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- a look,

A something light as air,

For one moment, under the old blue sky, A word unkind or wrongly taken,

To the old glad life in Spain. O, love that tempests never shook,

Well ! there in our front-row box we sat A breath, a touch like this has shaken!

Together, my bride betrothed and I ; And ruder words will soon rush in

My gaze was fixed on my opera hat,
To spread the breach that words begin ;

And hers on the stage hard by.
And eyes forget the gentle ray
They wore in courtship's smiling day ; And both were silent, and both were sad;-
And voices lose the tone that shed

Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm, A tenderness round all they said ;

With that regal, indolent air she had ;
Till fast declining, one by one,

So confident of her charm !
The sweetnesses of love are gone,
And hearts, so lately mingled, sccm

I have not a doubt she was thinking then
Like broken clouds, - or like the stream,

Of her former lord, good soul that he was,

Who died the richest and roundest of men,
That smiling left the mountain's brow,
As though its waters ne'er could sever,

The Marquis of Carabas.
Yet, ere it reach the plain below,

I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, Breaks into floods that part forever.

Through a needle's eye he had not to pass ;

I wish him well for the jointure given
0
you,
that have the charge of Lore,

To my lady of Carabas.
Keep him in rosy bondage bound,
As in the fields of Bliss above

Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love
He sits, with flowerets fettered round ; - As I had not been thinking of aught for years ;
Loose not a tie that round him clings, Till over my eyes there began to move
Nor ever let him use his wings ;

Something that felt like tears. For even an hour, a minute's Night Will rob the plumes of half their light. I thought of the dress that she wore last time, Like that celestial bird, — whose nest

When westood 'neath the cypress-trees together, Is found beneath far Eastern skies,

In that lost land, in that soft clime, Whose wings, though radiant when at rest, In the crimson evening weather ; Lose all their glory when he flies !

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot);

And her warm white neck in its golden chain ;

And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot,
AUX ITALIENS.

And falling loose again ;
At Paris it was, at the opera there ;

And the jasmine flower in her fair young

breast ; And she looked like a queen in a book that (O the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower!) night,

And the one bird singing alone to his nest ;
With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, And the one star over the tower.
And the brooch on her breast so bright.

I thought of our little quarrels and strife,
Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,

And the letter that brought me back my ring ; The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore ; And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, And Mario can soothc, with a tenor note,

Such a very little thing ! The souls in purgatory.

For I thought of her grave below the hill, The moon on the tower slept soft as snow ; Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over :

And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, And I thought, “Were she only living still, As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, How I could forgive her and love her !" Non ti scordar di mc ?"

And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, The emperor there, in his box of state,

And of how, after all, old things are best, Looked grave; as if he had just then seen That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower The red flag wave from the city gate,

Which she used to wear in her breast.
Where his eagles in bronze had been.

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet,
The empress, too, had a tear in her eye :

It made me creer, and it made me cold ! You'd have said that her fancy had gone back Like the scent that steals from the crumblingsheet again,

Where a mummy is half unrolled.

THOMAS MOORE.

TRANSIENT BEAUTY.

And I turned and looked : she was sitting there,

In a clim box over the stage ; and drest
In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair,

And that jasmine in her brcast !

THE GIAOUR.

I was here, and she was there ;

And the glittering horse-shoc curved between :From my bride betrothed, with her raven liair

And her sumptuous scornful mien,

To my early love with her eyes downcast,

And over her primrose face the shade, (In short, from the future back to the past,)

There was but a step to be made.

To my early love from my future bride

One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, I traversed the passage ; and down at her side

I was sitting, a moment more.

As, rising on its purplo wing, The insect-queen of Eastern spring, O'er emerald incadows of Kashmeer, Invites the young pursuer near, And leads him on from flower to flower, A weary chasc and wasted liour, Then leaves him, as it soars on high, With panting heart and tearful cye ; So Beauty lures the full-grown child, With hue as bright, and wind as wild ; A chase of idle hopes and fears, Begun in folly, closed in tears. If won, to equal ills betrayed, Woe waits the insect and the maid : A life of pain, the loss of peace, From infant's play and inan's caprice; The lovely toy, so fiercely sought, Hath lost its charın by being caught ; For every touch that wooed its stay Hath brushed its brightest hues away, Till, charm and hue and beauty gone, "T is left to fly or fall alone. With wounded wing or bleeding breast, Ah! where shall either victim rest? Can this with faded pinion soar From rose to tulip as before ? Or Beauty, blighted in an hour, Find joy within her broken bower ? No; gayer insects fluttering by Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die, And lovelier things have mercy shown To every failing but their own, And every woc a tear can claim, Except an erring sister's slame.

My thinking of her, or the music's strain,

Or something which never will be exprest, Had brought her back from the grave again,

With the jasmine in her breast.

She is not dead, and she is not wed!

But she loves me now, and she loved me then ! And the very first word that her sweet lips said,

My heart grew youthful again.

The marchioncss there, of Carabas,

She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still; And but for her .... well, we'll let that pass;

She may marry whomever she will.

BYRON.

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WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY. I LOVED thec once, I 'll love no more,

Thine be the grief as is the blame ; Thou art not what thou wast before, What reason I should be the same?

He that can love unloved again,

Hath better store of love than brain : God send me love my debts to pay,

While unthrifts fool their love away. Nothing could have my love o'erthrown,

If thou hadst still continued mine; Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own, I might perchance have yet been thine.

But thou thy freedom did recall,

That if thou might elsewhere inthrall; And then how could I but disdain A captive's captive to remain ?

If only the dead could find out when

To come back and be forgiven.

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Hence it came that this soft harp so long hath

been known To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone ; Tillthou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay To be love when I'm nearthee and grief when away!

THOMAS MOORE ("Irish Melodies").

SLEEP!

- The ghostly winds are blowing !
No moon abroad, no star is glowing ;
The river is deep, and the tide is flowing
To the land where you and I are going !

We are going afar,

Beyond moon or star, To the land where the sinless angels are ! I lost my heart to your heartless sire ('T was melted away by his looks of fire), Forgot my God, and my father's ire, All for the sake of a man's desire;

But now we'll go

Where the waters flow,
And make us a bed where none shall know.

WHERE SHALL THE LOVER REST?

WHERE shall the lover rest

Whom the fates sever From his true maiden's breast

Parted forever ?

LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT.

A SCOTTISH SONG.

The world is cruel, the world is untrue;
Our foes are many, our friends are few;
No work, no bread, however we sue !
What is there left for me to do,

But fly, — fly

From the cruel sky, And hide in the deepest deeps, — and dic ?

BARRY CORNWALL.

BALOw, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thee wcipe;
If thou 'st be silent, I 'se be glad,
Thy maining maks my heart ful sad.
Balow, my boy, thy mither's joy!
Thy father breides me great annoy.

Balow, iny babc, ly stil and sleipe !
It gricrcs mc sair to scc thcc wcipe.

When he began to court my luve,
And with his sugred words to muve,
His faynings fals, and flattering cheire,
To me that time did not appeire :
But now I see, most cruell hee,
Cares neither for my babe nor mee.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves mc sair to see thec wcipe.

Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile,
And when thou wakest sweitly smile :
But smile not, as thy father did,
To cozen maids ; nay, God forbid !
But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire,
Thy fatheris hart and face to beire.

Balow, my babc, ly stil and sleipe !
It gricves me sair to sce thee ucipe.

WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY.

O, WALY, waly up the bank,

And waly, waly down the brae,
And waly, waly yon burn side,

Where I and my love wont to gae.
I leaned my back unto an aik,

I thought it was a trusty tree ;
But first it bowed, and syne it brak

Sae my true love did lightly me!
O, waly, waly, but love be bonny,

A little time while it is new ;
But when 't is aulil it waxeth cauld,

And fades away like the inorning dew.
O, wherefore should I busk my head ?

Or wherefore should I kame my hair ?
For my true love has me forsook,

And says he'll never love me mair.
Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed ;

The sheets shall nc'er be fyled by me;
Saint Anton's well shall be my drink,

Since my true love has forsaken me.
Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,

And shake the green leaves off the tree ?
O gentle cleath, when wilt thou come ?

For of my life I'm weary.
'T is not the frost that freezes fell,

Nor blawing snaw's inclemency ;
'T is not sic cauld that makes me cry,

But my love's heart grown cauld to me.
When we came in by Glasgow town,

We were a comely sight to see ;
My love was clad in the black velvet,

And I my sell in cramasie.
But had I wist, before I kissed,

That love had been sae ill to win,
I'd locked my heart in a case of gold,

And pinned it with a silver pin.
0, 0, if my young babe were born,

And set upon the nurse's knce,
And I my sell were dead and gane,

And the green grass growin' over me !

I cannae chuse, but ever will
Be luving to thy father stil :
Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde,
My luve with him maun stil abyde :
In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae,
Mine hart can neir depart him frac.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It gricvcs mc sair to scc thce wcipe.

But doe not, doe not, prettie ine,
To faynings fals thine hart incline ;
Be loyal to thy luver trew,
And nevir change hir for a new ;
If gude or faire, of hir have care,
For women's banning's wonderous sair.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It gricvcs me sair to see thec wcipc.

Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane,
Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine ;
My babe and I'll together live,
He 'll comfort me when cares doc grieve;
My babo and I right saft will ly,
And quite forget man's cruelty.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and slcipe !

It gricvcs me sair lo scc thce wcipe. Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth That ever kist a woman's mouth!

ANONYMOUS,

I wish all maids be warned by mec,
Nevir to trust man's curtesy ;
For if we doe but chance to bow,
They 'll use us than they care not how.

Balow, my babc, ly stil and sleipe !
It gricvcs me sair to see thcc wcipc.

ANONYMOUS.

0, dinna mind my words, Willie,

I downa scek to blame ;
But 0, it's hard to live, Willic,

And dree a warld's shame!
Het tears are hailin' ower your check,

And hailin' ower your chin : Why weep ye sac for worthlessness,

For sorrow, and for sin ?

MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE.

I'm weary o' this warld, Willie,

And sick wi' a' I see,
I canna live as I ha'e lived,

Or be as I should be.
But fauld unto your heart, Willie,

The heart that still is thine,
And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek

Ye said was red langsyne.

A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie,

A sair stoun' through my heart; O, haul ine up and let me kiss

Thy brow ere we twa pairt. Anither, and anither yet !

How fast my life-strings break ! Fareweel! fareweel! through yon kirk-yard

Step lichtly for my sake!

My heid is like to rend, Willie,

My heart is like to break; I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie,

I'm dyin' for your sake ! 0, lay your cheek to mine, Willie,

Your hand on my briest-bane, O, say ye 'll think on me, Willie,

When I am deid and ganc ! It's vain to comfort me, Willie,

Sair grief maun ha'e its will;
But let me rest upon your briest

To sab and greet my fill.
Let me sit on your knec, Willie,

Let me shed by your hair,
And look into the face, Willic,

I never sall scc mair !
I'm sittin' on your knec, Willie,

For the last time in my life,
A puir heart-broken thing, Willie,

A mither, yet nae wife.
Ay, press your hand upon my heart,

And press it mair and mair,
Or it will burst the silken twine,

Sae strang is its despair.
O, wae 's me for the hour, Willie,

When we thegither met,
O, wae's me for the time, Willie,

That our first tryst was set !
0, wae's me for the loanin' green

Where we were wont to gae,
And wae's me for the destinie

That gart me luve thee sae !

The lav'rock in the lift, Willie,

That lilts far ower our heid, Will sing the morn as merrilie

Abune the clay-cauld deid; And this green turf we're sittin' on,

Wi' dew-draps slimmeriu' sheen, Will hap the heart that luvit thee

As warld has seldom seen.

But O, remember me, Willie,

On land where'er ye be ;
And 0, think on the leal, leal heart,

That ne'er luvit ane but thee!
And O, think on the cauld, cauld mools

That file mny yellow hair,
That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin
Ye never sall kiss mair!

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL

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