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A WOMAN'S QUESTION.

Does there within thy dimmest dreams
A possible future shine,

Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe,
Untouched, unshared by mine?

If so, at any pain or cost, oh, tell me before all is lost.

Look deeper still. If thou canst feel,

Within thy inmost soul,

That thou hast kept a portion back,

While I have staked the whole;

Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy

tell me so.

Is there within thy heart a need
That mine cannot fulfil?

One chord that any other hand
Could better wake or still?

Speak now-lest at some future day my whole life wither and decay.

Lives there within thy nature hid

The demon-spirit Change, Shedding a passing glory still

On all things new and strange ?—

It may not be thy fault alone—but shield my heart

against thy own.

A WOMAN'S QUESTION.

Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day,
And answer to my claim,

That Fate, and that to-day's mistake,

Not thou-had been to blame?

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Some soothe their conscience thus: but thou wilt surely warn and save me now.

Nay, answer not-I dare not hear
The words would come too late;

Yet I would spare thee all remorse,

So comfort thee, my Fate

Whatever on my heart may fall-remember, I would

(JACOBO FOSCARI at the Palace window.)

LIMBS! how often have they borne me
Bounding o'er yon blue tide, as I have skimm'd
The gondola along in childish race,

And, masqued as a young gondolier, amidst
My gay competitors, noble as I,

Raced for our pleasure, in the pride of strength;
While the fair populace of crowding beauties,
Plebeian as patrician, cheer'd us on

With dazzling smiles, and wishes audible,
And waving kerchiefs, and applauding hands,
Even to the goal!-How many a time have I
Cloven with arm still lustier, breast more daring,
The wave all roughen'd; with a swimmer's stroke
Flinging the billows back from my drenched hair,
And laughing from my lip the audacious brine,

THE TWO FOSCARI.

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Which kiss'd it like a wine-cup, rising o'er
The waves as they arose, and prouder still
The loftier they uplifted me; and oft,
In wantonness of spirit, plunging down
Into their green and glassy gulfs, and making
My way to shells and sea-weed, all unseen
By those above, till they wax'd fearful; then
Returning with my grasp full of such tokens
As showed that I had searched the deep: exulting,
With a far-dashing stroke, and drawing deep
The long-suspended breath, again I spurn'd
The foam which broke around me, and pursued
My track like a sea-bird.—I was a boy then.

Lord Byron.

ALL is but coloured show. I look
Up through the green hues shed
By leaves above my head,
And feel its inmost worth forsook
My being, when she died.

This heart, now hot and dried,
Halts, as the parched course where a brook
Mid flowers was wont to flow,

Because her life is now

No more than stories in a printed book.

Grass thickens proudly o'er that breast,

Clay cold and sadly still,

My happy face felt thrill.