And so, all the night-tide I lie down by the Why your hair was amber I shall divine, side Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea. EDGAR ALLAN POE EVELYN HOPE. BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead! Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed; She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, Beginning to die, too, in the glass. Little has yet been changed, I think; The shutters are shut-no light may pass, Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink. Sixteen years old when she died! Perhaps she had scarcely heard my nameIt was not her time to love; beside, Her life had many a hope and aim, Duties enough and little cares; And now was quiet, now astir— Till God's hand beckoned unawares, And the sweet white brow is all of her. Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope? What! your soul was pure and true; The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit, fire and dew; And just because I was thrice as old, And our paths in the world diverged so wide, Each was naught to each, must I be told? We were fellow-mortals-naught beside? No, indeed! for God above Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love; I claim you still, for my own love's sake! Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet, Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few; Much is to learn and much to forget Ere the time be come for taking you. But the time will come-at last it willWhen, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say, In the lower earth-in the years long stillThat body and soul so gay? And your mouth of your own geraniumn't red And what you would do with me, in fine, In the new life come in the old one's stead. I have lived, I shall say, so much since then, Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; I loved you Evelyn, all the while; My heart seemed full as it could hold There was place and to spare for the frank young smile And the red young mouth and the hair's young gold. So, hush! I will give you this leaf to keep; ROBERT BROWNING. HIGHLAND MARY. YE banks, and braes, and streams around Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, There simmer first unfald her robes How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk! Flew o'er me and my dearie; Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace But, oh! fell death's untimely frost, AUX ITALIENS. That nipt my flower sae early! Oh pale, pale now, those rosy lips I aft hae kissed sae fondly! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly! And mould'ring now in silent dust That heart that lo'ed me dearly! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary. ROBERT BURNS. TO MARY IN HEAVEN. THOU lingering star, with less'ning ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usherest in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary dear, departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? My Mary! dear, departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? 317 Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? ROBERT BURNS. AUX ITALIENS. Ar Paris it was, at the opera there; And she looked like a queen in a book that With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore: And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, The souls in purgatory. The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, Hear'st thou the groans that rend his As we heard him sing, while the gas burned breast? That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface, Those records dear of transports pastThy image at our last embrace! Ab! little thought we 't was our last! Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, The birds sang love on every spray, Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, As streams their channels deeper wear. low, "Non ti scordar di me?" The emperor there, in his box of state, Where his eagles in bronze had been. The empress, too, had a tear in her eye: Well! there in our front row box we sat, And hers on the stage hard by. And both were silent, and both were sad;— arm, With that regal, indolent air she had; I have not a doubt she was thinking then I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, It made me creep, and it made me cold! Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet Where a mummy is half unrolled. Through a needle's eye he had not to pass; And I turned, and looked: she was sitting (Oh the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine My thinking of her, or the music's strain, flower!) And the one bird singing alone to his nest; And the one star over the tower. I thought of our little quarrels and strife, And the letter that brought me back my ring; And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, Such a very little thing! For I thought of her grave below the hill, Which the sentinel cypress tree stands over; And I thought, "Were she only living still, How I could forgive her and love her!" 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 jasmnine flower Which she used to wear in her breast. 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 lip: 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; LAODAMIA. 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, LAODAMIA. 819 "WITH sacrifice, before the rising morn, Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired And from th' infernal gods, 'mid shades for lorn Of night, my slaughtered lord have I required; Celestial pity I again implore; There's a moment when all would go Restore him to my sight--great Jove, restore!" smooth and even, If only the dead could find out when To come back and be forgiven. But oh the smell of that jasmine flower! And oh that music! and oh the way That voice rang out from the donjon tower, Non ti scordar di me, Non ti scordar di me! ROBERT BULWER LYTTON. TOO LATE. "Dowglas, Dowglas, tendir and treu." COULD ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, Never a scornful word should grieve ye, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. Oh, to call back the days that are not! My eyes were blinded, your words were few: Do you know the truth now, up in heaven, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true? I never was worthy of you, Douglas; Not half worthy the like of you: Now all men beside seem to me like shadowsI love you, Douglas, tender and true. Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew; As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true! DINAH MARIA MULOCK. So speaking, and by fervent love endowed With faith, the suppliant heavenward lifts her hands; While, like the sun emerging from a cloud, Her countenance brightens and her eye expands; Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows; And she expects the issue in repose. Oh terror! what hath she perceived?-oh joy! What doth she look on ?-whom doth she behold? Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy? It is if sense deceive her not 't is he! Mild Hermes spake-and touched her with his wand That calms all fear: "Such grace hath crowned thy prayer, Laodamia! that at Jove's command space; Accept the gift, behold him face to face!" Forth sprang the impassioned queen her lord to clasp; Again that consummation she essayed; |