Lady Clara Vere de Vere, When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind, She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed, I heard one bitter word That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, There stands a spectre in your hall: The guilt of blood is at your door: You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fixed a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth. Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood. I know you, Clara Vere de Vere: You pine among your halls and towers: The languid light of your proud eyes Is wearied of the rolling hours. In glowing health, with boundless wealth, You needs must play such pranks as these. Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, If time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate, Nor any poor about your lands? Oh teach the orphan boy to read, Or teach the orphan girl to sew, Pray heaven for a human heart, And let the foolish yeoman go. ALFRED TENNYSON. AT THE CHURCH GATE. Ofttimes I hover; The minster bell tolls out And noise and humming; They've hush'd the minster bell: The organ 'gins to swell: She's coming, she's coming! My lady comes at last, And hastening hither, With modest eyes downcast: Kneel undisturb'd, fair saint! I will not enter there, But suffer me to pace WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. IN A YEAR. NEVER any more While I live, Need I hope to see his face As before. Once his love grown chill, Mine may strive,Bitterly we re-embrace, Single still. Was it something said, Something done, Vex'd him? was it touch of hand, Strange! that very way I as little understand When I sew'd or drew, TO IANTHE. IANTHE! you are call'd to cross the sea! Upon the mountain-heads, How often we have watcht him laying down His brow, and dropt our own And what the world can give, they takeBut they bring more than they receive. They smile upon the world. Their ears Against each other's, and how faint and On one she smiled, and he was blest! short And sliding the support! What will succeed it now? Mine is un blest, Ianthe! nor will rest But on the very thought that swells with pain. Oh bid me hope again! She smiles elsewhere-we make a din! But 'twas not love which heaved her breast, Fair child-it was the bliss within. MATTHEW ARNOLD. JEALOUSY, THE TYRANT OF THE Oh give me back what Earth, what (with- WHAT state of life can be so blest out you) Not Heaven itself can do, As love, that warms a lover's breast? Two souls in one, the same desire One of the golden days that we have past; To grant the bliss, and to require! And let it be my last! Or else the gift would be, however sweet, Fragile and incomplete. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. EUPHROSYNE. I WILL not say that thou wast true, They should not ask if truth be there. Truth-what is truth? Two bleeding hearts| Wounded by men, by Fortune tried, Out-wearied with their lonely parts, Vow to beat henceforth side by side. The world to them was stern and drear, Their lot was but to weep and moan; Ah, let them keep their faith sincere, For neither could subsist alone! But souls whom some benignant breath Has charm'd at birth from gloom and care, These ask no love, these plight no faith, For they are happy as they are. The world to them may homage make, And garlands for their forehead weave; For all thine artless elegance, and all thy | I shall hear thy sweet and touching voice native grace; in every wind that grieves, For the music of thy mirthful voice, and As it whirls from the abandon'd oak its wither'd autumn leaves; the sunshine of thy face; For thy guileless look and speech sincere, In the gloom of the wild forest, in the stillyet sweet as speech can be, ness of the sea, Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's I shall think, my Scottish lassie, I shall a hearty health to thee! often think of thee! Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! In my sad and lonely hours, The thought of thee comes o'er me like the breath of distant flowers: Like the music that enchants mine ear, the sights that bless mine eye, Like the verdure of the meadow, like the azure of the sky, Like the rainbow in the evening, like the blossoms on the tree, Is the thought, my Scottish lassie, is the lonely thought of thee. Here's a health, my Scottish lassie!--here's a parting health to thee! May thine be still a cloudless lot, though it be far from me! May still thy laughing eye be bright, and open still thy brow, Thy thoughts as pure, thy speech as free, thy heart as light as now And, whatsoe'er my after-fate, my dearest toast shall be, Still a health, my Scottish lassie! still a hearty health to thee; JOHN MOULTRIE. GOOD-MORROW SONG. Of merry youths and maidens dancing PACK, clouds, away, and welcome, day, lightsomely along, With night we banish sorrow; I'll dream away an hour or twain, still Sweet air, blow soft, mount, larks, aloft, gazing on thy form, As it flashes through the baser crowd, like lightning through a storm; And I, perhaps, shall touch thy hand, and share thy looks of glee, And for once, my Scottish lassie, dance a giddy dance with thee! To give my Love good-morrow! To give my Love good-morrow Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! I shall Wake from thy nest, Robin redbreast, think of thee at even, When I see its first and fairest star come smiling up through heaven; Sing, birds, in every furrow; And from each hill let music shrill Give my fair Love good-morrow! |