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. LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side On a bright May mornin' long ago, The place is little changed, Mary; And the corn is green again; And your breath, warm on my cheek; 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near, The church where we were wed, Mary; I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest, For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends; The few our Father sends! Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone; There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow, - I thank you for the patient smile When the hunger pain was gnawin' there, And you hid it for my sake; When your heart was sad and sore, I'm biddin' you a long farewell, In the land I'm goin' to; They say there's bread and work for all, And often in those grand old woods And my heart will travel back again Where we sat side by side, And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride. GINEVRA. LADY DUFFERIN. IF ever you should come to Modena, Where among other trophies may be seen Tassoni's bucket (in its chain it hangs (72) Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandina), Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate, Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, Will long detain you; but, before you go, Enter the house- forget it not, I pray And look awhile upon a picture there. 'Tis of a Lady in her earliest youth, The last of that illustrious family; It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, Like some wild melody! Alone it hangs Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion, An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm, But richly carved by Antony of Trent With Scripture stories from the Life of Christ, A chest that came from Venice, and had held The ducal robes of some old. Ancestor, That by the way—it may be true or false — But don't forget the picture; and you will not When you have heard the tale they told me there. She was an only child, her name Ginevra, The joy, the pride, of an indulgent Father; And in her fifteenth year became a bride, Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. Great was the joy; but at the Nuptial Feast, Done by Zampieri (73) - but by whom I care not. Orsini lived, He who observes it, ere he passes on, Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, That he may call it up when far away. She sits inclining forward as to speak, Her lips half open, and her finger up, An emerald stone in every golden clasp ; But then her face, Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking, Flung it away in battle with the Turk. - and long might you have seen An old man wandering as in quest of something, Something he could not find, he knew not what. When he was gone, the house remained awhile Silent and tenantless, then went to strangers. Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten, When on an idle day, a day of search Mid the old lumber in the Gallery, That mouldering chest was noticed; and 't was said By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, "Why not remove it from its lurking-place?" 'T was done as soon as said; but on the way It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton, With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. 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. The angels, not so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me. Yes! that was the reason (as all men know) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 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. 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, With my hands I'll bind the briers Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, I die! I come! my true-love waits. THOMAS CHATTERTON. MINSTREL'S SONG. O, SING unto my roundelay! O, drop the briny tear with me! Dance no more at holiday; Like a running river be. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Black his hair as the winter night, Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note; O, he lies by the willow-tree! Hark! the raven flaps his wing In the briered dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing To the nightmares as they go. My love is dead, &c. THE DIRTY OLD MAN. A LAY OF LEADENHALL. [A singular man, named Nathaniel Bentley, for many years kept a large hardware shop in Leadenhall Street, London. He was best known as Dirty Dick (Dick, for alliteration's sake, probably), and his place of business as the Dirty Warehouse. He died about the year 1809. These verses accord with the accounts respecting himself and his house.] In a dirty old house lived a Dirty Old Man ; Soap, towels, or brushes were not in his plan. For forty long years, as the neighbors declared, His house never once had been cleaned or repaired. 'T was a scandal and shame to the business-like street, One terrible blot in a ledger so neat: Outside, the old plaster, all spatter and stain, Looked spotty in sunshine and streaky in rain; The window-sills sprouted with mildewy grass, And the panes from being broken were known to be glass. On the rickety signboard no learning could spell The merchant who sold, or the goods he'd to sell; both. But for house and for man a new title took growth, | A nosegay was laid before one special chair, Within, there were carpets and cushions of dust, There, king of the spiders, the Dirty Old Man Fine dames from their carriages, noble and fair, The Dirty Man's manners were truly delightful. That room, forty years since, folk settled and decked it. The luncheon's prepared, and the guests are expected. The handsome young host he is gallant and gay, For his love and her friends will be with him to-day. With solid and dainty the table is drest, The wine beams its brightest, the flowers bloom their best ; Yet the host need not smile, and no guests will appear, For his sweetheart is dead, as he shortly shall hear. Full forty years since turned the key in that door. 'Tis a room deaf and dumb mid the city's uproar. The guests, for whose joyance that table was spread, May now enter as ghosts, for they're every one dead. Through a chink in the shutter dim lights come and go; The seats are in order, the dishes a-row : mouse Whose descendants have long left the Dirty Old House. Cup and platter are masked in thick layers of dust; The flowers fallen to powder, the wine swathed in crust; WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW. [This ballad relates to the execution of Cockburne of Hender land, a border freebooter, hanged over the gate of his own tower by James V. in his famous expedition, in 1529, against the marauders of the border. In a deserted burial-place near the ruins of the cas tle, the monument of Cockburne and his lady is still shown. The My love he built me a bonnie bower, There came a man, by middle day, I sewed his sheet, making my mane; I took his body on my back, I digged a grave, and laid him in, ; ANONYMOUS. THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. WORD was brought to the Danish king (Hurry!) That the love of his heart lay suffering, And pined for the comfort his voice would bring; (0, ride as though you were flying!) |