Your eyes were filled with love, Kate Vane

That was a day of delight and wonder. While lying the shade of the maple trees under— He felt the soft breeze at its frolicksome play; He smelled the sweet odor of newly mown hay.

Don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt? Sweet Alice, whose hair was so brown; Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile, And trembled with fear at your frown!

He said, in the course of his remarks, that we had had niggers like oysters at a feast, "fried, stewed, raw, roasted, and sometimes like 's 'Venus,' on the half shell."

Song like a rose should be; Each rhyme a petal sweet; For fragrance, melody, That when her lips repeat The words, her heart may know What secret makes them so:—

And also there’s a little star So white a virgin’s it must be:— Perhaps the lamp my love in heaven Hangs out to light the way for me.

O fairest of the feather’d train! For whom I sing, for whom I burn, Attend with pity to my strain, And grant my love a kind return.