ISABEL.

I

EYES not down-dropt nor over bright,

but fed

With the clear-pointed flame of chas

ity,

Clear, without heat, undying, tended by Pure vestal thoughts in the trans

lucent fane

Of her still spirit; locks not widedispread,

Madonna-wise on either side her

head;

Sweet lips whereon perpetually did

reign

The summer calm of golden charity, Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mood,

Revered Isabel, the crown and head, The stately flower of female fortitude, Of perfect wifehood and pure lowlihead.

11.

The intuitive decision of a bright

And thorough-edged intellect to part Error from crime; a prudence to withhold;

The laws of marriage character'd in gold

Upon the blanched tablets of her heart; A love still burning upward, giving light To read those laws; an accent very low In blandishment, but a most silver flow Of subtle-paced counsel in distress, Right to the heart and brain, tho' undescried,

Winning its way with extreme gentleness

Thro' all the outworks of suspicious pride;

A courage to endure and to obey ;

A hate of gossip parlance, and of sway,

⚫ Mariana in the moated grange.'
Measure for Measure.

WITH blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all :
The rusted nails fell from the knots

That held the pear to the gable-wall. The broken sheds look'd sad and strange: Unlifted was the clinking latch; Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.

She only said, 'My life is dreary,
He cometh not,' she said;

She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!'

About a stone-cast from the wall

A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small,

The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway,

All silver-green with gnarled bark: For leagues no other tree did mark The level waste, the rounding gray.

She only said, 'My life is dreary,
He cometh not,' she said;
She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!'

Thro' light and shadow thou dost range, Sudden glances, sweet and strange, Delicious spites and darling angers, And airy forms of flitting change.

Then in madness and in bliss,
If my lips should dare to kiss
Thy taper fingers amorously,
Again thou blushest angerly;
And o'er black brows drops down

A sudden-curved frown.

II.

Smiling, frowning, evermore,
Thou art perfect in love-lore.
Revealings deep and clear are thine

Of wealthy smiles: but who may know
Whether smile or frown be fleeter?
Whether smile or frown be sweeter,
Who may know?

Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow
Light-glooming over eyes divine,
Like little clouds sun-fringed, are thine,
Ever varying Madeline.

Thy smile and frown are not aloof
From one another,

Each to each is dearest brother;
Hues of the silken sheeny woof
Momently shot into each other.

All the mystery is thine;

Smiling, frowning, evermore,
Thou art perfect in love-lore,
Ever varying Madeline.

SONG-THE OWL.

I.

WHEN cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,

And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

II.

When merry milkmaids click the latch,
And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the cock hath sung beneath the
thatch

Twice or thrice his roundelay,
Twice or thrice his roundelay;

Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.