It's plain that her Cupid has two pairs of wings; Her love and my love are different things; I brought her one morning, a rose for her brow; Where is she gone, where is she gone? She told me such honors were never worn now: And I-am left all alone! But I saw her at night with a rose in her hair, And I guess who it came from-of course I don't care, We all know that girls are as false as they're fair; Where is she gone, where is she gone? I'm sure the lieutenant's a horrible beau: Whenever we go on the Downs for a ride,— And whenever I take her downstairs from a ball, She nods to some puppy to put on her shawl; But I'd give a trifle to horsewhip them all, FROM "PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE." 155 She tells me her mother belongs to the sect, Which holds that all waltzing is quite incorrect; But a fire's in my heart and a fire's in my brain, When she waltzes away with Sir Phelim O'Shane; I don't think I ever can ask her again : Where is she gone, where is she gone? And Lord! since the summer she's grown very plain; And I-am left all alone! She said that she liked me a twelvemonth ago, Where is she gone, where is she gone? And how should I guess that she'd torture me so? Some day she'll find out it was not very wise WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. PASSAGE FROM "PHILIP VAN ARTE- But did I say I loved him not! O God! There never was a falsehood half so false. I say I love him, and I say beside That but to say I love him is as nothing; 'Tis but a tithe and scantling of the truth! And oh how much I love him what can tell? Not words, not tears,-heaven only knows how much; And every evening when I say my prayers, I pray to be forgiven for the sin, Of loving aught on earth with such a love! SIR HENRY TAYLOR. AT DAWN. In the night I dreamed of you; The strife was stilled! All night I have dreamed of you, How shall I arise and face The empty day? AMY LEVY. WAS IT FOR THIS? Was it for this we met three years ago: Took hands, spake low, sat side by side, and heard A TRAGEDY. 157 The sleeping trees beneath us touched and stirred Was it for this-to dwell henceforth apart, One housed with death, and one with beggared heart? Nay, surely, love, it was for more than this. PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. A TRAGEDY. She was only a woman, famished for loving, Her heart's sweet gamut is cracking and breaking For a look, for a touch,-for such slight things; But he's such a very great musician Grimacing and fingering his fiddle-strings. THEOPHILE MANZIALI. Rose kissed me to-day, Will she kiss me to-morrow? Let it be as it may, Rose kissed me to-day. But the pleasure gives way To a savor of sorrow. Rose kissed me to-day Will she kiss me to-morrow? AUSTIN DOBSON. RONDEL. Kissing her hair I sat against her feet, Wove and unwove it, wound and found it sweet; Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes, Deep as deep flowers and dreamy like dim skies; With her own tresses bound and found her fair, Kissing her hair. Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me, Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me there, ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. |