When hearts are trumps

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,
O