« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
PASSAGES FROM "DON JUAN." 149
Into each other—and beholding this,
A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth and love,
Such kisses as belong to early days, Where heart, and soul, and sense in concert move, And the blood's lava, and the pulse a blaze, Each kiss a heart-quake,-for a kiss's strength, I think, it must be reckoned by its length.
Alas! the love of woman! it is known
To be a lovely and a fearful thing;
And if 'tis lost, life hath no more to bring
And their revenge is as the tiger's spring, Deadly, and quick, and crushing, yet, as real Torture is theirs, what they inflict they feel.
In her first passion woman loves her lover,
As you may find, whene'er you like to prove her;
She then prefers him in the plural number,
Ask not how much I love thee:
I have told thee the tale
With a tear and a sigh.
I told thee, when Love was hopeless-
That the stars above
Shine ever on love,
Though they frown on the fate of kings.
O, a king would have loved and left thee,
But I am thine while the stars shall shine,
BARRY CORNWALL (PROCTER)
As afternoon, one summer day,
New-strung his bow, new-filled his quiver.
With skill he chose his sharpest dart,
"I faint! I die!” the goddess cried.
"O cruel, couldst thou find no other To wreck thy spleen on? Parricide! Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother."
Poor Cupid, sobbing, scarce could speak, "Indeed, mamma, I did not know ye. Alas! how easy my mistake,
I took you for your likeness Cloë.” MATTHEW PRIOR.
Do you remember when you heard
When, having wandered all the day, Linked arm in arm, I dared to say, "You'll love me-won't you?"
And when you blushed and could not speak,
Oh, surely not-your eye exprest
I'm sure my eyes replied, "I will,"
You'll love me-wont you?
THOMAS H. BAYLY.
DOLCINO TO MARGARET.
The world goes up and the world goes down,
And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's frown
No, never come over again.
For woman is warm though man be cold,
Till the heart which at even was weary and old
To its work in the morning gay.
WHERE IS MISS MYRTLE? 153
HOW MANY TIMES.
How many times do I love thee, dear?
Of a new-fall'n year,
Whose white and sable hours appear
How many times do I love, again?
Of the evening rain,
Unraveled from the tumbling main,
THOMAS LOVELL BEDOES.
WHERE IS MISS MYRTLE?
Where is Miss Myrtle? can any one tell?
Where is she gone, where is she gone? She flirts with another, I know very well; And I-am left all alone!
She flys to the window when Arundel rings; She's all over smiles when Lord Archibald