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That caught and pinned her in the river's bed, And lo! when morning, as in mockery, bright While through the reckless water overhead Shone on that pillow, passing strange the sight, Her life-breath bubbled up.

That young head's raven hair was streaked with “She might have lived, white ! Struggling like Lizzy," was the thought that No idle fiction this. Such things have been, rived

We know. And now I tell what I have seen. The wretched mother's heart, when she knew all, But for my foolishness about that shawl ! Life struggled long with death in that small And master would have kept them back the day; frame, But I was willful, — driving them away

But it was strong, and conquered. All became In such wild weather !"

As it had been with the poor family, Thus the tortured heart All, saving that which nevermore might be : Unnaturally against itself takes part,

| There was an empty place, — they were but three. Driving the sharp edge deeper of a woe

CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY.
Too deep already. They had raised her now,
And parting the wet ringlets from her brow,
To that, and the cold cheek, and lips as cold,

FRA GIACOMO.
The father glued his warm ones, ere they rolled
Once more the fatal shawl — her winding-sheet-
About the precious clay. One heart still beat, ALAS, Fra Giacomo,
Warmed by his heart's blood. To his only child. Too late! — but follow me;
He turned him, but her piteous moaning mild Hush ! draw the curtain, - so ! —
Pierced him afresh, — and now she knew him not. She is dead, quite dead, you see.
“Mother !" she murmured, “who says I for Poor little lady! she lies
got?

With the light gone out of her eyes,
“Mother ! indeed, indeed, I kept fast hold, But her features still wear that soft
And tied the shawl quite close - she can't be Gray meditative expression,
cold -

Which you must have noticed oft, But she won't move — we slipt — I don't know And admired too, at confession. how

How saintly she looks, and how meek!
But I held on — and I 'm so weary now -

Though this be the chamber of death,
And it's so dark and cold ! O dear! O dear! I fancy I feel her breath
And she won't move - if daddy was but here!" As I kiss her on the cheek.

With that pensive religious face, Poor lamb! she wandered in her mind, 't was She has gone to a holier place! clear;

And I hardly appreciated her, But soon the piteous murmur died away,

Her praying, fasting, confessing,
And quiet in her father's arms she lay, —

Poorly, I own, I mated her ;
They their dead burden had resigned, to take I thought her too cold, and rated her
The living, so near lost. For her dear sake, For her endless image-caressing.
And one at home, he armed himself to bear Too saintly for me by far,
His misery like a man, -- with tender care As pure and as cold as a star,
Dofling his coat her shivering form to fold

Not fashioned for kissing and pressing, -
(His neighbor bearing that which felt no cold), But made for a heavenly crown.
He clasped her close, and so, with little said, Ay, father, let us go down, -
Homeward they bore the living and the dead. But first, if you please, your blessing !

II.

From Ambrose Gray's poor cottage all that night
Shone fitfully a little shifting light,
Above, below, - for all were watchers there,
Save one sound sleeper. Her, parental care,
Parental watchfulness, availed not now.
But in the young survivor's throbbing brow,
And wandering eyes, delirious fever burned ;
And all night long from side to side she turned,
Piteously plaining like a wounded dove,
With now and then the murmur, “She won't

move."

Wine ? No? Come, come, you must!

You 'll bless it with your prayers,
And quaff a cup, I trust,

To the health of the saint up stairs ?
My heart is aching so !

And I feel so weary and sad,

Through the blow that I have had, -
You ’ll sit, Fra Giacomo ?
My friend ! (and a friend I rank you

For the sake of that saint,) — nay, nay!

Here's the wine, -as you love me, stay!-| "T is Montepulciano ! - Thank you.

III.

Heigh-ho! 'T is now six summers

Since I won that angel and married her :

I was rich, not old, and carried her
Off in the face of all comers.
So fresh, yet so brimming with soul !

A tenderer morsel, I swear,
Never made the dull black coal

Of a monk's eye glitter and glare.

Your pardon ! - nay, keep your chair ! I wander a little, but mean No offence to the gray gaberdine : Of the church, Fra Giacomo, I'm a faithful upholder, you know, But (humor me !) she was as sweet

As the saints in your convent windows, So gentle, so meek, so discreet,

She knew not what lust does or sin does. I'll confess, though, before we were one,

I deemed her less saintly, and thought

The blood in her veins had caught
Some natural warmth from the sun.
I was wrong, -.was blind as a bat, -

Brute that I was, how I blundered !
Though such a mistake as that
Might have occurred as pat

To ninety-nine men in a hundred.
Yourself, for example ? you 've seen her ?
Spite her modest and pious demeanor,
And the manners so nice and precise,

Seemed there not color and light,

Bright motion and appetite,
That were scarcely consistent with ice ?
Externals implying, you see,

Internals less saintly than human ? -
Pray speak, for between you and me

You 're not a bad judge of a woman!

All that I asked for or needed,
And her thoughts were far away
From the level of sinful clay,
And she trembled if earthly matters
Interfered with her aves and paters.
Poor dove, she so fluttered in flying

Above the dim vapors of hell -
Bent on self-sanctifying —
That she never thought of trying

To save her husband as well.
And while she was duly elected

For place in the heavenly roll,
I (brute that I was !) suspected

Her manner of saving her soul.
So, half for the fun of the thing,
What did I (blasphemer !) but fling
On my shoulders the gown of a monk -
Whom I managed for that very day

To get safely out of the way -
And seat me, half sober, half drunk,
With the cowl thrown over my face,
In the father confessor's place.
Eheu! benedicite !
In her orthodox sweet simplicity,
With that pensive gray expression,
She sighfully knelt at confession,
While I bit my lips till they bled,

And dug my nails in my hand,
And heard with averted head

What I'd guessed and could understand. Each word was a serpent's sting,

But, wrapt in my gloomy gown, I sat, like a marble thing, .

As she told me all !-SIT DOWN.

iv. A jest, – but a jest !- Very true :

'T is hardly becoming to jest,

And that saint up stairs at rest, — Her soul may be listening, too! I was always a brute of a fellow ! Well may your visage turn yellow, To think how I doubted and doubted, Suspected, grumbled at, flouted That golden-haired angel, - and solely Because she was zealous and holy ! Noon and night and morn

She devoted herself to piety; Not that she seemed to scorn

Or dislike her husband's society ; But the claims of her soul superseded

More wine, Fra Giacomo !
One cup, — if you love me! No?
What, have these dry lips drank

So deep of the sweets of pleasure —

Sub rosa, but quite without measure — That Montepulciano tastes rank? Come, drink! 't will bring the streaks Of crimson back to your cheeks; Come, drink again to the saint Whose virtues you loved to paint, Who, stretched on her wifely bed,

With the tender, grave expression

You used to admire at confession, Lies poisoned, overhead !

VI.

Sit still, - or by heaven, you die !
Face to face, soul to soul, you and I
Have settled accounts, in a fine
Pleasant fashion, over our wine.
Stir not, and seek not to fly, -

Nay, whether or not, you are mine!

That morning the rose was bright of hue, Thank Montepulciano for giving

That morning the maiden was sweet to view; You death in such delicate sips;

But the evening sun its beauty shed 'T is not every monk ceases living

| On the withered leaves and the maiden dead. With so pleasant a taste on his lips ;

JOHN WILSON (CHRISTOPHER NORTH).
But, lest Montepulciano unsurely should kiss,
Take this ! and this ! and this !

RAMON.
VII.

REFUGIO MINE, NORTHERN MEXICO.
Cover him over, Pietro,
And bury him in the court below, —

DRUNK and senseless in his place,
You can be secret, lad, I know !

Prone and sprawling on his face,
And, hark you, then to the convent go, | More like brute than any man
Bid every bell of the convent toll,

Alive or dead, -
And the monks say mass for your mistress' soul. By his great pump out of gear,

ROBERT BUCHANAN.

Lay the peon engineer,
Waking only just to hear,

Overhead,

Angry tones that called his name,
THE ROSE AND THE GAUNTLET.

Oaths and cries of bitter blame, –
Low spake the knight to the peasant maid,

Woke to hear all this, and waking, turned and “0, be not thus of my suit afraid !

fled! Fly with me from this garden small,

"To the man who 'll bring to me,” And thou shalt sit in my castle hall.

Cried Intendant Harry Lee,

Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine, “Thou shalt have pomp and wealth and pleasure,

“Bring the sot alive or dead, Joys beyond thy fancy's measure ;

I will give to him," he said, Here with my sword and horse I stand,

“Fifteen hundred pesos down, To bear thee away to my distant land.

Just to set the rascal's crown

Underneath this heel of mine : “ Take, thou fairest ! this full-blown rose

Since but death
A token of love that as ripely blows."

Deserves the man whose deed,
With his glove of steel he plucked the token, Be it vice or want of heed,
And it fell from the gauntlet crushed and broken. Stops the pumps that give us breath, -

Stops the pumps that suck the death
The maiden exclaimed, “Thou seest, Şir Knight, From the poisoned lower levels of the mine!".
Thy fingers of iron can only smite;
And, like the rose thou hast torn and scattered,

No one answered, for a cry
I in thy grasp should be wrecked and shattered !” | From the shaft rose up on high ;

And shuffling, scrambling, tumbling from below,

Came the miners each, the bolder She trembled and blushed, and her glances fell,

Mounting on the weaker's shoulder, But she turned from the knight, and said, “Fare

Grappling, clinging to their hold or well" ; “Not so," he cried, “will I lose my prize,

Letting go,

As the weaker gasped and fell 1 heed not thy words, but I read thine eyes."

From the ladder to the well,

To the poisoned pit of hell
He lifted her up in his grasp of steel,

Down below!
And he mounted and spurred with fiery heel;
But her cry drew forth her hoary sire,

To the man who sets them free," Who snatched his bow from above the fire. Cried the foreman, Harry Lee, –

Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine, Swift from the valley the warrior fled,

“Brings them out and sets them free, But swifter the bolt of the cross-bow sped; I will give that man,” said he, And the weight that pressed on the fleet-foot “ Twice that sum, who with a rope horse,

Face to face with death shall cope: Was the living man and the woman's corse. Let him come who dares to hope !"

ROBERT BROWNING.

BRET HARTE.

“Hold your peace !” some one replied,

Now they carouse with the prince instead, Standing by the foreman's side ;

Drinking the maddest, merriest wines ; “ There has one already gone, whoe'er he be !” It 's pleasant to hear such catches trolled,

Now the king is cold ! Then they held their breath with awe,

111. Pulling on the rope, and saw Fainting figures reappear,

What shall I do with His Majesty now? On the black rope swinging clear,

For, thanks to my potion, the man is dead ; Fastened by some skillful hand from below;

Suppose I bolster him up in bed, Till a score the level gained,

And fix the crown again on his brow? And but one alone remained,

That would be merry! but then the prince He the hero and the last,

Would tumble it down, I know, in a trice; He whose skillful hand made fast

'T would puzzle the Devil to name a vice The long line that brought them back to hope that would make his Excellent Highness wince! and cheer!

Hark! he's coming, I know his step;

He's stealing to see if his wishes are true; Haggard, gasping, down dropped he

Sire, may your father's end be yours ! At the feet of Harry Lee, —

(With just such a son to murder you !) Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine;

Peace to the dead ! Let the bells be tolled I have come,” he gasped, “to claim

The king is cold !
Both rewards, Señor, -- my name

Is Ramon !
I'm the drunken engineer, —
I'm the coward, Señor -—" Here

SATAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN.
He fell over, by that sign

FROM "PARADISE LOST."
Dead as stone !

10 Thou, that, with surpassing glory crowned,
Look'st from thy sole dominion like the god

Of this new world ; at whose sight all the stars
THE KING IS COLD.

Hide their diminished heads ; to thee I call,
But with no friendly voice, and add thy name,

O Sun! to tell thee how I hate thy beams, RAKE the embers, blow the coals,

That bring to my remembrance from what state Kindle at once a roaring fire ;

I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere; Here's some paper – 't is nothing, sir — Till pride and worse ambition threw me down, Light it (they ’ve saved a thousand souls), | Warring in heaven against heaven's matchless Run for fagots, ye scurvy knaves,

| King : There are plenty out in the public square, Ah, wherefore ? he deserved no such return

You know they fry the heretics there. From me, whom he created what I was (But God remember their nameless graves !) In that bright eminence, and with his good Fly, fly, or the king may die !

Upbraided none ; nor was his service hard. Ugh! his royal feet are like snow,

What could be less than to afford him praise, And the cold is mounting up to his heart. | The easiest recompense, and pay him thanks, (But that was frozen long ago !)

How due ! yet all his good proved ill in me, Rascals, varlets, do as you are told,

And wrought but malice ; lifted up so high The king is cold.

I 'sdained subjection, and thought one step

higher

Would set me highest, and in a moment quit His bed of state is a grand affair,

The debt immense of endless gratitude With sheets of satin and pillows of down, So-burdensome, still paying, still to owe :

And close beside it stands the crown, - Forgetful what from him I still received, But that won't keep him from dying there! | And understood not that a grateful mind His hands are wrinkled, his hair is gray, By owing owes not, but still pays, at once

And his ancient blood is sluggish and thin ; Indebted and discharged; what burden then ?

When he was young it was hot with sin, -1 O had his powerful destiny ordained But that is over this many a day!

Me some inferior angel, I had stood Under these sheets of satin and lace

Then happy ; no unbounded hope had raised He slept in the arms of his concubines; l Ambition. Yet why not ? some other power

As great might have aspired, and me, though |

COUNTESS LAURA.
mean,
Drawn to his part ; but other powers as great It was a dreary day in Padua.
Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within . The Countess Laura, for a single year
Or from without, to all temptations armed. Fernando's wife, upon her bridal bed,
Hadst thou the same free will, and powerto stand ? Like an uprooted lily on the snow,
Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to The withered outcast of a festival,
accuse,

Lay dead. She died of some uncertain ill,
But Heaven's free love dealt equally to all ? That struck her almost on her wedding day,
Be then his love accursed, since love or hate, And clung to her, and dragged her slowly down,
To me alike, it deals eternal woe !

Thinning her cheeks and pinching her full lips, Nay, cursed be thou ; since against his thy will Till, in her chance, it seemed that with a year Chose freely what it now so justly rues.

Full half a century was overpast. Me miserable ! which way shall I fly

In vain had Paracelsus taxed his art, Infinite wrath, and infinite despair ?

And feigned a knowledge of her malady ; Which way I fly is hell ; myself am hell ; In vain had all the doctors, far and near, And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep

Gathered around the mystery of her bed, Still threatening to devour me opens wide, Draining her veins, her husband's treasury, To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven. And physic's jargon, in a fruitless quest 0, then, at last relent: is there no place For causes equal to the dread result. Left for repentance, none for pardon left ? The Countess only smiled when they were gone, None left but by submission ; and that word Hugged her fair body with her little hands, Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame And turned upon her pillows wearily, Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduced As though she fain would sleep no common sleep, With other promises and other vaunts

But the long, breathless slumber of the grave. Than to submit, boasting I could subdne She hinted nothing. Feeble as she was, The Omnipotent. Ah me! they little know The rack could not have wrung her secret out. How dearly I abide that boast so vain;

The Bishop, when he shrived her, coming forth, Under what torments inwardly I groan,

Cried, in a voice of heavenly ecstasy, While they adore me on the throne of hell. “O blessed soul ! with nothing to confess With diadem and scepter high advanced, Save virtues and good deeds, which she misThe lower still I fall, only supreme

takes — In misery : such joy ambition finds.

So humble is she --- for our human sins !But say I could repent, and could obtain, Praying for death, she tossed upon her bed By act of grace, my former state ; how soon Day after day; as might a shipwrecked bark Would height recall high thoughts, how soon That rocks upon one billow, and can make unsay

No onward motion towards her port of hope. What feigned submission swore! Ease would At length, one morn, when those around her said, recant

“Surely the Countess mends, so fresh a light Vows made in pain, as violent and void.

Beams from her eyes and beautifies her face," For never can true reconcilement grow

One morn in spring, when every flower of earth Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so was opening to the sun, and breathing up deep :

Its votive incense, her impatient soul Which would but lead me to a worse relapse Opened itself, and so exhaled to heaven. And heavier fall; so should I purchase dear When the Count heard it, he reeled back a pace; Short intermission bought with double smart. Then turned with anger on the messenger; This knows my punisher; therefore as far Then craved his pardon, and wept out his heart From granting he, as I from begging peace : Before the menial; tears, ah me! such tears All hope excluded thus, behold, instead

As love sheds only, and love only once. Of us outcast, exiled, his new delight,

| Then he bethought him, “Shall this wonder die, Mankind created, and for him this world. And leave behind no shadow? not a trace So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear, Of all the glory that environed her, Farewell remorse : all good to me is lost; That mellow nimbus circling round my star ?". Evil, be thou my good : by thee at least So, with his sorrow glooming in his face, Divided empire with heaven's King I hold, He paced along his gallery of art, By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign ; And strode among the painters, where they stood, As man ere long, and this new world shall know. With Carlo, the Venetian, at their head,

Milton. Studying the Masters by the dawning light

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