Pagina-afbeeldingen
PDF
ePub

ROBERT BROWNING.

[ocr errors]

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say,
Why your hair was amber I shall divine,
And what you would do with me, in fine,
I have lived, I shall say, so much since then,

Given up myself so many times,
Gaine me the gains of various men,

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes ;
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope !
What is the issue ? let us see !
My heart seemned full as it could hold, -

EVELYN HOPE.

There was place and to spare for the frank young

smile, BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead !

And the red young mouth, and the hair's young Sit and watch by her side an hour.

gold. That is her book-shelf, this her bed ;

So, hush! I will give you this leaf to keep ;
She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand.
Beginning to die, too, in the glass.

There, that is our secret! go to sleep;
Little has yet been changed, I think ;

You will wake, and remember, and understand.
The shutters are shut,

- no light may pass
Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.
Sixteen years old when she died !

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.
Perlaps she had scarcely heard my name, I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,
It was not her time to love; besiile,

Where we sat side by side
Her life had many a hope and aim,

On a bright May mornin' long ago,
Duties enough and little cares ;

When first you were my bride ;
And now was
quiet, now astir,

The corn was springin' fresh and green,
Till God's hand beckoned unawares,

And the lark sang loud and high ;
And the sweet white brow is all of her.

And the red was on your lip, Mary,

And the love-light in your eye.
Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope?
What! your soul was pure and true ;

The place is little changed, Mary;
The good stars met in your horoscope,

The day is bright as then ;
Made you of spirit, fire, and dew;

The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And just because I was thrice as old,

And the corn is green again ;
And our paths in the world diverged so wide, But I miss the soft clasp of your hand
Each was naught to each, must I be told ?

And your breath, warm on my cheek;
We were fellow-mortals,

naught beside ? And I still keep list'nin' for the words

You nevermore will speak.
No, indeed! for Goil above
Is great to grant as mighty to make,

'T is but a step down yonder lane,
And creates the love to reward the love ;

And the little church stands near,
I claiın you still, for my own love's sake!

The church where we were wed, Mary ;
Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet,

I see the spire from here.
Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few;

But the graveyard lies between, Mary,
Much is to learn and much to forget

And my step might break your rest,
Ere the time be come for taking you.

For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep,

With your baby on your breast. at last it will

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends; in the years long still,

But, O, they love the better still

The few our Father sends!
And your mouth of yourown geranium's red,

And you were all I had, Mary, –

My blessin' and my pride ;
In the new life come in the old one's stead.

There's nothing left to care for now,

Since my poor Mary died.
Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,

That still kept hoping on,
When the trust in Gol had left my soul,

And my arni's young strength was gone;
one - -- in my soul's full scope, There was comfort ever on your lip,
or itself missed me,

And the kindl look on your brow, -
I bless you, Mary, for that same,

Though you cannot hear me now.
yoll, Evelyn, all the while ;

I thank you for the patient smile

When your heart was fit to break,

But the time will come

In the lower earth,

That body and soul so gay?

Yet one thing

Either I missed

I lovel

LADY DUFFERIN.

When the hunger pain was gnawin' there, It haunts me still, though many a year las fied, And you hid it for my sake;

Like some wild melody! I bless you for the pleasant word,

Alone it hangs When your heart was sad and sore,

Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion, 0, I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,

An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm, Where grief can't reach you more !

But richly carved by Intony of Trent

With Scripture stories from the Life of Christ, I'm biddin' you a long farewell,

A chest that came from Venice, and haul heid My Mary — kind and true!

The ducal robes of some old Ancestor, But I 'll not forget you, darling,

That by the way

-it may

be true or false In the land I'm goin' to;

But don't forget the pieture ; and you will not They say there's bread and work for all,

When you have heard the tale they told me there. And the sun shines always there, But I'll not forget old Ireland,

She was an only child, - her name Ginevra, Were it fifty times as fair !

The joy, the pride, of an indulgent Father;

Ind in her fifteenth year became a bride, And often in those grand old woods

Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, I'll sit, and shut my eyes,

Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies;

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, And I'll think I see the little stile

She was all gentleness, all gayety, Where we sat side by side,

Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, But now the day was come, the day, the hour ; When first you were my bride.

Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ;
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave

Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
GINEVRA.

Great was the joy ; but at the Nuptial Feast, If ever you should come to Modena,

When allsate down, the Bride herself was wanting, Where among other trophies may be seen

Nor was she to be found! Her father cried, Tassoni's bucket (in its chain it hangs (72)

“'T is but to make a trial of our love !" Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandina),

And filled his glass to all ; but his hand shook, Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate,

Aud soon from guest to guest the panic spread. Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.

'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,

Laughing and looking back, and flying still, And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,

Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. Will long detain you ; but, before you go,

But now, alas, she was not to be found ; Enter the house - forget it not, I pray

Nor from that hour could anything be guessed, And look awhile upon a picture there.

But that she was not !

Weary of his life, 'Tis of a Lady in her earliest youth,

Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking, The last of that illustrious family ;

Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Done by Zampieri (73) — but by whom I care not. Orsini lived, — and long might you have seen He who observes it, ere he passes on,

An old man wandering as in quest of something, Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, Something he could not find, he knew not what. That he may call it up when far away.

When he was gone, the house remained awhile

Silent and tenantless, — then went to strangers. She sits inclining forward as to speak, Her lips half open, and her finger up,

Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten, As though she said “Beware!” her vest of gold When on an idle day, a day of search Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to Mid the oli lumber in the Gallery, foot,

That moulderingchest was noticed ; and 't was said An emerald stone in every golden clasp ; By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,

“Why not remove it from its lurking-place ?" A coronet of pearls.

'T was done as soon as said ; but on the way But then her face,

It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton, So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,

With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, The overflowings of an innocent heart,

A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

The star of the goodly company.

She hid from her lord in the old oak chest.
The bride lay clasped in her living tomb!
I WILL go back to the great sweet mother,
Mother and lover of men, the sea.

All else had perished,

- save a wedding-ring, I will go down to her, I and none other, And a small seal, her mother's legacy,

Close with her, kiss her, and mix her with me; Engraven with a naine, the name of both, Cling to her, strive with her, hold her fast. “Ginevra."

O fair white mother, in days long past
There then had she found a grave ! Born without sister, born without brother,
Within that chest had she concealed herself, Set free my soul as thy soul is free.
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy ;
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, O fair green-girdled mother of mine,
Fastened her down forever !

Sea, that art clothed with the sun and the rain,
Thy sweet hard kisses are strong like wine,

Thy large embraces are keen like pain !

Save me and hide me with all thy waves,
THE MISTLETOE BOUGH.

Find me one grave of thy thousand graves,

Those pure cold populous graves of thine, Tile mistletoe hung in the castle hall

,

Wrought without hand in a world without stain. The holly branch shone on the old oak wall ; And the baron's retainers were blithe and gay, I shall sleep, and move with the moving ships, And keeping their Christmas holi_lay.

Change as the winds change, veer in the tide ; The baron beheld with a father's pride

My lips will feast on the foam of thy lips, His beautiful child, young Lovell's bride ;

I shall rise with thy rising, with thee subside. While she with her bright eyes seemed to be

Sleep, and not know if she be, if she were,

Filled full with life to the eyes and hair, "I'm

As a rose is fulfilled to the rose-leaf tips weary of dancing now," she cried ; With splendid summer and perfume and pride. "Here tarry a moment, – I'll hide, I'll hide ! And, Lovell, be sure thou 'rt first to trace This woven raiment of nights and days, The clew to my secret lurking-place.”

Were it once cast off and unwound from me, Away she and her friends began

Naked and glad would I walk in thy ways, Each tower to search, and each nook to scan ; Alive and aware of thy waves and thee; And young Lovell cried, "O, where dost thou hide? Clear of the whole world, hidden at home, I'm lonesome without thee, my own dear bride." Clothed with the green, and crowned with the foam, They sought her that night! and they sought her A pulse of the life of thy straits and bays,

A vein in the heart of the streams of the sea. And they sought her in vain when a week passed

away !
In the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot,
Young Lovell sought wildly, — but found her not.
And years flew by, and their grief at last
Was tolal as a sorrowful tale long past ;

ANNABEL LEE.
And when Lovell appeared, the children cried,
"See! the old man weeps for his fairy bride.”

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea, At length an oak chest, that had long lain hid, That a maiden lived, whom you may know Was found in the castle , – they raised the lid,

By the name of Annabel Lee; And a skeleton form lay mouldering there

And this maiden she lived with no other thought In the bridal wreath of that ladly fair !

Than to love, and be loved by me. O, sail was her fate!- in sportive jest

I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea ; spring !-and, dreadful doom,

But we loved with a love that was more than love,

I and my Annabel Lee,
With a love that the wingéd seraphs of heaven

Coveted her and me.
THE DISAPPOINTED LOVER.

And this was the reason that long ago,

In this kingilom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Annabel Lee ;

ran,

next day!

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

It closed with a

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

So that her high-born kinsmen came,

And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre,

In this kingdom by the sea.

See! the white moon shines on high ;

Whiter is my true-love's shroud, Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud.

My love is dead, &c.

Here, upon my true-love's grave

Shall the barren flowers be laid, Nor one holy saint to save All the coldness of a maid.

Jy love is dead, &c.

The angels, not so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and me.
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know)

In this kingdom by the sea,
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we,

Of many far wiser than we ;
And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

With my hands I'll bind the briers

Round his holy corse to gre ; Ouphant fairy, light your fires; Here my boily still shall be.

My love is dead, &c.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,

Drain my heart's blood away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day.

My love is dead, &c.

For the moon never beams without bringing me

dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee,
And so, all the night-tide I lie down by the 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.

[blocks in formation]

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]

BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH.

207

pe! the white moa shirt

Whiter is my true-lotes Ziter than the morning Whiter than the erenin, tid

My love is dond, sc.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

ces upon ms true-lore's our Hall the barter doters

one hoiy saint to save ll the coldness of a maid

Jy love is doid, dc.

James V. in his famous expedition, in 1529, against the marauders

z mr hands I 'll bin : La =und his holy one to: tant fairy, light your brs; ere my balr till still be

My love is dead, &c.

*HERE LYES PERYS OF COKBURNE AND HIS WYFE

breeding

, with acom-'up anichen nin my beart's blow away Lnd all its god I go ace by night, or feast op het

Vy lote is dead, &c

--witches, crowded with r me to your lethal tade

I come! mr true-lores -s the damsel sake, ali

But for house and for man a new title took growth, | A nosegay was laid before one special chair,
Like a fungus, – the Dirt gave its name to them and the faded blue ribbon that bound it lies there.
both,

The old man has played out his parts in the scene.
Within

, there we re carpets and cushions of dust, Wherever he now is, I hope he's more clean. The wood was half rot, and the metal half rust,

Yet give we a thought free of scoffing or ban
Old curtains, ha If cobwebs, hung grimly aloof;

To that Dirty Old House and that Dirty Old Man.
’T was a Spiders' Elysium from cellar to roof.
There, king of the spiders, the Dirty Old Man
Lives busy and dirty as ever he can;

LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW.
With dirt on his fingers and dirt on his face,

[This ballad relates to the execution of Cockburne of Hender. For the Dirty Old Man thinks the dirt no disgrace. land, a border freebooter

, hanged over the gate of his own tower big From his wig to his shoes, from his coat to his shirt, ile

, the
monument of Cockburne and his lady is still shown. The

In a deserted burial-place near the ruins of the cas.
His clothes are a proverb, a marvel of dirt ; following inscription is still legible, though defaced :-
The dirt is pervading, unfading, exceeding,

MARJORY."
Yet the Dirty Old Man has both learning and

SIR WALTER SCOTT.)
My love he built me a bonnie bower,

And clad it a' wi' lily flower ;
Fine dames from their carriages, noble and fair,

A brawer bower ye ne'er did see,
Have entered his shop, less to buy than to stare ;
And have afterwards said, though the dirt was

Than my true-love he built for me.
so frightful,

There came a man, by middle day,
The Dirty Man's manners were truly delightful. He spied his sport, and went away ;

And brought the king that very night,
Upstairs might they venture, in dirt and in gloom,

Who brake my bower, and slew my knight.
To peep at the door of the wonderful room
Such stories are told about, none of them true ! He slew my knight, to me sae dear;
The keyhole itself has no mortal seen through.

He slew my knight, and poin'd his gear :

My servants all for life did flee,
That room, – forty years since, folk settled and And left me in extremitie.

decked it.
The luncheon 's prepared, and the guests are ex-

I sewed his sheet, making my mane;

I watched the corpse mysell alane ;
pected.
The handsome young host he is gallant and gay,

I watched his body night and day;
Forhis love and her friends will be with him to-day.

No living creature came that way.

I took his body on my back,
With solid and dainty the table is drest,

And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat;
The wine beams its brightest, the flowers bloom

I digged a grave, and laid him in,
their best;
Yet the host need not smile, and no guests will

And happed him with the sod sae green. appear,

But think na ye my heart was sair,
For his sweetheart is dead, as he shortly shall hear. When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair ?

0, think na ye my heart was wae,
Full forty years since turned the key in that door. When I turned about, a way to gae ?
'Tis a room deaf and dumb mid the city's uproar.
The guests, for whose joyance that table was spread, Nae living man I 'll love again,
May nowenter asghosts, for they're everyone dead. Since that my lively knight is slain ;

Wi' ae lock o' his yell hair
Through a chink in the shutter dim lights come I'll chain my heart forevermair.

[ocr errors]
[merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small]

andal and shame to the land t, e blot in a ledger sonati ill of hardware, but had our heart t of the mansion atherede

and go ;

ANONYMOUS

mouse

otty in sunshine and streats

The seats are in order, the dishes a-row:
But the luncheon was wealth to the rat and the

THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE.
Whose descendants have long left the Dirty Old
House.

WORD was brought to the Danish king

(Hurry !) Cup and platterare masked in thick layers of dust; That the love of his heart lay suffering, The flowers fallen to powder, the wine swathed in And pined for the comfort his voice would bring;

(O, ride as though you were flying !)

anes from being broken met het

[ocr errors]

crust;

ackety siguboanl no learning else whant who sold, or the focus on

ell:

« VorigeDoorgaan »