A Library of Poetry and Song

This tender sorrow for the time past o'er,

To win the day, though now but scanty space

These doubts that grow each minute more and Was left betwixt him and the winning place.

more?

Why does she tremble as the time grows near,
And weak defeat and woful victory fear?

Short was the way unto such wingéd feet,
Quickly she gained upon him till at last
He turned about her eager eyes to meet,

But while she seemed to hear her beating And from his hand the third fair apple cast.

heart.

Above their heads the trumpet blast rang out, And forth they sprang; and she must play her part;

Then flew her white feet, knowing not a doubt, Though slackening once, she turned her head about,

But then she cried aloud and faster fled

She wavered not, but turned and ran so fast
After the prize that should her bliss fulfil,
That in her hand it lay ere it was still.

Nor did she rest, but turned about to win
Once more, an unblest woful victory -
And yet and yet - why does her breath begin
To fail her, and her feet drag heavily?

Than e'er before, and all men deemed him Why fails she now to see if far or nigh
dead.

But with no sound he raised aloft his hand, And thence what seemed a ray of light there flew

And past the maid rolled on along the sand;
Then trembling she her feet together drew,
And in her heart a strong desire there grew
To have the toy; some god she thought had
given

That gift to her, to make of earth a heaven.

Then from the course with eager steps she ran,
And in her odorous bosom laid the gold.
But when she turned again, the great-limbed man
Now well ahead she failed not to behold,
And mindful of her glory waxing cold,
Sprang up and followed him in hot pursuit,
Though with one hand she touched the golden
fruit.

Note, too, the bow that she was wont to bear
She laid aside to grasp the glittering prize,
And o'er her shoulder from the quiver fair
Three arrows fell and lay before her eyes
Unnoticed, as amidst the people's cries
She sprang to head the strong Milanion,
Who now the turning-post had wellnigh won.

But as he set his mighty hand on it,
White fingers underneath his own were laid,
And white limbs from his dazzled eyes did flit,
Then he the second fruit cast by the maid,
But she ran on awhile, then as afraid
Wavered and stopped, and turned and made no stay
Until the globe with its bright fellow lay.

Then, as a troubled glance she cast around,
Now far ahead the Argive could she see,
And in her garment's hem one hand she wound
To keep the double prize, and strenuously
Sped o'er the course, and little doubt had she

The goal is why do her gray eyes grow dim?
Why do these tremors run through every limb?

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the store

By the banks of that lake, with his only beloved, For which Solomon's self might have given all
He saw, in the wreaths she would playfully snatch
From the hedges, a glory his crown could not
match,

And preferred in his heart the least ringlet that

curled

Down her exquisite neck to the throne of the world!

There's a beauty, forever unchangingly bright, Like the long sunny lapse of a summer's day's light, Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender, Till love falls asleep in its sameness of splendor. This was not the beauty, O, nothing like this, That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of bliss, But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days, Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes,

Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams, Like the glimpses a saint has of heaven in his dreams!

When pensive, it seemed as if that very grace, That charm of all others, was born with her face;

And when angry, for even in the tranquillest

climes

That the navy from Ophir e'er winged to his shore, Yet dim before her were the smiles of them all, And the Light of his Harem was young Nourmahal!

MEETING.

THOMAS MOORE.

THE gray sea, and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves, that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed in the slushy sand.

Then a mile of warm, sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross, till a farm appears:
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts, beating each to each.

ROBERT BROWNING.

THE LADY'S LOOKING-GLASS.

CELIA and I, the other day,
Walked o'er the sand-hills to the sea:
The setting sun adorned the coast,
His beams entire his fierceness lost •
And on the surface of the deep
The winds lay only not asleep :
The nymphs did, like the scene, appear
Serenely pleasant, calmly fair;
Soft felt her words as flew the air.
With secret joy I heard her say
That she would never miss one day
A walk so fine, a sight so gay,

But, O the change! The winds grow high,
Impending tempests charge the sky,
The lightning flies, the thunder roars,
The big waves lash the frightened shores.
Struck with the horror of the sight,
She turns her head and wings her flight;
And, trembling, vows she 'll ne'er again
Approach the shore or view the main.

"Once more at least look back," said I, “Thyself in that large glass descry : When thou art in good humor drest, When gentle reason rules thy breast, The sun upon the calmest sea Appears not half so bright as thee: 'T is then that with delight I rove Upon the boundless depth of love : I bless my chain, I hand my oar, Nor think on all I left on shore.

“But when vain doubt and groundless fear
Do that dear foolish bosom tear;
When the big lip and watery eye
Tell me the rising storm is nigh;
"T is then thou art yon angry main
Deformed by winds and dashed by rain; ·
And the poor sailor that must try
Its fury labors less than I.
Shipwrecked, in vain to land I make,
While love and fate still drive me back :
Forced to dote on thee thy own way,
I chide thee first, and then obey:
Wretched when from thee, vexed when nigh,
I with thee, or without thee, die."

MATTHEW PRIOR.

THE BELLE OF THE BALL.

YEARS, years ago, ere yet my dreams Had been of being wise or witty, Ere I had done with writing themes,

Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty, Years, years ago, while all my joys Were in my fowling-piece and filly; In short, while I was yet a boy,

I fell in love with Laura Lilly.

I saw her at the county ball;

There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall

Of hands across and down the middle, Hers was the subtlest spell by far

Of all that sets young hearts romancing. She was our queen, our rose, our star;

And then she danced, -O Heaven! her dancing.

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Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo,

Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter, And autographs of Prince Leeboo,

And recipes for elder water.

And she was flattered, worshipped, bored;
Her steps were watched, her dress was noted;
Her poodle-dog was quite adored ;

Her sayings were extremely quoted.
She laughed, and every heart was glad,
As if the taxes were abolished;
She frowned, and every look was sad,
As if the opera were demolished.

She smiled on many just for fun,

I knew that there was nothing in it;

I was the first, the only one,

Her heart had thought of for a minute. I knew it, for she told me so,

In phrase which was divinely moulded;
She wrote a charming hand, — and O,
How sweetly all her notes were folded!

Our love was most like other loves,
A little glow, a little shiver,
A rosebud and a pair of gloves,

And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river;
Some jealousy of some one's heir,

Some hopes of dying broken-hearted; A miniature, a lock of hair,

The usual vows, - and then we parted.
We parted months and years rolled by ;
We met again four summers after.
Our parting was all sob and sigh,

Our meeting was all mirth and laughter!
For in my heart's most secret cell

There had been many other lodgers; And she was not the ball-room's belle, But only Mrs.

Something— Rogers!

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.

IT was a friar of orders gray
Walked forth to tell his beads;

And he met with a lady fair
Clad in a pilgrim's weeds.

"Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar;

I pray thee tell to me,

If ever at yon holy shrine

My true-love thou didst see."

"And how should I know your true-love From many another one?" "O, by his cockle hat, and staff, And by his sandal shoon.

"His cheek was redder than the rose;
The comeliest youth was he!
But he is dead and laid in his grave:
Alas, and woe is me!"

"Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever:
One foot on sea and one on land,
To one thing constant never.

"Hadst thou been fond, he had been false,

And left thee sad and heavy;
For young men ever were fickle found,
Since summer trees were leafy."

"Now say not so, thou holy friar,

I pray thee say not so;

My love he had the truest heart,

O, he was ever true!

PYGMALION AND THE IMAGE.

FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE."

ARGUMENT.

A Man of Cyprus, a Sculptor named Pygmalion, made an Image of a Woman, fairer than any that had yet been seen, and in the end came to love his own handiwork as though it had been alive: wherefore, praying to Venus for help, he obtained his end, for she made the Image alive indeed, and a Woman, and Pygmalion wedded her.

AT Amathus, that from the southern side
Of Cyprus looks across the Syrian sea,
There did in ancient time a man abide
Known to the island-dwellers, for that he
Had wrought most godlike works in imagery,
And day by day still greater honor won,
Which man our old books call Pygmalion.

The lessening marble that he worked upon, A woman's form now imaged doubtfully,

"And art thou dead, thou much-loved youth, And in such guise the work had he begun,

And didst thou die for me?

Then farewell home; for evermore

A pilgrim I will be.

"But first upon my true-love's grave

My weary limbs I'll lay,

And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf

That wraps his breathless clay."

"Yet stay, fair lady: rest awhile Beneath this cloister wall;

Because when he the untouched block did see
In wandering veins that form there seemed to be,
Whereon he cried out in a careless mood,
"O lady Venus, make this presage good!

"And then this block of stone shall be thy maid,
And, not without rich golden ornament,
Shall bide within thy quivering myrtle-shade."
So spoke he, but the goddess, well content,
Unto his hand such godlike mastery sent,
That like the first artificer he wrought,

See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, Who made the gift that woe to all men brought.

And drizzly rain doth fall."

"O stay me not, thou holy friar,
O stay me not, I pray;
No drizzly rain that falls on me
Can wash my fault away."

"Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,
And dry those pearly tears;
For see, beneath this gown of gray
Thy own true-love appears.

"Here forced by grief and hopeless love,
These holy weeds I sought;

And here, amid these lonely walls,
To end my days I thought.

"But haply, for my year of grace
Is not yet passed away,
Might I still hope to win thy love,
No longer would I stay."

"Now farewell grief, and welcome joy
Once more unto my heart;
For since I have found thee, lovely youth,
We nevermore will part."

Adapted by THOMAS PERCY.

And yet, but such as he was wont to do,
At first indeed that work divine he deemed,
And as the white chips from the chisel flew
Of other matters languidly he dreamed,
For easy to his hand that labor seemed.
And he was stirred with many a troubling thought,
And many a doubt perplexed him as he wrought.

And yet, again, at last there came a day
When smoother and more shapely grew the stone,
And he, grown eager, put all thought away
But that which touched his craftsmanship alone,
And he would gaze at what his hands had done,
Until his heart with boundless joy would swell
That all was wrought so wonderfully well.

Yet long it was ere he was satisfied,
And with his pride that by his mastery
This thing was done, whose equal far and wide
In no town of the world a man could see,
Came burning longing that the work should be
E'en better still, and to his heart there came
A strange and strong desire he could not name.

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