His blast is heard at merry morn, And mine at dead of night." I would I were with Edmund there "With burnish'd brand and musketoon So gallantly you come, I read you for a bold Dragoon, That lists the tuck of drum." "I list no more the tuck of drum, No more the trumpet hear; But when the beetle sounds his hum My comrades take the spear. Yet mickle must the maiden dare "Maiden! a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I'll die! And when I'm with my comrades met Nor think what we are now." Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, SIR WALTER SCOTT. BEDOUIN SONG. FROM the desert I come to thee, Look from thy window, and see My passion and my pain; I lie on the sands below, Let the night-winds touch thy brow And the leaves of the Judgment My steps are nightly driven, And open thy chamber door, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment BAYARD TAYLOR. COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD. COME into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown! Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the rose is blown. For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves, On a bed of daffodil sky, To faint in the light of the sun she loves, To faint in his light, and to die. All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon; All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd I said to the lily, "There is but one Low on the sand and loud on the stone I said to the rose, "The brief night goes And the soul of the rose went into my blood, As the music clash'd 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; She is coming, my own, my sweet! ALFRED TENNYSON. THE CALL. AWAKE thee, my lady-love, Wake thee and rise; The sun through the bower peeps Into thine eyes. Ah! what delight 'twould be Wouldst thou sometimes by stealth converse with me! How should I thine sweet commune prize, And other joys despise! Come, then; I ne'er was yet denied by thee. I would not long detain Thy soul from bliss, nor keep thee here in pain; Nor should thy fellow-saints e'er know Of thy escape below: Before thou'rt miss'd thou shouldst return again. Sure, heaven must needs thy love Come, then, and recreate my sight "Twill cheer my eyes more than the lamps above. But if Fate's so severe As to confine thee to thy blissful sphere (And by thy absence I shall know Whether thy state be so), Live happy, but be mindful of me there. LIGHT. JOHN NORRIS. THE night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies, With the dying sun. The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one; FRANCIS W. BOURDILLON. DISDAIN RETURNED. But a smooth and steadfast mind, Kindle never-dying fires. Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. No tears, Celia, now shall win My resolved heart to return; I have search'd thy soul within, And find naught but pride and scorn; I have learn'd thy arts, and now Can disdain as much as thou. Some power, in my revenge, convey That love to her I cast away. THOMAS CAREW. AUX ITALIENS. AT Paris it was, at the opera there;And she look'd like a queen in a book that night, With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, And the brooch on her breast so bright. Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, The souls in purgatory. The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; And who was not thrill'd in the strangest way, As we heard him sing, while the gas burn'd low, "Non ti scordar di me"? The emperor there, in his box of state, Look'd grave, as if he had just then seen The red flag wave from the city gate, Where his eagles in bronze had been. The empress, too, had a tear in her eye: You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again, For one moment, under the old blue sky, To the old glad life in Spain. Well, there in our front-row box we sat Together, my bride betroth'd and I; My gaze was fixed on my opera-hat, And hers on the stage hard by. And both were silent, and both were sad; Like a queen she lean'd on her full white arm, With that regal, indolent air she had, So confident of her charm! |