SHAKESPEARE.

The morning’ s clear, the sky without a frown,

The dew-bespangled pastures wet the shoe;

Sauntering full early toward the sleeping town,

We’ ll take the dry, well-trodden avenue;

On these crisp pathways, and familiar grounds

( Unless my flattering heart be over-bold ),

While lingering purposely amid our rounds,

Some shady lane may love to hear all told.

One name has captured his too partial ear,—

( These kind, concealing bushes love invite

No tell-tales are, nor neighbors impolite;)

I’ ll hear his suit devoid of blame or fear.

Impatiently the moment I await;

Who nothing ventures, stays disconsolate.