THE SCULPTOR. So you commanded-" Carve, against I come, Who rises 'neath the lifted myrtle-branch: Robert Browning. THE PROUDEST LADY. THE queen is proud on her throne, And oh she flouts me, she flouts me, Still ever the same she doubts me. She is seven by the kalendar A lily's almost as tall, But oh this little lady's by far The proudest lady of all. It's her sport and pleasure to flout me, To spurn, and scorn, and scout me; But ah! I've a notion it's nought but play, And that, say what she will and feign what she may, She can't well do without me! THE PROUDEST LADY. When she rides on her nag away, But at times, like a pleasant tune, Oh! she dances round me so fairly! Oh! she coaxes and nestles, and purrs and pries Oh! the queen is proud on her throne, Good lack she flouts me, she flouts me, But ah! I've a notion its nought but play, And that, say what she will and feign what she may, T. Westwood. FAIR INES. To dazzle when the sun is down She took our daylight with her, Oh, turn again, fair Ines! Before the fall of night, For fear the moon should shine alone, And stars unrivall'd bright. And blessed will the lover be, And breathes the love against thy cheek, I dare not even write! Would I had been, fair Ines, That gallant cavalier, Who rode so gaily by thy side And whisper'd thee so near!— Were there no loving dames at home, Or no true lovers here, That he should cross the seas to win The dearest of the dear? I saw thee, lovely Ines, Descend along the shore, With a band of noble gentlemen, And banners waved before, And gentle youths and maidens gay-And snowy plumes they wore ; It would have been a beauteous dream, -If it had been no more! Alas, alas fair Ines! She went away with song, With music waiting on her steps And shoutings of the throng. BARBARA. And some were sad, and felt no mirth, In sounds that sang, Farewell, farewell, Farewell, farewell, fair Ines, The smile that blest one lover's heart, Has broken many more! BARBARA. Thomas Hood. ON the Sabbath-day, Through the churchyard old and grey, Over the crisp and yellow leaves, I held my rustling way; And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms; 'Mong the gorgeous storms of music-in the mellow organ-calms, 'Mong the upward-streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms, I stood heedless, Barbara! My heart was otherwhere While the organ fill'd the air, And the priest, with outspread hands, bless'd the people with a prayer; But, when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saint-like shine Gleam'd a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mineGleam'd and vanish'd in a moment. Oh, the face was like to thine, Ere you perish'd, Barbara! |