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Y

THE LADY'S YES.

ES!" I answer'd you

last night;

"No!" this morning, Sir, I say.

Colours, seen by candle-light,
Will not look the same by day.

When the tabors play'd their best,
Lamps above, and laughs below-
Love me sounded like a jest,
Fit for Yes or fit for No!

Call me false, or call me free-
Vow, whatever light may shine,
No man on thy face shall see
Any grief for change on mine.

Yet the sin is on us both

Time to dance is not to wooWooer light makes fickle trothScorn of me recoils on you!

Learn to win a lady's faith

Nobly, as the thing is high; Bravely, as for life and death— With a loyal gravity.

Lead her from the festive boards,
Point her to the starry skies,
Guard her, by your faithful words,
Pure from courtship's flatteries.

By your truth she shall be true-
Ever true, as wives of yore-
And her Yes, once said to you,
SHALL be Yes for evermore.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

SW

A LAMENT.

WIFTER far than summer's flight,
Swifter far than youth's delight,
Swifter far than happy night,

Art thou come, art thou gone :
As the earth when leaves are dead,
As the night when sleep is sped,
As the heart when joy is fled,
I am left lone, alone.

The swallow Summer comes again,
The owlet Night resumes her reign,
But the wild swan Youth is fain

To fly with thee, false as thou.

My heart each day desires the morrow,
Sleep itself is turn'd to sorrow,
Vainly would my winter borrow
Sunny leaves from any bough.

Lilies for a bridal bed,

Roses for a matron's head,
Violets for a maiden dead,-

Pansies let my flowers be:

On the living grave I bear
Scatter them without a tear;
Let no friend, however dear,

Waste one hope, one fear for me.

SHELLEY.

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

NOME, see the Dolphin's anchor forged-'tis at a white heat now:

COME

The bellows ceased, the flames decreased-though on the forge's brow

The little flames still fitfully play through the

sable mound,

And fitfully you still

may see the grim smiths ranking round,

All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare

Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there.

The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below,

And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe:

It rises, roars, rends all outright-O, Vulcan, what a glow!

'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright-the high sun shines not so!

The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show;

The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row

Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men

before the foe.

As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster, slow

Sinks on the anvil-all about the faces fiery grow.

"Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out-leap out;" bang, bang the sledges go:

Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow,

The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling cinders strow

The ground around: at every bound the sweltering fountains flow,

And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant "ho!"

Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load!

Let's forge a goodly anchor-a bower thick and

broad;

For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I

bode,

And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous

road

The low reef roaring on her lee-the roll of ocean

pour'd

From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board;

The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains!

But courage still, brave mariners-the bower yet

remains,

And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky high;

Then moves his head, as though he said, “ Fear nothing-here am I."

Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time;

Your blows make music sweeter far than any

steeple's chime.

But, while you sling your sledges, sing-and let the burthen be,

The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we!

Strike in, strike in-the sparks begin to dull their rustling red;

Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped.

Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich

array

For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay;

Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here,

For the yeo-heave-o', and the heave-away, and the sighing seaman's cheer;

When, weighing slow, at eve they go-far, far from love and home;

And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam.

In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at

last;

A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast.

O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me,

What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea!`

O deep Sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou?

The hoary-monster's palaces! methinks what joy 'twere now

To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly of the whales,

And feel the churn'd sea round me boil beneath

their scourging tails!

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