When hearts are trumps | Page 3

kiss.
The Duel.
Ten paces--one, two, three, and fire!
Two gallants have their heart's
desire.
One of them dies, the other laughs;
The seconds smile, the doctor
chaffs.
A woman, smiling, dreams she's wed
To--hush, to the very one that's
dead.
The Shroud.
The snow came softly, silently, down
Into the streets of the dark old
town;
And lo! by the wind it was swept and piled
On the sleeping
form of a beggar-child.
It kissed her cheek, and it filled her hair
With crystals that looked like
diamonds there;
And she dreamed that she was a fair young bride
In
a pure white dress by her husband's side.
A blush crept over her pale young face,
And her thin lips smiled with
a girlish grace;
But the old storm-king made his boast aloud
That
his work that night was weaving a shroud.
Love's Return.
Love has come back--ah me, the joy!--
Greater than when Love
began
To wound my heart. The jocund boy!
Love has come back a
gray-haired man.
His eyes are red with tears of woe,
His cheeks are pale, and his heart
is sore;
But Love has come back at last, and, oh!
Love will be

faithful evermore.
One Wish.
My thoughts are gliding down the stream,
Ah, faster than the river
flows;
And idly in my heart I dream
Of islands where the lotus
grows.
I fear not rapids, waterfall,
Or whirlpool leading down to death,
If
love but my tired heart enthrall,
And I may sip a woman's breath.
I care not what may be my fate.
Roll on, mad river, to the sea;

Drown all ambition, pride, and hate,--
But leave one woman's love to
me.
For Me.
I heard her song,
Low in the night,
From out her casement steal
away,
Nor thought it wrong
To steal a sight
Of her--and lo! she
knelt to pray.
I heard her say,
"Forgive him, Lord;
Such as he seems he cannot
be."
I turned away,
Myself abhorred.
She prayed--and oh! she
prayed for me.
To a Water-color.
Sweet Phyllis, maid of yesterday,
Come down from out that frame,

And tell me why you looked so gay--
Likewise your other name.
Had bold Sir Plume confessed his love
And asked you if you'd wed?

And had he called you "Lovey-dove"?
And how long are you
dead?
Where did you get that wondrous gown,
Those patches, and that hair?

And how were things in London town
The last time you were

there?
And did you die a maid or wife,
Your husband lord or knave?
And
how did you like this jolly life?
And how do you like the grave?
The Serenade.
Under my casement, as I pray,
My lover sings my cares away
With
many a half-forgotten lay.
He leans against the linden-tree,
And sings old songs of Arcady

That he knows well are loved by me.
Half through the night the sweet strains float
Like wind-blown
rose-leaves, note by note,
Over the great wall and the moat,
Up to my window, till they teem
Into my soul, and almost seem
To
be there even when I dream.
And his heart trembling beats with bliss
If I but throw him one small
kiss
Just as I now throw this, and this
To the Rose in her hair.
Poor little rose, I pity you--
Sweet as Oporto's wind when fruity--

Tortured an evil hour or two,
Just to adorn a wilful beauty.
I know her well, too well, alas!
(Just watch the fairy as she dances.)

She wears my heart--but let that pass;
It's dead: she killed it with her
glances.
Your fate, poor rose, is such as mine,--
To be despised when you are
faded;
Yet she's an angel--too divine
To be by you or me upbraided.
Her Reverie.
A lady combed her silken hair.
None but a looking-glass would dare


To gaze on such a scene.
The blushes thronged her dimpled cheek;

They coursed upon her shoulders, eke,
And the white neck
between.
And she was thinking then, I trow,
Of one who, in a whispered vow

Beneath the budding elm,
Had told her they would sail their barque

On lakes where pale stars pierced the dark,
With Cupid at the helm.
Anon, a faint smile pursed her lips
And shook her dainty finger-tips,

As breezes shake the boughs;
And then a quick, impetuous frown

Came gathering from her ringlets down,
And perched upon her
brows.
Ah, she was thinking then, I ween,
Of me, poor clumsy dunce, who
e'en
Had torn her silken dress.
I waltzed too near her at the ball;

Her beauty dazed me--that was all;
I felt a dizziness.
To Beauty.
"Oh, Mistress Beauty," said my sigh,
"I'd laugh to scorn all other
blisses,
If you and I might live and die
Together on such fare as
kisses.
"Your kirtle would not be of silk,
The band around it but torn leather.

I think our wine would be plain milk;
I think we'd oft see stormy
weather.
"But, oh, there are some things in life
Worth more to men than fame
or money;
And one of them's a sweet young wife,
So pure, so
honest, and so bonnie."
Dreaming of You.
My soul feels refreshed, like a rose kissed by dew,
When waking I
know I've been dreaming of you.

They thought I was mad. Ah, my sweet, if they knew
That