A Scrip of Salvage From the Poems of William Philpot

nt. If thou by very chance wert lost, The while my sweet-heart never knew, 'Twere thus with one who prized thee most, I blame not her, I blame not you. But what an if in pettish scoff, Not knowing I should pass this way, Both thee and me she thus cast off? Why, then, I hate this bitter day. Nay, I bethink me, rosebud, now, ' I mean to come this way,' I said ; She tossed me here no doubt to show She scorned me ! ? would that I were dead. But, lo ! who comes ? lie there, poor flower, I'll cast me 'neath this hedgerow grass, And I shall know within the hour, Come death, come life, what conies to pass. She stoops?she peers with tearful eye, Retracing inch by inch her way ; She'll surely see thee by-and-by ! Not yet will I regret to-day. She sees thee?mark, her thankful face Upbrightens in the happy sun ! Who ever wore such winning grace ? What sweeter thing was ever done ? She clasps dear hands ; she leaps to take My token from the common way; She plants it ? all for my poor sake, By the sweet heart I win to-day. 'Twas well, my little rose, I own, To fall by good Sir Isaac's law, For else I had not seen and known The pleasant things I know and saw. To-morrow, with thy kindness charmed, We'll kiss thy core for this kind part, And withered thou shalt lie embalmed Within the archives of my heart. THE CLOSED TRIPTYCH. THY face is like some triptych fair Double enclosed by the ...