25 AUGUST 1888, Page 18

POETRY.

SHE BATH GROWN COLD.

SHE hath grown cold whose kindness won me to her.

Wherefore is this?

Wishing them more, I find her favours fewer.

What is amiss P If, when we liked, to love my friendship flowered With too fond haste, Oh, say, should hers by cruel Fate o'erpowered, As sudden waste?

"Shall I complain ?" "Oh, no ! true love complains not, Being denied."

"Shall I disdain?" "Oh, no ! true love disdains not, Only false pride."

"Shall I less love her for her long denial ?"

" Nay ; year by year, Since she is worthy, thou shalt find thy trial Ever more dear; Till, it may be, the master spirit in thee, Fresh from Love's fast, Out of her eyes his look of looks shall win thee, Win thee at last."