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And then to himself "Which night shall And she-she watched the square like a book

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And quick-turned neck at its breathless As a virtue golden through and through,

stretch,

Some one who ever passes by-)

The Duke sighed like the simplest wretch
In Florence: "So, my dream escapes!
Will its record stay?" And he bade them
fetch

Some subtle fashioner of shapes

"Can the soul, the will, die out of a man Ere his body find the grave that gapes?

"John of Douay shall work my plan, Mould me on horseback here aloft, Alive (the subtle artisan!)

"In the very square I cross so oft! That men may admire, when future suns Shall touch the eyes to a purpose soft

"While the mouth and the brow are brave in bronze

Admire and say, 'When he was alive,
How he would take his pleasure once!'

"And it shall go hard but I contrive To listen meanwhile and laugh in my tomb At indolence which aspires to strive."

So! while these wait the trump of doom, How do their spirits pass, I wonder, Nights and days in the narrow room?

Sufficient to vindicate itself

And prove its worth at a moment's view.

Must a game be played for the sake of pelf?
Where a button goes, 't were an epigram
To offer the stamp of the very Guelph.

The true has no value beyond the sham.
As well the counter as coin, I submit,
When your table's a hat, and your prize, a
dram.

Stake your counter as boldly every whit,
Venture as truly, use the same skill,
Do your best, whether winning or losing it.

If you choose to play-is my principle!
Let a man contend to the uttermost
For his life's set prize, be it what it will!

The counter our lovers staked was lost
As surely as if it were lawful coin;
And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost

Was the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin,
Though the end in sight was a crime, I say.
You of the virtue, (we issue join)
How strive you? De te, fabula!

ROBERT BROWNING.

ALLAN PERCY.

It was a beauteous lady richly dressed; Around her neck are chains of jewels rare; A velvet mantle shrouds her snowy breast, And a young child is softly slumbering there.

In her own arms, beneath that glowing sun, She bears him onward to the greenwood tree;

Is the dun heath, thou fair and thoughtless one,

The place where an Earl's son should cradled be?

Lullaby!

Though a proud Earl be father to my child, Yet on the sward my blessed babe shall lie;

Let the winds lull him with their murmurs wild,

I can dream dreams that comfort my despair;

I can make visions of a different home,

Such as we hoped in other days might

be;

There no proud Earl's unwelcome footsteps

come

There, Allan Percy, I am safe with thee! Lullaby!

Thou art mine own-I'll bear thee where I list,

Far from the dull proud tower and donjon keep;

From my long hair the pearl chains I'll untwist,

And with a peasant's heart sit down and

weep.

Thy glittering broidered robe, my precious

one,

Changed for a simpler covering shall be;

And toss the green boughs upward to the And I will dream thee Allan Percy's son,

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Slumber thou still, my innocent-mine WHOм first we love, you know, we seldom

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While I call back the dreams of other Time rules us all. And Life, indeed, is not The thing we planned it out ere hope was

days.

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Here I can sit; and while the fresh wind But when he sleeps and smiles upon my knee,

blows,

Waving the ringlets of thy shining hair, Giving thy cheek a deeper tinge of rose,

And I can feel his light breath come and go, I think of one (Heaven help and pity me!) Who loved me, and whom I loved, long ago

INDIFFERENCE.

Who might have been . . . ah, what I dare

not think!

We are all changed. God judges for us best. God help us do our duty, and not shrink, And trust in heaven humbly for the rest.

But blame us women not, if some appear
Too cold at times; and some too gay and light.
Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are hard
to bear.

Who knows the past? and who can judge us right?

Ah, were we judged by what we might have been,

And not by what we are-too apt to fall!
My little child-he sleeps and smiles between
These thoughts and me. In heaven we shall
know all!

ROBERT BULWER LYTION.

EXCUSE.

I Too have suffered. Yet I know
She is not cold, though she seems so;
She is not cold, she is not light;
But our ignoble souls lack might.

She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh,
While we for hopeless passion die;
Yet she could love, those eyes declare,
Were but men nobler than they are.

Eagerly once her gracious ken
Was turned upon the sons of men;
But light the serious visage grew—
She looked, and smiled, and saw them through.

Our petty souls, our strutting wits,
Our labored puny passion-fits-
Ah, may she scorn them still, till we
Scorn them as bitterly as she!

Yet ob, that Fate would let her see
One of some worthier race than we-
One for whose sake she once might prove
How deeply she who scorns can love.

His eyes be like the starry lights-
His voice like sounds of summer nights-
In all his lovely mien let pierce
The magic of the universe!

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LOVE.

He stood beside a cottage lone,

And listened to a lute,

One summer eve, when the breeze was gohe, And the nightingale was mute.

The moon was watching on the hill;

The stream was staid, and the maples still,

To hear a lover's suit,

That-half a vow, and half a prayer—
Spoke less of hope than of despair;
And rose into the calm, soft air,
As sweet and low

As he had heard-0, woe! O, woe!
The flutes of angels, long ago!

"By every hope that earthward clings,
By faith that mounts on angel-wings,
By dreams that make night-shadows bright,
And truths that turn our day to night,

By childhood's smile, and manhood's tear,

By pleasure's day, and sorrow's year,
By all the strains that fancy sings,
And pangs that time so surely brings,—
For joy or grief, for hope or fear,
For all hereafter as for here,
In peace or strife, in storm or shine,
My soul is wedded unto thine!"

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FLORENCE VANE.

I LOVED thee long and dearly,
Florence Vane;

My life's bright dream and early
Hath come again ;

I renew, in my fond vision,
My heart's dear pain-
My hopes, and thy derision,
Florence Vane.

The ruin, lone and hoary,
The ruin old

Where thou didst hark my story,
At even told-

That spot-the hues Elysian
Of sky and plain-

I treasure in my vision,
Florence Vane.

Thou wast lovelier than the roses
In their prime;
Thy voice excelled the closes

Of sweetest rhyme;
Thy heart was as a river

Without a main.

Would I had loved thee never,
Florence Vane.

But, fairest, coldest wonder!
Thy glorious clay
Lieth the green sod under-

Alas, the day!

And it boots not to remember Thy disdain,

To quicken love's pale ember, Florence Vane.

The lilies of the valley

By young graves weep; The daisies love to dally

Where maidens sleep.

May their bloom, in beauty vying, Never wane

Where thine earthly part is lying, Florence Vane!

PHILIP P. COOKE

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