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We are not proud, with a fool's pride,
Nor cowards, to be held in thrall By pelf or lineage, rank or lands: -One honest heart, two honest hands,
Are worth far more than Moreton Hall.
Therefore we laugh to scorn — we two
The bars that weaker souls appall : I take her hand, and hold it fast, Knowing she 'll love me to the last, My dearest maid of Moreton Hall.
DINAH MARIA MULOCK,
Assist me to discover
Can torture so your lover.
You give your coffee to the cat,
You stroke the dog for coming, And all your face grows kinder at
The little brown bee's humming.
But when he haunts your door... the town
Marks coming and marks going... You seem to have stitched your eyelids down
To that long piece of sewing!
You never give a look, not you,
Nor drop him Good morning,” To keep his long day warm and blue,
So fretted by your scorning.
She shook her head : “The mouse and bee
For crumb or flower will linger; The dog is happy at my knee,
The cat purrs at my finger.
“But he ... to him, the least thing given
Means great things at a distance ; He wants my world, my sun, my heaven,
Soul, body, whole existence.
“ They say love gives as well as takes ;
But I'm a simple maiden, My mother's first smile when she wakes
I still have smiled and prayed in.
Shall I love you like the fire, love,
With furious heat and noise,
And little of love's joys!
Whate'er it finds, destroys.
I will love you like the stars, love,
Set in the heavenly blue,
After weeping tears of dew;
They love the ages through !
And when this life is o'er, love,
With all its joys and jars,
To wage their boisterous wars,
The ncarer to the stars !
R. W. RAYMOND.
A “MERCENARY” MARRIAGE.
She moves as light across the grass
As moves my shadow large and tall ; And like my shadow, close yet free, The thought of her aye follows me,
My little maid of Moreton Hall.
No matter how or where we loved,
Or when we 'll wed, or what befall ;
Though to dust crumbles Moreton Hall.
Her pedigree - good sooth, 't is long !
Her grim sires stare from every wall;
As meek she glides through Moreton Hall. Whilst I have — nothing ; save, perhaps,
Some worthless heaps of idle gold And a true heart,
the which her eye Through glittering dross spied, womanly ;
Therefore they say her heart was sold !
Laugh as we ride 'neath chestnuts tall,
At the fair maid of Moreton Hall;
We let the neighbors talk their fill,
For life is sweet, and love is strong, And two, close knit in marriage ties, The whole world's shams may well despise,
Its folly, madness, shame, and wrong.
“I only know my mother's love
Which gives all and asks nothing,
And this new loving sets the groove
Too much the way of loathing.
“Unless he gives me all in change,
I forfeit all things by him : The risk is terrible and strange —
I tremble, doubt, ... deny him.
“ He's sweetest friend, or hardest foe,
Best angel, or worst devil ;
I can't be merely civil !
“You trust a woman who puts forth
Her blossoms thick as summer's ? You think she dreams what love is worth,
Who casts it to new-comers ?
That thou hast kept a portion back,
While I have staked the whole,
That mine cannot fulfil ?
Could better wake or still ?
The demon-spirit, change,
On all things new and strange ?
And answer to my claim,
Not thou, — had been to blame?
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 risk it all !
ADELAIDE AXNE PROCTER.
GIVE ME MORE LOVE OR MORE
Lead her from the festive boards,
Point her to the starry skies,
Pure from courtship’s flatteries.
By your truth she shall be true,
Ever true, as wives of yore ;
Suall be Yes forevermore.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
Give me more love or more disdain';
The torrid or the frozen zone
The temperate affords me none;
Like Danaë in a golden shower,
Disdain, that torrent will devour
BECAUSE I breathe not love to everie one,
Nor do not use set colors for to weare,
Nor nourish special locks of vowed haire,
Of them who on their lips Love's standard beare,
FROM "AS YOU LIKE IT."
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
He cannot love : No, no ! let him alone."
THINK not I love him, though I ask for him ; And think so still, — if Stella know my minde. "T is but a peevish boy :— yet he talks well;
But what care I for words? yet words do well, Profess, indeed, I do not Cupid's art;
When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. But you, faire maids, at length this true shall
he's proud ; and yet his pride becomes finde,
him : That his right badge is but worne in the hearte.
He'll make a proper man: The best thing in him Dumb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers Is his complexion ; and faster than his tongue prove :
Did make offence, his eye did heal it up.
His leg is but so so; and yet 't is well :
A little riper and more lusty red
difference NEVER wedding, ever wooing,
Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask. Still a love-lorn heart pursuing,
There be some women, Silvius, had they marked Read you not the wrong you 're doing
him In my cheek's pale hue ?
In parcels, as I did, would have gone near All my life with sorrow strewing,
To fall in love with him : but, for my part, Wed, or cease to woo.
I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet
I have more cause to hate him than to love him : Rivals banished, bosoms plighted,
For what had he to do to chide at me? Still our days are disunited ;
He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black; Now the lamp of hope is lighted, Now half quenched appears,
And, now I am remembered, scorned at me :
I marvel, why I answered not again : Damped and wavering and benighted
But that's all one ; omittance is no quittance. Midst my sighs and tears.
THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION.
Charms you call your dearest blessing,
Soon you ’ll make them grow
Not with age, but woe !
SHALL I, wasting in despair,
Why then ask of silly man,
You can be no more, you know.
Love in my bosom like a bee,
Doth suck his sweet ; Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet; Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amidst my tender breast, My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest :
Ah! wanton, will you ?
And if I sleep, then pierceth he
With pretty slight,
The livelong night ;
Ah! wanton, will you ? Else I with roses every day
Will whip you hence, And bind you when you long to play,
For your offence; I'll shut my eyes to keep you in, I'll make you fast it for your sin, I'll count your power not worth a pin, Alas ! what hereby shall I win
If he gainsay me!
Be she fairer than the day,
If she be not so to me,
Shall my foolish heart be pined
If she be not so to me,
Shall a woman's virtues move
If she be not such to me,
'Cause her fortune seems too high,
And unless that mind I see,
Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
For if she be not for me,
LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN.
LET not woman e'er complain
Of inconstancy in love ;
Fickle man is apt to rove;
Man should then a monster prove ?
Mark the winds, and mark the skies ;
Ocean's ebb and ocean's flow; Sun and moon but set to rise, Round and round the seasons go.
CUPID and my Campaspe played
“God save all here,” that kind wish flies
Still sweeter from his lips so sweet; “God save you kindly,” Norah cries,
“Sit down, my child, and rest and eat."
Growing on 's cheek (but none knows how);
“Thanks, gentle Norah, fair and good,
We'll rest awhile our weary feet; But though this old man needeth food,
There's nothing here that he can eat. His taste is strange, he eats alone,
Beneath some ruined cloister's cope, Or on some tottering turret's stone,
While I can only live on Hope !
Tother day, as I was twining
“A week ago, ere you were wed,
It was the very night before, Upon so many sweets I fed
While passing by your mother's door, — It was that dear, delicious hour
When Owen here the nosegay brought, And found you in the woodbine bower,
Since then, indeed, I've needed naught."
A blush steals over Norah's face,
A smile comes over Owen's brow, A tranquil joy illumes the place,
As if the moon were shining now; The boy beholds the pleasing pain,
The sweet confusion he has done, And shakes the crystal glass again,
And makes the sands more quickly run.
LOVE AND TIME.
“Dear Norah, we are pilgrims, bound
Upon an endless path sublime; We pace the green earth round and round,
And mortals call us Love and TIME; He seeks the many, I the few ;
I dwell with peasants, he with kings. We seldom meet; but when we do,
I take his glass, and he my wings.
Two pilgrims from the distant plain
Come quickly o'er the mossy ground. One is a boy, with locks of gold
Thick curling round his face so fair ; The other pilgrim, stern and old,
Has snowy beard and silver hair. The youth with many a merry trick
Goes singing on his careless way ; His old companion walks as quick,
But speaks no word by night or day. Where'er the old man treads, the grass
Fast fadeth with a certain doom ; But where the beauteous boy doth pass
Unnumbered flowers are seen to bloom. And thus before the sage, the boy
Trips lightly o'er the blooming lands, And proudly bears a pretty toy,
A crystal glass with diamond sands.
To see him frolic in the sun,
And make the sands more quickly run. And now they leap the streamlet o'er,
A silver thread so white and thin, And now they reach the open door,
And now they lightly enter in :
“ And thus together on we go,
Where'er I chance or wish to lead ; And Time, whose lonely steps are slow,
Now sweeps along with lightning speed. Now on our bright predestined way
We must to other regions pass ;
Look well upon its truthful glass.
“How quick or slow the bright sands fall
Is hid from lovers' eyes alone, If you can see them move at all,
Be sure your heart has colder grown.
The icy hand, the freezing brow;
And then they 'll pass you know not how.":