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This tender sorrow for the time past o'er, To win the day, though now but scanty space These doubts that grow each minute more and Was left betwixt him and the winning place.

more ? Why does she tremble as the time grows near, Short was the way unto such wingéd feet, And weak defeat and woful victory fear ? Quickly she gained upon him till at last

He turned about her eager eyes to meet, But while she seemed to hear her beating And from his hand the third fair apple cast. heart,

She wavered not, but turned and ran so fast Above their heads the trumpet blast rang out, After the prize that should her bliss fulfil, And forth they sprang ; and she must play her That in her hand it lay ere it was still.

part ; Then flew her white feet, knowing not a doubt, Nor did she rest, but turned about to win Though slackening once, she turned her head Once more, an unblest woful victory about,

And yet — and yet — why does her breath begin But then she cried aloud and faster fled

To fail her, and her feet drag heavily? Than e'er before, and all men deemed him Why fails she now to see if far or nigh dead.

The goal is ? why do her gray eyes grow dim?

Why do these tremors run through every limb? But with no sound he raised aloft his hand, And thence what seemed a ray of light there She spreads her arms abroad some stay to find flew

Else must she fall, indeed, and findeth this, And past the maid rolled on along the sand ; A strong man's arms about her body twined. Then trembling she her feet together drew, Nor may she shudder now to feel his kiss, And in her heart a strong desire there grew So wrapped she is in new, unbroken bliss : To have the toy ; some god she thought had Made happy that the foe the prize hath won, given

She weeps glad tears for all her glory done. That gift to her, to make of earth a heaven.

WILLIAM MORRIS.

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FROM

ACBAR AND NOURMAHAL.

Illumed by a wit that would fascinate sages,

Yet playful as Peris just loosed from their cages. THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM."

While her laugh, full of life, without any control Ou ! best of delights, as it everywhere is, But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her To be near the loved one, - what a rapture is his

soul ; Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may. And where it most sparkled no glance could disglide

cover, O'erthe Lake of Cashmere with that one by his side! In lip, cheek, oreyes, forshe brightened allover, If woman can make the worst wilderness dear, Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon, Think, think what a heaven she must make of Whenit breaks into dimples, and laughsinthesun. Cashmere !

Such, such were the peerless enchantments that

gave So felt the magnificent Son of Acbar,

Nourmahal the proud Lord of the East for her When from powerand pompand the trophies of war

slave; He flew to that valley, forgetting them all And though bright was his Harem, - a living With the Light of the Harem, his young Nour parterre mahal.

Of the flowers of this planet, — though treasures When free and uncrowned as the conqueror roved were there, By the banks of that lake, with his only beloved, For which Solomon's self might have given all He saw, in the wreaths she would playfully snatch

the store From the hedges, a glory his crown could not | That the navy from Ophir e'er winged to his shore, match,

Yet dim before her were the smiles of them all, And preferred in his heart the least ringlet that And the Light of his Harem was young Nourmahal!

curled Down her exquisite neck to the throne of the world!

THOMAS MOORE.

There's a beauty, forever unchangingly bright,

MEETING.
Likethelongsunny lapse of a summer's day's light,
Shining on, shiningon, by no shadow made tender, The gray sea, and the long black land ;
Till love falls asleep in its sameness of splendor. And the yellow half-moon large and low;
This was not the beauty, — 0, nothing like this, And the startled little waves, that leap
That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of bliss, In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days, And quench its speed in the slushy sand.
Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies
From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the Then a mile of warm,

sea-scented beach ;
eyes,

Three fields to cross, till a farm appears :
Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams, A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
Like the glimpses a saint has of heaven in his and blue spurt of a lighted match,
dreams!

And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears When pensive, it seemed as if that very grace, Than the two hearts, beating each to each.

ROBERT BROW XING. That charm of all others, was born with her face ; And when angry, — for even in the tranquillest

climes
Light breezes will ruffle the flowers sometimes,

THE LADY'S LOOKING-GLASS.
The short, passing anger but seemed to awaken
New beauty, like flowers that are sweetest when CELIA and I, the other day,
shaken.

Walked o'er the sand-hills to the sea :
If tenderness touched her, the dark of her eye The setting sun ailorned the coast,
At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye,

His beams entire his fierceness lost • From the depth of whose shadow, like holy re And on the surface of the deep vealings

The winds lay only not asleep : From innermost shrines, came the light of her The nymphs did, like the scene, appear feelings !

Serenely pleasant, calmly fair ; Then her mirth – 0, 't was sportive as ever Soft felt her words as flew the air. took wing

With secret joy I heard her say From the heart with a burst like the wild bird That she would never miss one day in spring

A walk so fine, a sight so gay,

But, О the change! The winds grow high,
Impending tempests charge the sky,
The lightning flies, the thunder roars,
The big waves lash the frightened shores.
Struck with the horror of the sight,
She turns her head and wings her flight;
And, trembling, vows she'll ne'er again
Approach the shore or view the main.

Dark was her hair ; her hand was white,

Her voice was exquisitely tender ;
Her eyes were full of liquid light;

I never saw a waist so slender;
Her every look, her every smile,

Shot right and left a score of arrows ·
I thought 't was Venus from her isle,

And wondered where she 'd left her sparrows

“Once more at least look back," said I,
** Thyself in that large glass descry:
When thou art in good humor drest,
When gentle reason rules thy breast,
The sun upon the calmest sea
Appears not half so bright as thee:
"T is then that with delight I rove
Upon the boundless depth of love :
I bless my chain, I hand my oar,
Nor think on all I left on shore.

She talked of politics or prayers,

Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's sonnets,
Of danglers or of dancing bears,

Of battles or the last new bonnets ;
By candle-light, at twelve o'clock,

To me it mattered not a tittle,
If those bright lips had quoted Locke,

I might have thought they murmured Little

Through sunny May, through sultry June,

I loved her with a love eternal ;
I spoke her praises to the moon,

I wrote them to the Sunday Journal.
My mother laughed ; I soon found out

That ancient ladies have no feeling :
My father frowned; but how should gnut

See any happiness in kneeling?

“But when vain doubt and groundless fear
Do that dear foolish bosom tear ;
When the big lip and watery eye
Tell me the rising storm is nigh ;
'T is then thou art yon angry main
Deformed by winds and dashed by rain ;
And the poor sailor that must try
Its fury labors less than I.
Shipwrecked, in vain to land I make,
While love and fate still drive me back :
Forced to dote on thee thy own way,
I chide thee first, and then obey :
Wretched when from thee, vexed when nigh,
I with thee, or without thee, die.”

She was the daughter of a dean,

Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic;
She had one brother just thirteen,

Whose color was extremely hectic;
Her grandmother for many a year,

Had fed the parish with her bounty ;
Her second cousin was a peer,

And lord-lieutenant of the county,

MATTHEW PRIOR.

But titles and the three-per-cents,

And mortgages, and great relations,

And India bonds, and tithes and rents,
THE BELLE OF THE BALL.

O, what are they to love's sensations ?

Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks, Years, years ago, ere yet my dreams

Such wealth, such honors Cupid chooses : Had been of being wise or witty,

He cares as little for the stocks
Ere I had done with writing themes,

As Baron Rothschild for the muses.
Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty, -
Years, years ago, while all my joys

She sketched ; the vale, the wood, the beach Were in my fowling-piece and filly;

Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading : In short, while I was yet a boy,

She botanized ; I envied each I fell in love with Laura Lilly.

Young blossom in her boudoir fading :

She warbled Handel ; it was grand, I saw her at the county ball ;

She made the Catilina jealous : There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle She touched the organ ; I could stand Gave signal sweet in that old hall

For hours and hours to blow the bellows. Of hands across and down the middle, Hors was the subtlest spell by far

She kept an album too, at home, Of all that sets young hearts romancing Well filled with all an album's glories, She was our queen, our rose, our star;

Paintings of butterflies and Rome, And then shedanced, -0 Heaven ! her dancing. Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories,

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“O lady, he's dead and gone !

Lady, he's dead and gone ! And at his head a green grass turf,

And at his heels a stone.

Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo,

Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter,
And autographs of Prince Leeboo,

And recipes for elder water.
And she was flattered, worshipped, bored ;

Her steps were watched, her dress was noted ; Her poodle-dog was quite adored ;

Her sayings were extremely quoted.
She laughed, — and every heart was glad,

As if the taxes were abolished ;
She frowned, — and every look was sad,

As if the opera were demolished.
She smiled on many just for fun, —

I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first, the only one,

Her heart had thought of for a minute. I knew it, for she told me so,

In phrase which was divinely moulded ; She wrote a charming hand, — and 0,

How sweetly all her notes were folded !

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Our love was most like other loves,

A little glow, a little shiver, A rosebud and a pair of gloves,

And “Fly Not Yet," upon the river ; Some jealousy of some one's heir,

Some hopes of dying broken-hearted ; A miniature, a lock of hair,

The usual vows, — and then we parted. We parted : months and years rolled by ;

We met again four summers after. Our parting was all sob and sigh,

Our meeting was all mirth and laughter ! For in my heart's most secret cell

There had been many other lodgers ; And she was not the ball-room's belle,

But only Mrs. — Something - Rogers !

“O do not, do not, holy friar,

My sorrow now reprove; For I have lost the sweetest youth

That e'er won lady's love.

And now, alas ! for thy sad loss

I'll evermore weep and sigh : For thee I only wished to live,

For thee I wish to die."

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

“Weep no inore, lady, weep no more,

Thy sorrow is in vain ; For violets plucked, the sweetest showers

Will ne'er make grow again.

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.

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It was a fríar of orders gray

Walked forth to tell his beads; And he met with a lady fair

Clail in a pilgrim's weeds. "Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar;

I pray thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy shrine

My true love thou didst see.” "And how should I know your true-love From many another one ?” "O, by his cockle hat, and staff,

And by his sandal shoon.

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not so, thou holy friar; I pray thee, say not so ; For since my true love died for me,

'Tis meet my tears should flow.

"And will he never come again ?

Will he ne'er come again? Ah ! no he is dead and laid in his grave.

Forever to remain.

FROM

THE EARTHLY PARADISE.

“His cheek was redder than the rose;

PYGMALION AND THE IMAGE. The comeliest youth was he ! But he is dead and laid in his grave : Alas, and woe is me!"

ARGUMENT.

A Man of Cyprus, a Sculptor named Pygmalion, made an Image “Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more,

of a Woman, fairer than any that had yet been seen, and in the Men were deceivers ever :

end came to love his own handiwork as though it had been aive:

wherefore, praying to Venus for help, he oblained his ensi, for she One foot on sea and one on land,

made the linage alive indeed, and a Woman, and Pygmalius To one thing constant never.

wedded her.

At Amathus, that from the southern side “Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, And left thee sad and heavy ;

Of Cyprus looks across the Syrian sea,

There did in ancient time a man abide For young men ever were fickle found,

Known to the island-dwellers, for that he Since summer trees were leafy."

Had wrought most godlike works in imagery, “Now say not so, thou holy friar,

And day by day still greater honor won, I

Which man our old books call Pygmalion. thee pray say not so; My love he had the truest heart, O, he was ever true !

The lessening marble that he worked upon,

A woman's form now imaged doubtfully, “And art thou dead, thou much-loved youth, And in such guise the work had he begun, And didst thou die for me?

Because when he the untouched block did see Then farewell home ; for evermore

In wandering veins that form there seemed to be, A pilgrim I will be.

Whereon he cried out in a careless mood,

O lady Venus, make this presage good ! “But first upon my true-love's grave My weary limbs I'll lay,

“And then this block of stone shall be thy maid, And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf And, not without rich golden ornament, That wraps his breathless clay.”

Shall bide within thy quivering myrtle-shade."

So spoke he, but the goddess, well content, “Yet stay, fair lady: rest awhile

Unto his hand such godlike mastery sent, Beneath this cloister wall ;

That like the first artiticer he wrought, See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, who made the gift that woe to all men brought.

And drizzly rain doth fall." O stay me not, thou holy friar,

And yet, but such as he was wont to do, O stay me not, I pray ;

At first indeed that work divine he deemed, No drizzly rain that falls on me

And as the white chips from the chisel flew Can wash my fault away.”

Of other matters languidly he dreamed,

For easy to his hand that labor seemed. “Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,

And he was stirred with many a troubling thought, And dry those pearly tears ;

And many a doubt perplexed him as he wronglit. For see, beneath this gown of gray Thy own true-love appears.

And yet, again, at last there came a day

When smoother and more shapely grew the stone, “Here forced by grief and hopeless love,

And he, grown eager, put all thought away These holy weeds I sought;

But that which touched his craftsmanship alone, And here, amid these lonely walis,

And he would gaze at what his hands had done, To end my days I thought.

Until his heart with boundless joy would swell “But haply, for my year

That all was wrought so wonderfully well. of

grace Is not yet passed away,

Yet long it was ere he was satisfied),
Might I still hope to win thy love,
No longer would I stay."

And with his pride that by his mastery

This thing was done, whose equal far and wide Now farewell grief, and welcome joy

In no town of the world a man could see, Once more unto my heart;

Came burning longing that the work should be For since I have found thee, lovely youth,

E'en better still, and to his heart there came We nevermore will part."

A strange and strong desire he could not name. Adapted by THOMAS PERCY.

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