If ever you should come to Modena, Where among other trophies may be seen Tassoni's bucket (in its chain it hangs (72) Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandina), Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate, Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, Will long detain you; but, before you go, Enter the house- forget it not, I prayAnd look awhile upon a picture there. "T is of a Lady in her earliest youth, The last of that illustrious family; It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, Like some wild melody! Alone it hangs Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion, An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm, But richly carved by Antony of Trent With Scripture stories from the Life of Christ, A chest that came from Venice, and had held The ducal robes of some old Ancestor, That by the way-it may be true or false. But don't forget the picture; and you will not When you have heard the tale they told me there. She was an only child, her name Ginevra, The joy, the pride, of an indulgent Father; And in her fifteenth year became a bride, Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, She was all gentleness, all gayety, Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come, the day, the hour; Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ; And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. Great was the joy; but at the Nuptial Feast, When all sate down, the Bride herself was wanting, Nor was she to be found! Her father cried, "T is but to make a trial of our love!" And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook," And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, Laughing and looking back, and flying still, Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. But now, alas, she was not to be found; Nor from that hour could anything be guessed, But that she was not! Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking, Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Done by Zampieri (73) — but by whom I care not. Orsini lived, — and long might you have seen He who observes it, ere he passes on, Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, That he may call it up when far away. She sits inclining forward as to speak, Her lips half open, and her finger up, An emerald stone in every golden clasp ; But then her face, Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten, When on an idle day, a day of search Mid the old lumber in the Gallery, That mouldering chest was noticed; and 't was said By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, "Why not remove it from its lurking-place?" 'T was done as soon as said; but on the way It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton, With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. THE mistletoe hung in the castle hall, "I'm weary of dancing now," she cried; next day! And they sought her in vain when a week passed away! In the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot, At length an oak chest, that had long lain hid, THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY. THE DISAPPOINTED LOVER. I WILL go back to the great sweet mother, Mother and lover of men, the sea. I will go down to her, I and none other, Close with her, kiss her, and mix her with me; Cling to her, strive with her, hold her fast. O fair white mother, in days long past Born without sister, born without brother, Set free my soul as thy soul is free. O fair green-girdled mother of mine, Sea, that art clothed with the sun and the rain, Thy sweet hard kisses are strong like wine, Thy large embraces are keen like pain! Save me and hide me with all thy waves, Find me one grave of thy thousand graves, Those pure cold populous graves of thine, Wrought without hand in a world without stain. I shall sleep, and move with the moving ships, Change as the winds change, veer in the tide ; My lips will feast on the foam of thy lips, I shall rise with thy rising, with thee subside. Sleep, and not know if she be, if she were, Filled full with life to the eyes and hair, As a rose is fulfilled to the rose-leaf tips With splendid summer and perfume and pride. This woven raiment of nights and days, Were it once cast off and unwound from me, Naked and glad would I walk in thy ways, Alive and aware of thy waves and thee; Clear of the whole world, hidden at home, Clothed with the green, and crowned with the foam, A pulse of the life of thy straits and bays, A vein in the heart of the streams of the sea. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. ANNABEL LEE. Ir was many and many a year ago, That a maiden lived, whom you may know And this maiden she lived with no other thought I was a child and she was a child, But we loved with a love that was more than love, With a love that the wingéd seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her high-born kinsmen came, And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre, In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me. Yes! that was the reason (as all men know) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we, Of many far wiser than we; And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. And so, all the night-tide I lie down by the side Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea. See the white moon shines on high; Here, upon my true-love's grave Shall the barren flowers be laid, With my hands I'll bind the briers Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, THOMAS CHATTERTON. EDGAR ALLAN POE. MINSTREL'S SONG. O, SING unto my roundelay! O, drop the briny tear with me! Dance no more at holiday; Like a running river be. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Black his hair as the winter night, White his neck as the summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light; Cold he lies in the grave below. My love is dead, &c. Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note; O, he lies by the willow-tree! Hark! the raven flaps his wing My love is dead, &c. THE DIRTY OLD MAN. A LAY OF LEADENHALL. [A singular man, named Nathaniel Bentley, for many years kept a large hardware shop in Leadenhall Street, London. He was best known as Dirty Dick (Dick, for alliteration's sake, probably), and his place of business as the Dirty Warehouse. He died about the year 1809. These verses accord with the accounts respecting himself and his house.] In a dirty old house lived a Dirty Old Man ; Soap, towels, or brushes were not in his plan. For forty long years, as the neighbors declared, His house never once had been cleaned or repaired. 'T was a scandal and shame to the business-like street, One terrible blot in a ledger so neat: Outside, the old plaster, all spatter and stain, Looked spotty in sunshine and streaky in rain; The window-sills sprouted with mildewy grass, And the panes from being broken were known to be glass. On the rickety signboard no learning could spell The merchant who sold, or the goods he'd to sell: both. But for house and for man a new title took growth, | A nosegay was laid before one special. chair, Within, there were carpets and cushions of dust, There, king of the spiders, the Dirty Old Man From his wigto his shoes, from his coat to his shirt, Fine dames from their carriages, noble and fair, Have entered his shop, less to buy than to stare : And have afterwards said, though the dirt was so frightful, The Dirty Man's manners were truly delightful. Upstairs might they venture, in dirt and in gloom, That room, forty years since, folk settled and decked it. The luncheon's prepared, and the guests are expected. The handsome young host he is gallant and gay, For his love and her friends will be with him to-day. With solid and dainty the table is drest, The wine beams its brightest, the flowers bloom their best; Yet the host need not smile, and no guests will appear, For his sweetheart is dead, as he shortly shall hear. Full forty years since turned the key in that door. "T is a room deaf and dumb mid the city's uproar. The guests, for whose joyance that table was spread, May now enter as ghosts, for they're every one dead. Through a chink in the shutter dim lights come and go; The seats are in order, the dishes a-row : But the luncheon was wealth to the rat and the WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW. [This ballad relates to the execution of Cockburne of Hender land, a border freebooter, hanged over the gate of his own tower by James V. in his famous expedition, in 1529, against the marauders of the border. In a deserted burial-place near the ruins of the cas tle, the monument of Cockburne and his lady is still shown. The following inscription is still legible, though defaced :— "HERE LYES PERYS OF COKBURNE AND HIS WYFE MARJORY." SIR WALTER SCOTT.] There came a man, by middle day, I sewed his sheet, making my mane ; I watched the corpse mysell alane ; I watched his body night and day; I took his body on my back, I digged a grave, and laid him in, Nae living man I'll love again, ANONYMOUS. THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. WORD was brought to the Danish king (Hurry!) That the love of his heart lay suffering, And pined for the comfort his voice would bring; (0, ride as though you were flying!) Better he loves each golden curl On the brow of that Scandinavian girl Thirty nobles saddled with speed; (Hurry!) Each one mounting a gallant steed His nobles are beaten, one by one; (Hurry!) They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone; His little fair page now follows alone, For strength and for courage trying! The king looked back at that faithful child; Wan was the face that answering smiled; They passed the drawbridge with clattering din, Then he dropped; and only the king rode in Where his rose of the isles lay dying! The king blew a blast on his bugle horn; No answer came; but faint and forlorn The castle portal stood grimly wide; Who had yearned for his voice while dying! The panting steed, with a drooping crest, The king returned from her chamber of rest, And, that dumb companion eying, The tears gushed forth which he strove to check ; CAROLINE NORTON. HIGH-TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. THE old mayor climbed the belfry tower, Good ringers, pull your best," quoth hee. "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow! Come uppe, Jetty! rise and follow; From the clovers lift your head ! Come uppe, Whitefoot ! come uppe, Lightfoot ' |