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 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, "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? The true has no value beyond the sham. Stake your counter as boldly every whit, If you choose to play-is my principle! The counter our lovers staked was lost Was the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin, 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, Slumber thou still, my innocent-mine WHOм first we love, you know, we seldom 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. 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 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! ROBERT BULWER LYTION. EXCUSE. I Too have suffered. Yet I know She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh, Eagerly once her gracious ken Our petty souls, our strutting wits, Yet ob, that Fate would let her see His eyes be like the starry lights- 321 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— As he had heard-0, woe! O, woe! "By every hope that earthward clings, By childhood's smile, and manhood's tear, By pleasure's day, and sorrow's year, FLORENCE VANE. I LOVED thee long and dearly, My life's bright dream and early I renew, in my fond vision, The ruin, lone and hoary, Where thou didst hark my story, That spot-the hues Elysian I treasure in my vision, Thou wast lovelier than the roses Of sweetest rhyme; Without a main. Would I had loved thee never, But, fairest, coldest wonder! 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 |