Gleam on Cupid's wing, dear,
At the least touch flies,
Even lips may brush to dimness;
Kiss me with your eyes.
Pain within the bliss, dear,
Of those soft curves lies;
Only love the soul's light carries;
Kiss me with your eyes.
MAUD THOMPSON.
_Wellesley Magazine._
~A Portrait.~
A slim, young girl, in lilac quaintly dressed;
A mammoth bonnet, lilac like the gown,
Hangs from her arm by wide, white strings, the crown
Wreathed round with lilac blooms; and on her breast
A cluster; lips still smiling at some jest
Just uttered, while the gay, gray eyes half frown
Upon the lips' conceit; hair, wind-blown, brown
Where shadows stray, gold where the sunbeams rest.
Ah! lilac lady, step from your gold frame,
Between that starched old Bishop and the dame
In awe-inspiring ruff. We'll brave their ire
And trip a minuet. You will not?--Fie!
Those mocking lips half make me wish that I,
Her grandson, might have been my own grandsire.
_Trinity Tablet_.
~A Picture.~
On spinet old, Clarissa plays
The melodies of by-gone days.
Forgotten fugue, a solemn tune,
The bars of stately rigadoon.
With head bent down to scan each note,
A crimson ribbon round her throat,
The very birds to sing forget
As some old-fashioned minuet
Clarissa plays.
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