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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,
Little has yet been changed, I think ;
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.
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
When first you were my bride ;
And the lark sang loud and high ;
And the love-light in your eye.
The day is bright as then ;
And the corn is green again ;
And your breath, warm on my cheek;
You nevermore will speak. 'T is but a step down yonder lane,
And the little church stands near,
I see the spire from here.
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 ;
The few our Father sends !
My blessin' and my pride ;
Since my poor Mary died.
That still kept hoping on,
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.
I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break,
If ever you should come to Modena,
'Tis of a Lady in her earliest youth, The last of that illustrious family;
She sits inclining forward as to speak,
It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
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,
Weary of his life,
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,
An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
Great was the joy; but at the Nuptial Feast,
Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten,
Why not remove it from its lurking-place?"
All else had perished, — save a wedding-ring, I will go down to her, I and none other,
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
Sea, that art clothed with the sun and the rain,
Thy large embraces are keen like pain !
Save me and hide me with all thy waves,
Find me one grave of thy thousand
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
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.
I was a child and she was a child,
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,
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,
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen came,
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not so happy in heaven,
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
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
EDGAR ALLAN POE.
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,
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;
O, he lies by the willow-tree!
Hark! the raven flaps his wing
See the white moon shines on high;
Here, upon my true-love's grave
With my hands I'll bind the briers
My love is dead, &c.
Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Water-witches, crowned with reytes,
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
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.
Within, there were carpets and cushions of dust,
There, king of the spiders, the Dirty Old Man
From his wig to his shoes, from his coat to his shirt,
Fine dames from their carriages, noble and fair,
The Dirty Man's manners were truly delightful.
The luncheon's prepared, and the guests are ex-
The handsome young host he is gallant and gay,
With solid and dainty the table is drest,
Yet the host need not smile, and no guests will
For his sweetheart is dead, as he shortly shall hear.
Full forty years since turned the key in that door.
Through a chink in the shutter dim lights come and go;
The seats are in order, the dishes a-row :
Whose descendants have long left the Dirty Old
Cup and platter are masked in thick layers of dust;
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
My love he built me a bonnie bower,
There came a man, by middle day,
I sewed his sheet, making my mane;
I took his body on my back,
Nae living man I'll love again,
THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE.
WORD was brought to the Danish king
That the love of his heart lay suffering,