A Study From The Antique.

Behold, my love, the curious gem         Within this simple ring of gold;     'Tis hallow'd by the touch of them         Who lived in classic hours of old.     Some fair Athenian girl, perhaps,         Upon her hand this gem displayed,     Nor thought that time's succeeding lapse         Should see it grace a lovelier maid.     Look, dearest, what a sweet design!         The more we gaze, it charms the more;     Come--closer bring that cheek to mine,         And trace with me its beauties o'er.     Thou seest, it is a simple youth         By some enamored nymph embraced--     Look, as she leans, and say in sooth         Is not that hand most fondly placed?     Upon his curled head behind         It seems in careless play to lie,     Yet presses gently, half inclined         To bring the truant's lip more nigh.     Oh happy maid! Too happy boy!         The one so fond and little loath,     The other yielding slow to joy--         Oh rare, indeed, but blissful both.     Imagine, love, that I am he,         And just as warm as he is chilling;     Imagine, too, that thou art she,         But quite as coy as she is willing:     So may we try the graceful way         In which their gentle arms are twined,     And thus, like her, my hand I lay         Upon thy wreathed locks behind:     And thus I feel thee breathing sweet,         As slow to mine thy head I move;     And thus our lips together meet,         And thus,--and thus,--I kiss thee, love.                  *             *             *             *             *     There's not a look, a word of thine,         My soul hath e'er forgot;     Thou ne'er hast bid a ringlet shine,     Nor given thy locks one graceful twine         Which I remember not.     There never yet a murmur fell         From that beguiling tongue,     Which did not, with a lingering spell,     Upon thy charmed senses dwell,         Like songs from Eden sung.     Ah! that I could, at once, forget         All, all that haunts me so--     And yet, thou witching girl,--and yet,     To die were sweeter than to let         The loved remembrance go.     No; if this slighted heart must see         Its faithful pulse decay,     Oh let it die, remembering thee,     And, like the burnt aroma, be         Consumed in sweets away.