"6 AS HONEY FROM THE FLOWERS, AND SONG FROM BIRDS,-(HUNT)

For him, or any one; of your love of power
None, as you know I have reason, though you take
Ways of refined provokingness to wreak it.

Antonio knows these fools you saw but now,
And fools have foolish friendships, and had leagues
For getting a little power, not natural to them,
Out of their laughed-at betters. Be it as it may,
All this, I will not have these prying idlers
Put my domestic troubles to the blush;
Nor sit you thus, in ostentatious weakness,
Playing the victim with a pretty breath,
And smiles that say "God help me."—Well, madam,
What do you say?

"STOLEN SWEETS ARE ALWAYS SWEETER, STOLEN KISSES MUCH COMPLETER,-LEIGH HUNT)

Gin.

I say I will do whatever

You think best, and desire.

Ago.

And make the worst of it

STOLEN BOOKS ARE NICE IN CHAPELS,-STOLEN, STOLEN BE YOUR APPLES."-LEIGH HUNT.

Gin.

Ago.

By whatsoever may mislead and vex?

There now you make a pretty sign, as though
Your silence were compelled.

What can I say?

Or what, alas! not say, and not be chided?
You should not use me thus.
So great as you may think.
Has left me weak.

I have not strength for it,
My late sharp illness

I've known you weaker, madam,
But never feeble enough to want the strength
Of contest and perverseness. Oh, men too,
Men may be weak, even from the magnanimity
Of strength itself; and women can take poor
Advantages, that were in men mere cowardice.

Gin. [Aside] Dear Heaven! what humblest doubts of our self-
knowledge

Should we not feel, when tyranny can talk thus!

Ago. Can you pretend, madam, with your surpassing

ARE FROM THE POET'S PEN HIS OVERFLOWING WORDS."-HUNT.

"JOY, MY BRIGHT WATERS, JOY, YOUR MASTER'S COME!

LAUGH, EVERY DIMPLE ON THE CHEEK OF HOME!"-HUNT.

220

AH, FRIENDS! METHINKS IT WERE A PLEASANT Sphere,

LEIGH HUNT.

Gin.

Ago.

Candour and heavenly kindness, that you never
Uttered one gently-sounding word not meant

-me pain? your husband?

To give the hearer pain?—

Whom in all evil thoughts you so pretend

See there you have! you own it! how pretend
then

To make such griefs of every petty syllable,
Wrung from myself by everlasting scorn?

Gin. One pain is not a thousand; nor one wrong,
Acknowledged and repented of, the habit

Of unprovoked and unrepented years.
Ago. Of unprovoked! oh, let all provocation
Take every brutish shape it can devise
To try endurance with; taunt it in failure,
Grind it in want, stoop it with family shames,

Make gross the name of mother, call it fool,
Pander, slave, coward, or whatsoever opprobrium
Makes the soul swoon within its rage for want
Of some great answer, terrible as its wrong,
And it shall be as nothing to this miserable,
Mean, meek-voiced, most malignant lie of lies,

This angel-mimicking non-provocation

For one too cold to enrage, too weak to tread on!
You never loved me once-you loved me not-
Never did-no-not when before the altar,

With a mean coldness, a worldly-minded coldness,
And lie on your lips, you took me for your husband,
Thinking to have a house, a purse, a liberty,

By, but not for, the man you scorned to love.
Gin. I scorned you not-and knew not what scorn was—

IF, LIKE the trees, we BLOSSOMED EVERY YEAR."-HUNT.

"TIS YOU, O WORLD, MUST SET IT RIGHT WITH THE GREAT MIGHT OF Love and LIGHT."-JAMES H. LEIGH HUNT.

"OH, WHERE'S THE LUXURY LIKE THE SMILE AT HEART, WHEN THE MIND, BREATHING, LAYS ITS LOAD APART-HUNT)

ENOUGH FOR MAN TO WORK, TO HOPE, To love."-leigh hunt.

Ago.

Gin.

Being scarcely past a child, and knowing nothing
But trusting thoughts and innocent daily habits.
Oh, could you trust yourself-

-but why repeat

What still is thus repeated, day by day,
Still ending with the question, "Why repeat?"

[Rising and moving about.

You make the blood at last mount to my brain,
And tax me past endurance. What have I done-
Good God! what have I done, that I am thus
At the mercy of a mystery of tyranny,

Which from its victim demands every virtue,
And brings it none?

I thank you, madam, humbly;

That was sincere, at least.

I beg your pardon.

Anger is ever excessive, and speaks wrong.
Ago. This is the gentle, patient, unprovoked,

And unprovoking, never-answering she!
Gin. Nay, nay, say on; I do deserve it, I

Ago.

Gin.

Who speak such evil of anger, and then am angry.
Yet you might pity me too, being like yourself
In fellowship there at least.

A taunt in friendliness!

Meekness's happiest condescension ! ·

No;

So help me, Heaven!-I spoke but in consciousness
Of what was weak on both sides. There's a love
In that, would you but know it and encourage it.
The consciousness of wrong, in wills not evil,
Brings charity. Be you but charitable,
And I am grateful, and we both shall learn.
Ago. I am conscious of no wrong in this dispute,
Nor when we dispute ever, except the wrong
Done to myself by a will far more wilful,

66

THE COMMON LOAD WITH ITS GREAT HOPES FOR ALL."--HUNT.

WHEN WE COME HOME AGAIN, TIRED OUT, AND SPREAD THE LOOSENED LIMBS O'ER ALL THE WISHED-FOR BED!"-HUNT.

"TO WIN AT THE GAME WHOSE MOVES ARE DEATH, MAKETH MAN DRAW TOO PROUD A BREATH;-(HUNT)

222

'SWEET HERO'S EYES, THREE THOUSAND years ago,-(leigh hunt)

LEIGH HUNT.

Because less moved, and less ingenuous.

Let them get charity that show it.
Gin. [Who has reseated herself]

I

pray you

Let Fiordilisa come to me. My lips
Will show you that I faint.

[AGOLANTI rings a bell on the table, and
FIORDILISA enters to her mistress.

Ago. When you have seen your mistress well again,

Go to Matteo, and tell him, from herself,
That 'tis her orders she be excused at present
To all that come, her state requiring it,

[Exit.

And convalescence. Mark you that addition—
She's getting well; but to get well, needs rest.
Fior. Needs rest! Alas! when will you let her rest,
But in her grave! My lady! my sweet mistress!
[Applying a volatile to her temples.

She knows me. He has gone-the signor's gone.
[Aside] She sighs as though she mourned him.

Gin. [Listening]

Fior. Nothing, madam ;—I heard nothing.

Gin.

Fior.

What's that?

Everything

Gives me a painful wonder ;-you, your face,

These walls. My hand seems to me not more human
Than animal; and all things unaccountable.

'Twill pass away. What's that? [A church organ is heard.
Yes, I hear that.

'Tis Father Anselmo, madam, in the chapel,
Touching the new organ. In truth, I asked him,
Thinking that as the signor is so moved
By whatsoever speaks him of religion,

It might have done no harm to you, and him, madam,
To hear it while conversing. But he's old

And slow, is the good father.

[GINEVRA kisses her, and then weeps abundantly.

WERE MADE PRECISELY LIKE THE BEST WE KNOW."-LEIGH HUNT.

AND TO SEE HIS FORCE TAKEN FOR REASON AND right, tenDETH TO UNSEAL HIS REASON QUITE."-HUNT.

"" THOSE FINER INSTINCTS THAT, LIKE SECOND SIGHT-(INGELOW)

Gin. Thank Heaven! thank Heaven and the sweet sounds!

Fior.

I have not wept, Fiordilisa, now, for many a day,
And the sound freshens me-loosens my heart. [Music.
O blessed music! at thy feet we lie,

Pitied of angels surely.

You will rest here, and
Gin. No, Fiordilisa [rising].

Is half commanding it;

Perhaps, madam,

try to sleep awhile?
Meeting what must be,
and in this breath

Of heaven, my mind feels duty set erect,
Fresh out of tears.

When duty's done.

Bed is for night, not day,

So cheer we as we may.
[Exeunt; the music continuing.

[From Leigh Hunt's "Legend of Florence."]

"THE LOOKINGS ONWARD OF THE RACE BEFORE IT HAD A PAST TO MAKE IT LOOK BEHIND;

Jean Ingelow.

[THIS agreeable poetess, whose works are characterized by so much liquid sweetness, intense pathos, and refined delicacy, was born about 1830. She is the author of "The Story of Doom, and Other Poems" (1867); of "Studies for Stories"-a volume of exquisite prose narrative, remarkable for its keen analysis of character; and of "Winstanley," "The High Tide," and various songs, ballads, and lyrics, collected and republished in 1867. In all her poems there is a soft subtle beauty and tender melancholy, which almost imperceptibly wins upon the reader; but they are deficient, we think, in strength-are wanting in vigour and force of colour.]

DIVIDED.

I.

N empty sky, a world of heather,

Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom;
We two among them wading together,
Shaking out honey, treading perfume.

AND HEARING, CATCH CREATION'S UNDERSONG."-JEAN INGELOW.

ITS REVERENT WONDERS, AND ITS DOUBTINGS SORE, ITS ADORATIONS BLIND."-JEAN INGELOW.