The intuitive decision of a bright And thorough-edged intellect to part Error frovi 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,
Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life,
The queen of marriage, a most perfect
wife.

III.

The mellow'd reflex of a winter moon; A clear stream flowing with a muddy

one,

'Till in its onward current it absorbs With swifter movement and in purer light

The vexed eddies of its wayward brother:

A leaning and upbearing parasite,

"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!"

Her tears fell with the dews at even; Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;

She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide.

After the flitting of the bats,

When thickest dark did trance the sky,

She drew her casement-curtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats. She only said, "The night is dreary He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!".

Upon the middle of the night, Waking she heard the night-fowl

crow:

The cock sung out an hour ere light: From the dark fen the oxen's low

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.

III.

A subtle, sudden flame,
By veering passion fann'd,

About thee breaks and dances:
When I would kiss thy hand,
The flush of anger'd shame

O'erflows thy calmer glances,
And o'er black brows drops down
A sudden-curved frown:
But when I turn away,
Thou, willing me to stay,

Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest;
But, looking fixedly the while,
All my bounding heart entanglest
In a golden-netted smile;
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.

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.

For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Anight my shallop, rustling thro'
The low and bloomed foliage, drove
The fragrant, glistening deeps, and
clove

The citron-shadows in the blue:
By garden porches on the brim,
The costly doors flung open wide,
Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim,
And broider'd sofas on each side:
In sooth it was a goodly time,
For it was in the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.
Often, where clear-stemm'd platans
guard

The outlet, did I turn away

The boat-head down a broad canal
From the main river sluiced, where all
The sloping of the moon-lit sward
Was damask-work, and deep inlay
Of braided blooms unmown, which
crept

Adown to where the water slept.
A goodly place, a goodly time,
For it was in the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.