« PreviousContinue »
Of till the agonies in life, that which is most poignant and harrowing—that which, for the time, annihilates reason, and leaves our whole organization one lacerated, mangled heart — is the conviction that we have been deceived where we placed all the trust of love. TO AN ABSENT WIFE.
IjjfpDRST time he kissed me, he but only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write; And ever since it grew more clean and white— "k Slow to world-greetings—quick with its "O, f list,"
w When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst I could not wear here, plainer to my sight Thau that first kiss. The second passed in height
The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed,
Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed!
That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown,
With sanctifying sweetness did precede.
The third upon my lips was folded down
In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed,
I have been proud and said, "My love, my own."
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
S MORN; the sea-breeze seems to bring
'Tis noon; a calm unbroken sleep
'Tis eve; on earth the sunset skies
And, like some unseen sprite, the breeze
'Tis midnight; with a. soothing spell
I sink in dreams, low, sweet, and clear;
George D. Prentice.
THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE.
Tf\ IK sun has gane down o'er the lofty Ben Lomond, JSj And left the red clouds to preside o'er the rrj scene,
Wg While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin", J To muse on sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dnmblane.
How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom,
Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,
She's modest.as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie —
And far be the villain, divested of feeling,
Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to thee'ening!—
Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,
How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie!
The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie
Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane.
Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandenr,
And recken as naething the height o' its splendor,
COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD.
|OME into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, night, has flown!
For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
On a bed of daffodil sky,—
To laint id its light, and to die.
All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;
To the dancers dancing iii tune,—
And a hush with the setting moon.
I said to the lily, "There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay. "When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play."
And half to the rising day;
The last wheel echoes away.
I said to the rose, "The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine,
For one that will never be thine!
"For ever and ever mine!"
And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clashed in the hall; And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall From the lake to the meadow, and on to the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all;
From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
He sets the jewel-print of your feet
To the woody hollows in which we meet
The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
Knowing your promise to me; The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sighed for the dawn and thee.
Queen rose of the rose-bud garden of girls,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate! The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"
And the white rose weeps, "She is late;" The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"
And the lily whispers, "I wait."
She is coming, my own, my sweet!
Were it ever so airy a tread,
Were it earth in an earthly bed;
Had I lain for a ce&tury dead;
And blossom in purple and red.
TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON.
j^HEN love with unconfln6d wings
Hovers within my gates,
To whisper at my grates;
And fettered with her eye. The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.
When flowing cups run swiftly round.
With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses crowned,
Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free, Fishes that tipple in the deep
Know no such liberty.