SONGS FROM "THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER."

I.

IT is the miller's daughter,

And she is grown so dear, so dear,

That I would be the jewel

That trembles at her ear:

For, hid in ringlets day and night,
I'd touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle

About her dainty, dainty waist,
And her heart would beat against me
In sorrow and in rest:

And I should know if it beat right,
I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace,

And all day long to fall and rise
Upon her balmy bosom,

With her laughter or her sighs,
And I would lie so light, so light,
1 scarce should be unclasped at night.

II.

LOVE that hath us in the net,

Can he pass, and we forget?

Many suns arise and set.

Many a chance the years beget.

Love the gift is Love the debt.

Even so.

What is love? for we forget:

Ah, no! no!

THE SISTERS.

ere two daughters of one race:

is the fairest in the face:

wind is blowing in turret and tree. vere together, and she fell;

ore revenge became me well.

e Earl was fair to see!

ed: she went to burning flame: ixed her ancient blood with shame.

wind is howling in turret and tree. weeks and months, and early and late, à his love I lay in wait.

he Earl was fair to see!

e a feast; I bade him come :
his love, I brought him home.
wind is roaring in turret and tree.
fter supper, in a bed,
my lap he laid his head

he Earl was fair to see!

The daughter of a hundred Earls,

You are not one to be desired.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

I know you proud to bear your name; Your pride is yet no mate for mine,

Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break for your sweet sake

A heart that dotes on truer charms.

A simple maiden in her flower

Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

Some meeker pupil you must find,
For were you queen of all that is,
I could not stoop to such a mind.
You sought to prove how I could love,
And my disdain is my reply.
The lion on your old stone gates
Is not more cold to you than I.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

You put strange memories in my head. Not thrice your branching limes have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead. O your sweet eyes your low replies: A great enchantress you may be; But there was that across his throat

Which you had hardly cared to see.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind,

She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed, I heard one bitter word

That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose

Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

There stands a spectre in your hall: The guilt of blood is at your door:

You changed a wholesome heart to gall You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fixed a vacant stare,

And slew him with your noble birth.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,

From yon blue heavens above us bent The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent.

Howe'er it be, it seems to me,

'Tis only noble to be good.

Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere:

You pine among your halls and towers, The languid light of your proud eyes

Is wearied of the rolling hours.