An Apology. ’Tis true that my glances have wandered O’er the faces around me that bloom, And many the smile I have squandered, But ask now when, where, and on whom. If my looks are so brimful of meaning, I vow I would rather be blind Than to feel, while enjoyment I’m gleaning, That a lecture will follow behind. It were idle to cast a reflection On the needle’s consistence and worth, Though it wavers in every direction Ere it steadfastly points to the North. All day though the bee seems a rover, As he murmurs o’er garden and green, He carries the sweets of the clover At eve to the feet of his queen. There are blossoms that owe all their brightness To the hue that each chiefly displays, But you are the snowdrop whose whiteness Is the blending of infinite rays. As the gay tints of Art wake a yearning For Nature’s sweet emerald hue, So is born in my glances returning New light as they rest upon you. A. J. Begbie .