CCCCLI. LA PROMESSA SPOSA. SLEEP, my sweet girl! and all the sleep confess Their joy that you have slumber'd less, And envy more than they condemn The rival who avenges them. Walter Savage Landor. CCCCLII. SYMPATHY IN SORROW. THE maid I love ne'er thought of me But when her heart or mine sank low, Ah, then it was no longer so. From the slant palm she raised her head, And kiss'd the cheek whence youth had fled. Give her as sweet and pure a kiss. CCCCLIII. Walter Savage Landor. MARY AND AGNES BERRY. Nov. 27, 1852. Two friends within one grave we place United in our tears, Sisters, scarce parted for the space And she whose bier is borne to-day, The one the last to go, Bears with her thoughts that force their way Thoughts of the varied human life Yet 'mid this long tumultuous scene, Of these dear women rests serene Within one undisturbed abode Their presence seems to dwell, From which continual pleasures flowed, Yet simple as the hermitage Exposed to Nature's storms. Our English grandeur on the shelf And every pride unloosed itself Within that modest room; Where none were sad, and few were dull, And each one said his best, And beauty was most beautiful With vanity at rest. Brightly the day's discourse rolled on, Still casting on the shore Memorial pearls of days bygone, And worthies now no more; And little tales of long ago Took meaning from those lips, No taunt or scoff obscured the wit They never could have laughed at it There needless scandal, e'en though true, And even men-of-fashion grew Benignant for a while. Not that there lacked the nervous scorn Not that a friend was left forlorn When victim of the strong: Free words, expressing generous blood, As generations onward came, Revival of the sacred flame That glowed their hearts within. Their hearts went out and gathered fresh Farewell, dear ladies! in your loss The gap our hands could almost cross Ye, and the days in which your claims Lose substance, and ye stand as names Farewell! the pleasant social page Long life without a stain; Delightful as the winter sun That gilds this open grave. Richard, Lord Houghton. CCCCLIV. THE ARCHERY MEETING. I. THE Archery meeting is fixed for the third; I've bought summer bonnets for Rosa and Bess, II. Poor fat little Rosa! she's shooting all day! III. Dear Bess with her elegant figure and face, She talks so, and laughs so! the beaux are to blame : IV. They've made my poor husband an archer elect; V. They dance on the lawn, and we mothers, alas! Thomas H. Bayly. CCCCLV. AT THE CHURCH GATE. ALTHOUGH I enter not, And near the sacred gate, The Minster bell tolls out Above the city's rout, And noise and humming: They've hush'd the Minster bell: The organ 'gins to swell. She's coming, she's coming! My lady comes at last, Timid, and stepping fast, And hastening hither, With modest eyes downcast: Kneel, undisturb'd, fair Saint ! I will not enter there, To sully your pure prayer But suffer me to pace Round the forbidden place, Lingering a minute Like outcast spirits who wait William Makepeace Thackeray. |