Tell me not that babies dwell
In the deeps of Celia's eyes;
Cupid in each hazel well
Scans his beauties with surprise,
And would, like Narcissus, drown
In my Celia's eyes of brown.

Tell me not that any goes
Safe by that enchanted place;
Eros dwells with Anteros
In the garden of her Face,
Where like friends who late were foes
Meet the white and crimson Rose.



BRITANNIA--FROM JULES LEMAITRE



Thy mouth is fresh as cherries on the bough,
Red cherries in the dawning, and more white
Than milk or white camellias is thy brow;
And as the golden corn thy hair is bright,
The corn that drinks the Sun's less fair than thou;
While through thine eyes the child-soul gazeth now -
Eyes like the flower that was Rousseau's delight.