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That by the way-it may be true or false
But don't forget the picture; and thou wilt not,
The joy, the pride of an indulgent Sire.
That precious gift, what else remained to him?
The young Ginevra was his all in life,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.
Great was the joy; but at the Bridal feast,
Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Orsini lived; and long might'st thou have seen An old man wandering as in quest of something, Something he could not find--he knew not what. When he was gone, the house remained awhile
Silent and tenantless-then went to strangers.
Mid the old lumber in the Gallery,
That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, 'Why not remove it from its lurking place!' 'Twas done as soon as said; but on the way It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton, With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone, A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. All else had perished-save a nuptial ring, And a small seal, her mother's legacy, Engraven with a name, the name of both, 'Ginevra.'
WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.
[THE REV. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES was born at King's Sutton in 1762. His chief work is his Sonnets, first published in 1789. He died at Salisbury in 1850.]
It was the candle of Bowles that lit the fire of Coleridge. We have it on record in the Biographia Literaria that to the author of The Ancient Mariner, bewildered at seventeen between metaphysics and theological controversy, and utterly out of sympathy with the artificialities of the Popesque school, the early sonnets of Bowles came almost in the light of a revelation. In a copy preserved at South Kensington he writes of them later as 'having done his heart more good than all the other books he ever read excepting his Bible.' Those who to-day turn to the much-praised verses will scarcely find in their pensive amenity that enduring charm which they presented to the hungry and restless soul of Coleridge, seeking its fitting food in unpropitious places. They exhibit a grace of expression, a delicate sensibility, and above all a 'musical sweet melancholy' that is especially grateful in certain moods of mind; but with lapse of time and change of fashion they have grown a little thin and faint and colourless. Of Bowles's remaining works it is not necessary to speak. He was overmatched in his controversy with Byron as to Pope, and the blunt
'Stick to thy sonnets, Bowles,—at least they pay'
of the former must be accepted as the final word upon the poetical efforts of the cultivated and amiable Canon of Salisbury.
WRITTEN AT OSTEND.
How sweet the tuneful bells responsive peal!
INFLUENCE OF TIME ON GRIEF.
O Time! who know'st a lenient hand to lay
And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear
I may look back on every sorrow past,
There is strange music in the stirring wind,
Who from these shades is gone, gone far away.
Whose was that gentle voice, that, whispering sweet,
Soothing it stole on my deluded ear,
Most like soft music, that might sometimes cheat
Thoughts dark and drcoping! 'Twas the voice of Hope.
Of love, and social scenes, it seemed to speak,
Of truth, of friendship, of affection meek;
That oh! poor friend, might to life's downward slope