I have not a doubt she was thinking then Of her former lord, good soul that he was, Who died the richest and roundest of men, The Marquis of Carabas. I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, Through a needle's eye he had not to pass; I wish him well, for the jointure given Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love, As I had not been thinking of aught for years, Till over my eyes there began to move I thought of the dress that she wore last time, When we stood 'neath the cypress trees together, In that lost land, in that soft clime, Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot), And her warm white neck in its golden chain, And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot, And falling loose again; And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, And of how, after all, old things were best, That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower Which she used to wear in her breast. It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, It made me creep, and it made me cold; Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet Where a mummy is half unroll'd. And I turn'd and look'd: she was sitting there, In a dim box over the stage, and drest In that muslin dress, with that full, soft hair, And that jasmine in her breast. I was here: and she was there: And the glittering horse-shoe curved between, From my bride betroth'd, with her raven hair, And her sumptuous, scornful mien, To my early love, with her eyes downcast, And over her primrose face the shade. (In short, from the future back to the past There was but a step to be made.) And the jasmine flower in her fair young To my early love from my future bride breast, (Oh, the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower!) And the one bird singing alone to his nest, And the one star over the tower. I thought of our little quarrels and strife, And the letter that brought me back my ring; One moment I look'd. Then I stole to the door, I traversed the passage, and down at her side I was sitting, a moment more. My thinking of her, or the music's strain, Or something which never will be exprest, And it all seem'd then, in the waste of Had brought her back from the grave life, Such a very little thing! For I thought of her grave below the hill, Which the sentinel cypress tree stands over, again, With the jasmine in her breast. She is not dead, and she is not wed, But she loves me now, and she loved me then! And I thought, "Were she only living And the very first word that her sweet still, lips said, How I could forgive her, and love her!" My heart grew youthful again. The Marchioness there, of Carabas, She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still, That, though the heart would break with more, It could not live with less; And but for her, well, we'll let that This is love, faithful love, They that are rich in words must needs | By the solemn rites' permission, discover To his heart his true love took, They are but poor in that which makes And the destinies recorded a lover. Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart, Since if my plaints were not t' approve It comes not from defect of love, For, knowing that I sue to serve I rather choose to want relief Than venture the revealing :- Thus those desires that boil so high Yet when discretion doth bereave The plaints that I should utter, Then your discretion may perceive That silence is a suitor. Silence in love bewrays more woe Than words, though ne'er so witty: A beggar that is dumb, you know, May challenge double pity. Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, He smarteth most that hides his smart, SIR WALTER RALEIGH. THE GROOMSMAN TO THE BRIDES MAID. EVERY wedding, says the proverb, Makes another, soon or late; Never yet was any marriage Enter'd in the book of fate, But the names were also written Of the patient pair that wait. Blessings, then, upon the morning When my friend, with fondest look, Other two within their book. While the priest fulfill'd his office, Still the ground the lovers eyed, And the parents and the kinsmen Aim'd their glances at the bride; But the groomsmen eyed the virgins Who were waiting at her side. Three there were that stood beside her; While the groomsman-shall I own it? Who was fairest of the three, Thus he thought: "How blest the bridal Where the bride were such as she!" Then I mused upon the adage, Till my wisdom was perplex'd, And I wonder'd, as the churchman Dwelt upon his holy text, Which of all who heard his lesson Should require the service next. Whose will be the next occasion For the flowers, the feast, the wine? Thine, perchance, my dearest lady; Or, who knows?-it may be mine, What if 'twere-forgive the fancyWhat if 'twere-both mine and thine? THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS. ZARA'S EAR-RINGS. My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they've dropp'd into the well, And what to say to Muça, I cannot, cannot tell 'Twas thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daughter: The well is deep-far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water; To me did Muça give them when he spake My ear-rings! my ear-rings! O luckless, his sad farewell, luckless well, For what to say to Muça-alas! I cannot tell. I'll tell the truth to Muça-and I hope he will believe That I thought of him at morning and thought of him at eve; That, musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone, His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone; And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my hand they fell, And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the well. (From the Spanish.) JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. LOOK OUT, BRIGHT EYES. LOOK out, bright eyes, and bless the air! Even in shadows you are fair. Shut-up beauty is like fire, That breaks out clearer still and higher. Though your beauty be confined, And soft Love a prisoner bound, Yet the beauty of your mind Neither check nor chain hath found. Look out nobly, then, and dare He'll think when I to market went I Even the fetters that you wear. loiter'd by the way; He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say; He'll think some other lover's hand, among my tresses noosed, From the ears where he had placed them my rings of pearl unloosed; He'll think when I was sporting so beside this marble well My pearls fell in-and what to say, alas! I cannot tell. He'll say I am a woman, and we are all the same; He'll say I loved when he was here to whisper of his flame But when he went to Tunis, my virgin troth had broken, And thought no more of Muça, and cared not for his token. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. TAKE, OH TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY. TAKE, oh take those lips away That so sweetly were forsworn, Lights that do mislead the morn! Hide, oh hide those hills of snow Which thy frozen bosom bears, On whose tops the pinks that grow Are yet of those that April wears. But first set my poor heart free, Bound in those icy chains by thee. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. Go, LOVELY ROSE. "Go, lovely rose ! Tell her that wastes her time and me, When I resemble her to thee, "Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, In deserts, where no men abide, "Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Suffer herself to be desired, "Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare How small a part of time they share MUSIC, WHEN SOFT VOICES DIE. MUSIC, when soft voices die, Rose-leaves, when the rose is dead, Love itself shall slumber on. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. THERE IS A GARDEN IN HER FACE. Where roses and white lilies blow; TO HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. BOHEMIA. You meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes You curious chanters of the wood, That warble forth dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, snow; Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, Her eyes like angels watch them still. Her brows like bended bows do stand, |