeness that I knew, I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. Never a scornful word should grieve ye, I 'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do;-- Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. O to call back the days that are not! My eyes were blinded, your words were few: Do you know the truth now up in heaven, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true? I never was worthy of you, Douglas; Not half worthy the like of you: Now all men beside seem to me like shadows-- I love _you_, Douglas, tender and true. Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew; As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. [Decoration] _A SILLY SONG._ "O heart, my heart!" she said, and heard His mate the blackbird calling, While through the sheen of the garden green May rain was softly falling,-- Aye softly, softly falling. The buttercups across the field Made sunshine rifts of splendour: The round snow-bud of the thorn in the wood Peeped through its leafage tender, As the rain came softly falling.