Lady Clara Vere de Vere, When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind, She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed I heard one bitter word That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, There stands a spectre in your hall : The guilt of blood is at your door : You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fixed a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth. Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, "T is only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood. I know you, Clara Vere de Vere: You pine among your halls and towers: The languid light of your proud eyes Is wearied of the rolling hours. In glowing health, with boundless wealth, You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these. Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, If Time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate, Nor any poor about your lands? Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read, Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, Pray Heaven for a human heart, And let the foolish yeoman go. ALFRED TENNYSON. LINES ON ISABELLA MARKHAM. WHENCE comes my love? O heart, disclose ; The blushing check speaks modest mind, The lips befitting words most kind, The eye does tempt to love's desire, Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak O Venus, take thy gifts again! THE VOW. IN holy night we made the vow; Was witness to the faith we swore. Did I not swear to love her ever; And have I ever dared to rove? Did she not own a rival never Should shake her faith, or steal her love? Yet now she says those words were air, From the Greek of MELEAGER. WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY. O, WALY, waly up the bank, And waly, waly down the brae, I leaned my back unto an aik, O, waly, waly, but love be bonny, And fades away like the morning 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 ne'er be fyled by me; Saint Anton's well shall be my drink, Since my true love has forsaken me. BALOW, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! When he began to court my luve, Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile, I cannae chuse, but ever will O, wae 's me for the hour, Willie, That gart me luve thee sae! O, dinna mind my words, Willie, But O, it's hard to live, Willie, And dree a warld's shame! I'm weary o' this warld, Willie, And sick wi' a' I see, I canna live as I ha'e lived, But fauld unto your heart, Willie, The heart that still is thine, And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie, Anither, and anither yet! How fast my life-strings break!· ་ Fareweel fareweel! through yon kirk-yard Step lichtly for my sake! 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 shimmerin' 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 O, think on the leal, leal heart, And O, think on the cauld, cauld mools That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. A WOMAN'S LOVE. A SENTINEL angel, sitting high in glory, Heard this shrill wail ring out from Purgatory: "Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story! "I do not rage against his high decree, Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be; But for my love on earth who mourns for me. "Great Spirit! Let me see my love again And comfort him one hour, and I were fain To pay a thousand years of fire and pain." Then said the pitying angel, "Nay, repent But still she wailed, "I pray thee, let me go! The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar, BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. RESIGNATION. But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, THERE is no flock, however watched and tended, And beautiful with all the soul's expansion But one dead lamb is there! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair! The air is full of farewells to the dying, The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Let us be patient! These severe afflictions But oftentimes celestial benedictions We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be heaven's distant lamps. Shall we behold her face. BURIED to-day. When the soft green buds are bursting out, There is no Death! What seems so is transition: Of village boys and girls at play This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call Death. In the mild spring evening gray. Taken away, Sturdy of heart and stout of limb, Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And put low, low underneath the clay, In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, Day after day we think what she is doing Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken Thinking that our remembrance, though un- May reach her where she lives. Not as a child shall we again behold her; In our embraces we again enfold her, In his spring, Passes away, on this spring day. All the pride of boy-life begun, All the hope of life yet to run; Who dares to question when One saith “Nay.” Enters to-day Another body in churchyard sod, DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK. GRIEF FOR THE DEAD. O HEARTS that never cease to yearn! |