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My love is lost-my studies marr'd,
FRANCESCA AND PAULO.
A passage from LEIGH Hunt's Story of Rimini. READY she sat with one hand to turn o'er The leaf, to which her thoughts ran on before, The other on the table, half enwreathed In the thick tresses over which she breathed. So sat she fix'd, and so observed was she Of one, who at the door stood tenderly, Paulo,—who from a window seeing her Go straight across the lawn, and guessing where, Had thought she was in tears, and found, that day, His usual efforts vain to keep away. Twice had he seen her since the Prince was gone, On some small matter needing unison ; Twice linger'd, and conversed, and grown long friends ; But not till now where no one else attends.“ May I come in ?” said he :-it made her start, That smiling voice; she colour'd, press'd her heart A moment, as for breath, and then with free And usual tone, said, --" yes,-certainly." There's wont to be, at conscious times like these, An affectation of a bright-eyed ease, An air of something quite serene and sure, As if to seem so, were to be, secure. With this the lovers met, with thirst they spoke, With this sat down to read the self-saine book, And Paulo, by degrees, gently embraced With one permitted hand her lovely waist; And both their cheeks, like peaches on a tree, Came with a touch together thrillingly, And o'er the book they hung, and nothing said, And every lingering page grew longer as they read.
As thus they sat, and felt with leaps of heart
Found in a novel entitled Oonagh Lynch, the authorship of which is not avowed. It is well entitled to a place here.
She will not drink the blood-red wine
That sparkles bright and high ;
The salt tear in her eye.
Nor yet the wine of Spain ?
I ne'er must drink again!”
The peach like fair maid's cheek is found;
Our southern fruit is fair;
Nor find such fruit grow there.
The blackberry is good
And they grow in our gay green wood."
Will ye not sleep in golden bed?
The curtains are of silk, Of broidery is the coverlet,
The sheets are white as milk? "Oh! the heather is a better bed,
'Neath the north winds blowing free; And I long to lay my weary head
On the swaird of my own countree.”
THE WANING MOON.
Another of Bryant's beautiful poems. I've watch'd too late ; the morn is near ;
One look at God's broad silent sky! Oh, hopes and wishes vainly dear,
How in your very strength ye die !
Even while your glow is on your cheek,
And scarce the high pursuit begun, The head grows faint, the hand grows weak,
The task of life is left undone.
See where upon the horizon's rim,
Lies the still cloud in gloomy bars ; The waning moon, all pale and dim,
Goes up amid the eternal stars. Late in a flood of tender light
She floated through the ethereal blue: A softer sun, that shone all night
Upon the gathering beads of dew, And still thou wanest, pallid moon!
The encroaching shadow grows apace; Heaven's everlasting watchers soon
Shall see thee blotted from thy place.
Oh, night's dethroned and crownless queen!
Well may thy sad, expiring ray
Hope's glorious visions fade away.
Shine, thou, for forms that once were bright,
For sages in the mind's eclipse,
But falter now on stammering lips.
In thy decaying beam there lies
Full many a grave on hill and plain, Of those who closed their dying eyes
In grief that they had lived in vain. Another night, and thou among
The spheres of heaven shalt cease to shine, All rayless in the glittering throng
Whose lustre late was quench'd in thine.
Yet soon, a new and tender light
From out thy darken'd orb shall beam, And broaden, till it shines all night
On glistening dew and glimmering stream.
A Sonnet by CHARLES LAMB. In Christian world Mary the garland wears ! Rebecca sweetens on a Hebrew ear; Quakers for pure Priscilla are more clear ; And the light Gaul by amorous Ninon swears. Among the lesser lights how Lucy shines! What air of fragrance Rosamond throws round! How like a hymn doth sweet Cecilia sound ! Of Marthas and of Abigails few lines Have bragg'd in verse. Of coarsest household stuff Should homely Joan be fashioned. But can You Barbara resist, or Marian? And is not Clare for love excuse enough ? Yet, by my faith in numbers, I profess, These all than Saxon Edith please me less.
THE SONG OF THE SILENT LAND.
Translated by LONGFELLOW from the German of SALIS.
Into the Silent Land!
Thither, oh, thither,
Into the Silent Land !
Into the Silent Land !
O Land! O Land!
Into the Silent Land !
THE ARMADA. Another spirit-stirring ballad by MACAULAY. ATTEND all ye who list to hear our Noble England's praise ; I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient
days, When that great fleet invincible against her bore in vain The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain. It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day, There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth
bay; Her crew hath seen Castile’s black fleet, beyond Aurigny's
Isle, At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile ;