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When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say,
Given up myself so many times,
Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes ;
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 ;
There, that is our secret! go to sleep;
You will wake, and remember, and understand.
- no light may pass
LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.
Where we sat side by side
On a bright May mornin' long ago,
When first you were my bride ;
The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high ;
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.
The place is little changed, Mary;
The day is bright as then ;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again ;
And your breath, warm on my cheek;
naught beside ? And I still keep list'nin' for the words
You nevermore will speak.
'T is 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. 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 you were all I had, Mary, –
My blessin' and my pride ;
There's nothing left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.
That still kept hoping on,
And my arni's young strength was gone;
And the kindl look on your brow, -
Though you cannot hear me now.
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
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
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,
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
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.
The star of the goodly company.
She hid from her lord in the old oak chest.
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
Sea, that art clothed with the sun and the rain,
Thy large embraces are keen like pain !
Save me and hide me with all thy waves,
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
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,
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that long ago,
In this kingilom by the sea,
My beautiful Annabel Lee ;
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.
In this kingdom by the sea,
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 ;
Nor the demons down under the sea,
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,
In her sepulchre there by the sea,
EDGAR ALLAN POE.
BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH.
pe! the white moa shirt
Whiter is my true-lotes Ziter than the morning Whiter than the erenin, tid
My love is dond, sc.
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
, 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,
The old man has played out his parts in the scene.
, 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
To that Dirty Old House and that Dirty Old Man.
LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW.
[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
In a deserted burial-place near the ruins of the cas.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.)
And clad it a' wi' lily flower ;
A brawer bower ye ne'er did see,
Than my true-love he built for me.
There came a man, by middle day,
And brought the king that very night,
Who brake my bower, and slew my knight.
He slew my knight, and poin'd his gear :
My servants all for life did flee,
I sewed his sheet, making my mane;
I watched the corpse mysell alane ;
I watched his body night and day;
No living creature came that way.
I took his body on my back,
And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat;
I digged a grave, and laid him in,
And happed him with the sod sae green. appear,
But think na ye my heart was sair,
0, think na ye my heart was wae,
Wi' ae lock o' his yell hair
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 ;
otty in sunshine and streats
The seats are in order, the dishes a-row:
THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE.
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
ackety siguboanl no learning else whant who sold, or the focus on