Up by the wall, behind the yew; and thence That which he better might have shunned, if griefs Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. For cups and silver on the burnished board To tempt the babe, who reared his creasy arms, Now when the dead man come to life beheld His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee, And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, And his own children tall and beautiful, And him, that other, reigning in his place, Lord of his rights and of his children's love, Then he, though Miriam Lane had told him all, Because things seen are mightier than things heard, Staggered and shook, holding the branch, and feared To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, Which in one moment, like the blast of doom, Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. He therefore turning softly like a thief, Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot, And feeling all along the garden-wall, Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found, Crept to the gate, and opened it, and closed, As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door, Behind him, and came out upon the waste. And there he would have knelt, but that his knees Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug His fingers into the wet earth, and prayed. ALFRED TENNYSON. LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. O THE days are gone when beauty bright When my dream of life, from morn till night, 'T was I that beat the bush, If ever that Dame Nature, Like unto her would make; Let her remember this, To make the other true, No riches now can raise me, Nor yet for want I care; My earthly heaven, adieu ! Since she, alas! hath left me, Falero, lero, loo. A something light as air, - a look, A breath, a touch like this has shaken! They wore in courtship's smiling day; As though its waters ne'er could sever, Yet, ere it reach the plain below, Breaks into floods that part forever. Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore ; The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; The emperor there, in his box of state, Where his eagles in bronze had been. The empress, too, had a tear in her eye : For one moment, under the old blue sky, To the old glad life in Spain. Well there in our front-row box we sat Together, my bride betrothed and I ; My gaze was fixed on my opera hat, And hers on the stage hard by. And both were silent, and both were sad;- So confident of her charm! I have not a doubt she was thinking then I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love As I had not been thinking of aught for years; Till over my eyes there began to move Something that felt like tears. I thought of the dress that she wore last time, Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot); And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast; I thought of our little quarrels and strife, For I thought of her grave below the hill, And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, And of how, after all, old things are best, That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower Which she used to wear in her breast. It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, You'd have said that her fancy had gone back Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet again, Where a mummy is half unrolled. And I turned and looked: she was sitting there, I was here, and she was there; And the glittering horse-shoe curved between:From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair And her sumptuous scornful mien, To my early love with her eyes downcast, To my early love from my future bride One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, I traversed the passage; and down at her side I was sitting, a moment more. My thinking of her, or the music's strain, Or something which never will be exprest, Had brought her back from the grave again, With the jasmine in her breast. She is not dead, and she is not wed! But she loves me now, and she loved me then! And the very first word that her sweet lips said, My heart grew youthful again. The marchioness there, of Carabas, She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still; And but for her . . . . well, we'll let that pass; She may marry whomever she will. But I will marry my own first love, With her primrose face, for old things are best; And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in my lady's breast. The world is filled with folly and sin, And love must cling where it can, I say: For beauty is easy enough to win ; But one is n't loved every day. And I think, in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, If only the dead could find out when But O the smell of that jasmine flower! That voice rang out from the donjon tower, Non ti scordar di me! ROBERT BULWER LYTTON. TRANSIENT BEAUTY. THE GIAOUR. As, rising on its purple wing, The insect-queen of Eastern spring, O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer, Invites the young pursuer near, And leads him on from flower to flower, A weary chase and wasted hour, Then leaves him, as it soars on high, With panting heart and tearful eye; So Beauty lures the full-grown child, With hue as bright, and wind as wild; A chase of idle hopes and fears, Begun in folly, closed in tears. If won, to equal ills betrayed, Woe waits the insect and the maid: A life of pain, the loss of peace, From infant's play and man's caprice; The lovely toy, so fiercely sought, Hath lost its charm by being caught; For every touch that wooed its stay Hath brushed its brightest hues away, Till, charm and hue and beauty gone, 'Tis left to fly or fall alone. With wounded wing or bleeding breast, Ah! where shall either victim rest? Can this with faded pinion soar From rose to tulip as before? Or Beauty, blighted in an hour, Find joy within her broken bower? No; gayer insects fluttering by Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die, And lovelier things have mercy shown To every failing but their own, And every woe a tear can claim, Except an erring sister's shame. WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY. I LOVED thee once, I'll love no more, Thine be the grief as is the blame ; Thou art not what thou wast before, What reason I should be the same? BYRON He that can love unloved again, Hath better store of love than brain: God send me love my debts to pay, While unthrifts fool their love away. Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, |