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Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

You put strange memories in my head. Not thrice your branching limes have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead.

Oh

your

sweet eyes, your low replies; A great enchantress you may be ; But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind,

She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed I heard one bitter word

That scarce is fit for you to hear;

Her manners had not that repose

Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

There stands a spectre in your hall: The guilt of blood is at your door: You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare,

And slew him with your noble birth.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,

From yon blue heavens above us bent, The grand old gard'ner and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent.

Howe'er it be, it seems to me,

'Tis only noble to be good.

Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere:

You pine among your halls and towers :
The languid light of your proud eyes
Is wearied of the rolling hours.
In glowing health, with boundless wealth,
But sickening of a vague disease

You know so ill to deal with time,

You needs must play such pranks as these.

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere,

If time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate, Nor any poor about your lands ? Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read, Or teach the orphan-girl to sew ; Pray heaven for a human heart,

And let the foolish yeoman go.

TENNYSON.

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

A CHIEFTAIN-to the Highlands bound,

Cries," Boatman, do not tarry!

And I'll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o'er the ferry."

"Now, who be ye would cross Loch-Gyle, This dark and stormy water?"

"O! I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,

And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.

"And fast before her father's men, Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen,

My blood-would stain the heather.

"His horsemen-hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride, When they have slain her lover?

Out spoke the hardy, Highland wight,
"I'll go my chief—I'm ready :

It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady.

"And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger, shall not tarry :
So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this, the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven, each face

Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still, as wilder grew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men,Their trampling sounded nearer.

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"O haste thee, haste! the lady cries;
"Though tempests round us gather,
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father!"

The boat has left the stormy land,
A stormy sea before her-

When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gather'd o'er her.

And still they rowed, amidst the roar
Of waters, fast prevailing :

Lord Ullin reached the fatal shore,-
His wrath was changed to wailing.

For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade
His child-he did discover;

One lovely hand she stretched for aid,
And one-was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,

"Across the stormy water:

And I'll forgive your Highland chief:

My daughter! oh, my daughter!"

'Twas vain the loud waves lashed the shore,

Return, or aid preventing :

The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.

CAMPBELL.

THE MISHAP.

"WHY art thou weeping, sister?
Why is thy cheek so pale?
Look up, dear Jane, and tell me
What is it thou dost ail?

"I know thy will is froward,
Thy feelings warm and keen,
And that that Augustus Howard
For weeks has not been seen.

"I know how much you loved him ;
But I know thou dost not weep
For him; for though his passion be,
His purse is no-ways deep.

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Then tell me why those tear-drops ?
What means this woeful mood?

Say, has the tax collector

Been calling, and been rude?

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