Affections are as thoughts to her, The image of themselves by turns, Of her bright face one glance will trace And of her voice in echoing hearts When death is nigh my latest sigh Will not be life's, but hers. I fill this cup to one made up A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon; Her health! and would on earth there stood Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name. GEORGE DARLEY. 1785-1849. SWEET in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers, Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming To wind round the willow banks that lure him from above; O that, in tears, from my rocky prison streaming, I, too, could glide to the bower of my love! Ah! where the woodbines, with sleepy arms, have wound her, Opes she eyelids at the dream of my lay, Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her, To her lost mate's call in the forests far away! Come, then, my bird! for the peace thou ever bearest, Come! this fond bosom, my faithfullest, my fairest, 417 ALFRED TENNYSON. 1810. ["Poems." 1832.] LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. LADY Clara Vere de Vere, Of me you shall not win renown; At me you smiled, but unbeguiled Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 'I know you proud to bear your name; Your pride is yet no mate for mine, Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that dotes on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find, For were you queen of all that is, I could not stoop to such a mind. |