THE TEMPLE BELLS.

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THE Temple bells are ringing,
The young green corn is springing,
And the marriage month is drawing very near;
I lie hidden in the grass,
And I count the moments pass
For the month of marriages is drawing near.

She is young and very sweet,
From the silver on her feet
To the silver and the flowers in her hair;
And her beauty makes me swoon,
As the Moghra* trees at noon
Intoxicate the hot and quivering air.

Ah! I would the hours were fleet
As her silver circled feet,
I am weary of the daytime and the night;
I am weary unto death,
Oh my rose with jasmin breath,
With this longing for your beauty and your light

Ah!

LAURENCE HOPE.

*A strong-scented flowering tree.