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EVELYN HOPE.

BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead !

Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed ;

She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,
Beginning to die, too, in the glass.

Little has yet been changed, I think ;
The shutters are shut, no light may pass

Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.

There was place and to spare for the frank young

smile, And the red young mouth, and the hair's young

gold. So, hush! I will give you this leaf to keep ;

See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand. There, that is our secret! go to sleep;

You will wake, and remember, and understand.

ROBERT BROWNING.

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

Sixteen years old when she died !

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name, It was not her time to love ; beside,

Her life had many a hope and aim, Duties enough and little cares ;

And now was quiet, now astir, Till God's hand beckoned unawares,

And the sweet white brow is all of her.

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope ?

What! your soul was pure and true ; The good stars met in your horoscope,

Made you of spirit, fire, and dew; And just because I was thrice as old,

And our paths in the world diverged so wide, Each was naught to each, must I be told ?

We were fellow-mortals, — naught beside ?

No, indeed! for God above

Is great to grant as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love ;

I claim you still, for my own love's sake! Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet,

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few; Much is to learn and much to forget

Ere the time be come for taking you.

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat side by side
On a bright May mornin' long ago,

When first you were my bride ;
The corn was springin' fresh and green,

And the lark sang loud and high ;
And the red was on your lip, Mary,

And the love-light in your eye.
The place is little changed, Mary ;

The day is bright as then ;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,

And the corn is green again ;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,

And your breath, warm on my cheek;
And I still keep list'nin' for the words

You nevermore will speak. 'T is but a step down yonder lane,

And the little church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary ;

I see the spire from here.
But the graveyard lies between, Mary,

And my step might break your rest, For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep,

With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends ;
But, 0, they love the better still

The few our Father sends !
And you were all I had, Mary, —

My blessin' and my pride ;
There's nothing left to care for now,

Since my poor Mary died.
Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,

That still kept hoping on,
When the trust in God had left my soul,

And my arm's young strength was gone ; There was comfort ever on your lip,

And the kind look on your brow, I bless you, Mary, for that same,

Though you cannot hear me now.

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I thank you for the patient smile

When your heart was fit to break,

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GINEVRA.

If ever you should come to Modena,
Where among other trophies may be seen
Tassoni's bucket (in its chain it hangs (72)
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandina),
Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain you; but, before you go,
Enter the house - forget it not, I pray ·
And look awhile upon a picture there.

'Tis of a Lady in her earliest youth, The last of that illustrious family;

She sits inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half open, and her finger up,
As though she said "Beware!" her vest of gold
Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to
foot,
An emerald stone in every golden clasp ;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls.

It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!
Alone it hangs
Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion,
An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by Antony of Trent
With Scripture stories from the Life of Christ,
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old Ancestor,
That by the way-it may be true or false-
But don't forget the picture; and you will not
When you have heard the tale they told me there.

But then her face, So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, The overflowings of an innocent heart,

She was an only child, — her name Ginevra,
The joy, the pride, of an indulgent Father;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.

Weary of his life,
Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking,
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.

Done by Zampieri (73) — but by whom I care not. Orsini lived, — and long might you have seen

He who observes it, ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up when far away.

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.

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
She was all gentleness, all gayety,
Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ;
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Great was the joy; but at the Nuptial Feast,
When all sate down, the Bride herself was wanting,
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,
"Tis but to make a trial of our love!"
And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'T was but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back, and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas, she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could anything be guessed,
But that she was not!.

Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten,
When on an idle day, a day of search
Mid the old lumber in the Gallery,
That mouldering chest was noticed; and 't was said
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,

66

Why not remove it from its lurking-place?"
'T was 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.

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SAMUEL ROGERS.

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All else had perished, — save a wedding-ring, I will go down to her, I and none other,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,

Close with her, kiss her, and mix her with me; Engraven with a name, the name of both, Cling to her, strive with her, hold her fast. “Ginevra."

O fair white mother, in days long past
There then had she found a grave! Born without sister, born without brother,
Within that chest had she concealed herself, Set free my soul as thy soul is free.
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy ;
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, O fair green-girdled mother of mine,
Fastened her down forever !

Sea, that art clothed with the sun and the rain,
Thy sweet hard kisses are strong like wine,

Thy large embraces are keen like pain !

Save me and hide me with all thy waves,
THE MISTLETOE BOUGH.

Find me one grave of thy thousand

graves,

Those pure cold populous graves of thine, The mistletoe hung in the castle hall,

Wrought without hand in a world without stain. The holly branch shone on the old oak wall ; And the baron's retainers were blithe and gay, I shall sleer, and move with the moving ships, And keeping their Christmas holiday.

Change as the winds change, veer in the tide ; The baron beheld with a father's pride

My lips will feast on the foam of thy lips, His beautiful child, young Lovell's bride ; I shall rise with thy rising, with thee subside. While she with her bright eyes seemed to be Sleep, and not know if she be, if she were, The star of the goodly company.

Filled full with life to the eyes and hair,

As a rose is fulfilled to the rose-leaf tips "I'm weary of dancing now," she cried ;

With splendid summer and perfume and pride. "Here tarry a moment, — I'll hide, I'll hide ! And, Lovell, be sure thou 'rt first to trace

This woven raiment of nights and days, The clew to my secret lurking-place.”

Were it once cast off and unwound from me, Away she ran, — and her friends began Naked and glad would I walk in thy ways, Each tower to search, and each nook to scan ;

Alive and aware of thy waves and thee; And young Lovell cried, “O, where dost thou hide?! Clear of the whole world, hidden at home, I'm lonesome without thee, my own dear bride.” Clothed with the green, and crowned with the foam, They sought her that night ! and they sought her A pulse of the life of thy straits and bays,

A vein in the heart of the streams of the sea. next day ! And they sought her in vain when a week passed

away!
In the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot,
Young Lovell sought wildly, — but found her not.
And years flew by, and their grief at last
Was told as a sorrowful tale long past ;

ANNABEL LEE.
And when Lovell appeared, the children cried,

It was many and many a year ago, "See! the old man weeps for his fairy bride."

In a kingdom by the sea, At length an oak chest, that had long lain hid,

That a maiden lived, whom you may know Was found in the castle, — they raised the lid,

By the name of Annabel Lee; And a skeleton form lay mouldering there

And this maiden she lived with no other thought In the bridal wreath of that lady fair !

Than to love, and be loved by me.
O, sad was her fate!- in sportive jest
She hid from her lord in the old oak chest.

I was a child and she was a child,
It closed with a spring ! — and, dreadful doom,

In this kingdom by the sea ; The bride lay clasped in her living tomb !

But we loved with a love that was more than love,

I and my Annabel Lee,
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven

Coveted her and me.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

THE DISAPPOINTED LOVER.

I will go back to the great sweet mother,

Mother and lover of men, the sea.

And this was the reason that long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her high-born kinsmen came,
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre,

In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me.

Yes! that was the reason (as all men know)

In this kingdom by the sea,

That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we,
Of many far wiser than we;

And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee,

And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

And so, all the night-tide I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

MINSTREL'S SONG.

O, SING unto my roundelay!

O, drop the briny tear with me! Dance no more at holiday;

Like a running river be.

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-trce.

Black his hair as the winter night,

White his neck as the summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light; Cold he lies in the grave below. My love is dead, &c.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note;
Quick in dance as thought can be ;
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;

O, he lies by the willow-tree!
My love is dead, &c.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the briered dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares as they go.
My love is dead, &c.

See the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true-love's shroud,
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud.
My love is dead, &c.

Here, upon my true-love's grave
Shall the barren flowers be laid,
Nor one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid.
My love is dead, &c.

With my hands I'll bind the briers
Round his holy corse to gre;
Ouphant fairy, light your fires;
Here my body still shall be.

My love is dead, &c.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my heart's blood away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day.
My love is dead, &c.

Water-witches, crowned with reytes,
Bear me to your lethal tide.
I die! I come! my true-love waits.
Thus the damsel spake, and died.

THOMAS CHATTERTON.

THE DIRTY OLD MAN.

A LAY OF LEADENHALL.

[A singular man, named Nathaniel Bentley, for many years kept a large hardware shop in Leadenhall Street, London. He was best known as Dirty Dick (Dick, for alliteration's sake, probably). and his place of business as the Dirty Warehouse. He died about the year 1809. These verses accord with the accounts respecting himself and his house.]

IN a dirty old house lived a Dirty Old Man; Soap, towels, or brushes were not in his plan. For forty long years, as the neighbors declared, His house never once had been cleaned or repaired.

'T was a scandal and shame to the business-like street, One terrible blot in a ledger so neat:

The shop full of hardware, but black as a hearse, And the rest of the mansion a thousand times worse.

Outside, the old plaster, all spatter and stain, Looked spotty in sunshine and streaky in rain; The window-sills sprouted with mildewy grass, And the panes from being broken were known to be glass.

On the rickety signboard no learning could spell The merchant who sold, or the goods he'd to

sell;

Like a fungus, both.

But for house and for man a new title took growth, | A nosegay was laid before one special chair, the Dirt gave its name to them And the faded blue ribbon that bound it lies there. The old man has played out his parts in the scene. | Wherever he now is, I hope he's more clean. Yet give we a thought free of scoffing or ban To that Dirty Old House and that Dirty Old Man.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

Within, there were carpets and cushions of dust,
The wood was half rot, and the metal half rust,
Old curtains, half cobwebs, hung grimly aloof;
"T was a Spiders' Elysium from cellar to roof.

There, king of the spiders, the Dirty Old Man
Lives busy and dirty as ever he can ;
With dirt on his fingers and dirt on his face,
For the Dirty Old Man thinks the dirt no disgrace.

From his wig to his shoes, from his coat to his shirt,
His clothes are a proverb, a marvel of dirt;
The dirt is pervading, unfading, exceeding,
Yet the Dirty Old Man has both learning and
breeding.

Fine dames from their carriages, noble and fair,
Have entered his shop, less to buy than to stare;
And have afterwards said, though the dirt was
so frightful,

The Dirty Man's manners were truly delightful.
Upstairs might they venture, in dirt and in gloom,
To peep at the door of the wonderful room
Such stories are told about, none of them true!
The keyhole itself has no mortal seen through.

That room,
- forty years since, folk settled and
decked it.

The luncheon's prepared, and the guests are ex-
pected.

The handsome young host he is gallant and gay,
For his love and her friends will be with him to-day.

With solid and dainty the table is drest,
The wine beams its brightest, the flowers bloom
their best;

Yet the host need not smile, and no guests will

appear,

For his sweetheart is dead, as he shortly shall hear.

Full forty years since turned the key in that door.
'Tis a room deaf and dumb mid the city's uproar.
The guests, for whose joyance that table was spread,
May now enter as ghosts, for they're every one dead.

Through a chink in the shutter dim lights come and go;

The seats are in order, the dishes a-row :
But the luncheon was wealth to the rat and the

mouse

Whose descendants have long left the Dirty Old
House.

Cup and platter are masked in thick layers of dust;
The flowers fallen to powder, the wine swathed in

crust;

LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW.

[This ballad relates to the execution of Cockburne of Hender

land, a border freebooter, hanged over the gate of his own tower by

James V. in his famous expedition, in 1529, against the marauders

of the border. In a deserted burial-place near the ruins of the cas

tle, the monument of Cockburne and his lady is still shown. The
following inscription is still legible, though defaced: -
"HERE LYES PERYS OF COKBURNE AND HIS WYFE
SIR WALTER SCOTT.]

MARJORY."

My love he built me a bonnie bower,
And clad it a' wi' lily flower;
A brawer bower ye ne'er did see,
Than my true-love he built for me.

There came a man, by middle day,
He spied his sport, and went away;
And brought the king that very night,
Who brake my bower, and slew my knight.
He slew my knight, to me sae dear;
He slew my knight, and poin'd his gear :
My servants all for life did flee,
And left me in extremitie.

I sewed his sheet, making my mane;
I watched the corpse mysell alane;
I watched his body night and day;
No living creature came that way.

I took his body on my back,
And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat ;
I digged a grave, and laid him in,
And happed him with the sod sae green.
But think na ye my heart was sair,
When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair?
O, think na ye my heart was wae,
When I turned about, away to gae?

Nae living man I'll love again,
Since that my lively knight is slain;
Wi' ae lock o' his yellow hair
I'll chain my heart forevermair.

ANONYMOUS

THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE.

WORD was brought to the Danish king
(Hurry!)

That the love of his heart lay suffering,
And pined for the comfort his voice would bring;
(0, ride as though you were flying!)

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