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       Love, to-morrow! love, to-morrow,
          Ye that never bare loved before!
       And to-morrow, again to-morrow,
          Ye that have loved, love once more!

       She, amidst Hyblæan flowers,
       Bids us build her florid throne;
       And in this light court of ours
       Lightly is her bidding done.
       All the Graces will be there,
       Hybla all her flowers will lend:
       Treasures which the opulent year
       Doth to her, in tribute, send:
       Flowers many more than ever
       Bloom'd on Enna's meadow banks,
       Flowers from every lawn and river
       That doth owe Dione thanks!
       And the maidens all will come
       From the vales and from the mountains;
       Leaving, these their woodland home,
       Those their haunts in happy fountains,
       Here the nymphs are hastening:
       Whilst outspeeding one another,
       Boys and maidens homage bring
       To the Boy-God's winged Mother,
       But she bids you, while 'tis Spring,
       Boys and maidens both beware,
       Since she let's young love go bare.

       Love, to-morrow! love, to-morrow,
          Ye that never have loved before!
       And to-morrow, again to-morrow,
          Ye that have loved, love once more!

       Beauty's self hath bid us gather
       Beauteous buds, and bring them to her.
       For the all-paternal Æther,
       He, the green world's earliest wooer,
       Wills that, to his warm embrace,
       Her most bounteous womb shall bear
       (Youngest of an ancient race!)
       Yet another infant year.
       On her balmy bosom fall
       In delicious dews and rains
       His prolific kisses all;
       Whose sweet influence the deep veins
       Of the Mighty Mother fill
       With such throbbing joys as pant
       Into visible forms, and thrill
       Every green and grassy haunt,
       Lawn, and lake, and dale, and hill,
       With love's labour procreant.
       Over heaven, and over earth,
       On thro' rill, and river, and ocean,
       Moves the mystic spirit of birth,
       With a soft and secret motion;
       And his breath, with raptures rife,
       Opes the glowing gates of life.

       Love, to-morrow! love, to-morrow,
          Ye that never have loved before,
       And to-morrow, again to-morrow,
          Ye that have loved, love once more!

       She, the household gods of Troy
       Into royal Latium led.
       She to her illustrious boy
       The Laurentian virgin wed;
       Gave to Mars, in snatcht embrace,
       Lips too sweet for Vesta's shrine;
       And the Romulean race
       Married to the Sabine line:
       Whence the lordly Roman springs,
       Whence the Conscript Fathers were,
       Knights, Quirites, king-born kings,
       Cæsar's self, and Cæsar's heir!

       Love, to-morrow! love, to-morrow,
          Ye that never have loved before!
       And to-morrow, again to-morrow,
          Ye that have loved, love once more!

       Far i' the fields doth pleasure stray:
       Far i' the fields is Venus found:
       Love, himself, was born, they say,
       Far i' the fields, on flowery ground.
       Him the grassy lawns did guard,
       From his happy hour of birth;
       He was born on thymy sward:
       He was nurst by Rural Mirth.

       Love, to-morrow! love, to-morrow,
          Ye that never have loved before!
       And to-morrow, again to-morrow,
          Ye that have loved, love once more!

       Now his gentle yoke he throws
       Over all things far and wide.
       Hark! the lusty bullock lows
       After his brown-spotted bride.
       The chill ocean's uncouth droves
       Couple in their briny bowers:
       And the birds pursue their loves,
       Singing from their leafy towers.
       Even the wild swan's marriage hymn,
       Thro' the reedy marish rings:
       And in poplar shadows dim
       All night Philomela sings.
       Who that hears her happy song
       Could believe that voice laments
       A loved sister's bitter wrong?
       No! she sings, and, singing, vents
       Pain (if pain at all) made such
       By a too great stress of gladness,
       Joy, that were not joy so much
       If there were no joy in sadness!
       She, and all things else, do sing.
       I, alone? shall I be dumb
       When to me the long-wisht Spring
       Of my love's sweet prime is come?
       Nay, if I were silent now,
       Would not my dishonour'd Muse
       Voice, name, fame, and laurel bough,
       Evermore to me refuse?
       Which were then deservèd most,
       Mine, or weak Amyclæ's fate,
       Whom her coward silence lost
       When the foe was at the gate?

       Love, to-morrow! love, to morrow,
          Ye that never have loved before!
       And to-morrow, again to-morrow,
          Ye that have loved, love once more!

NEW UNCOMMERCIAL SAMPLES.
BY CHARLES DICKENS.
ABOARD SHIP.

MY journeys as Uncommercial Traveller
for the firm of Human Interest Brothers,
have not slackened since I last reported of
them, but have kept me continually on the
move. I remain in the same idle employment.
I never solicit an order, I never get
any commission, I am the rolling stone that
gathers no mossunless any should by
chance be found among these Samples.

Some half a year ago, I found myself in
my idlest, dreamiest, and least accountable
condition altogether, on board- ship,
in the harbour of the City of New York, in
the United States of America. Of all
the good ships afloat, mine was the good
steam-ship RUSSIA, CAPTAIN COOK, Cunard
line, bound for Liverpool. What more could
I wish for?

I had nothing to wish for, but a prosperous
passage. My salad-days, when I was

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