Obrazy na stronie

And left me with a purpose, and a hope But those lips that echoed the sounds of mine
That I was born for something braver than Are as cold as that lonely river;
To hang my head and wear a nameless name. And that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine,

Has shrouded its fires for ever.
That hour has passed, nor ever came again.
We all do live such—so I would believe.

And now on the midnight sky I look,
Life's mere arithmetic and prose are mine,


heart grows full of weeping; And I have missed the beauty of the world. Each star is to me a sealed book,

Some tale of that loved one keeping.

We parted in silence—we parted in tears, Let this remembrance comfort me,—that

On the banks of that lonely river: when

But the odor and bloom of those by-gone My heart seemed bursting-like a restless

years wave,

Shall hang o'er its waters for ever.
That, swollen with fearful longing for the

Throws its strong life on the imagined bliss
Of finding peace and undisturbed calm-
It fell on rock and broke in many tears.



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Was it wrong to own,

Being truth?
Why should all the giving prove

His alone?
I had wealth and ease,

Beauty, youth-
Since my lover gave me love,

I gave these.

With one black shadow at its feet,

The house through all the level shines, Close-latticed to the brooding heat,

And silent in its dusty vines;
A faint-blue ridge upon the right,

An empty river-bed before,

And shallow's on a distant shore, In glaring sand and inlets bright.

But “ Ave Mary,” made she moan,

And “Ave Mary,” night and morn; And “Ah,” she sang, “to be all alone,

To live forgotten, and love forlorn."

That was all I meant,

-To be just,
And the passion I had raised

To content.
Since he chose to change

Gold for dust,
If I gave him what he praised

Was it strange?


Would he loved me yet,

On and on, While I found some way undreamed

-Paid my debt! Gave more life and more,

Till, all gone, He should smile “She never seemed

Mine before.

She, as her carol sadder grew,

From brow and bosom slowly down Through rosy taper fingers drew

Her stream curls of deepest brown To left and right, and made appear,

Still-lighted in a secret shrine,

Her melancholy eyes divine,
The home of woe without a tear.
And “Ave Mary," was her moan,

*Madonna, sad is night and morn; And “Ah," she sang, “to be all alone,

To live forgotten, and love forlorn."


“What-she felt the while,

Must I think? Love's so different with us men,”

He shonld smile. "Dying for my sake

White and pink! Can 't we touch these bubbles then

But they break ?"

Till all the crimson changed, and passed

Into deep orange o'er the sea, Low on her knees herself she cast,

Before Our Lady murmured she; Complaining, “ Mother, give me grace

To help me of my weary load ! ”

And on the liquid mirror glowed The clear perfection of her face.




“Is this the form,” she made her moan, And flaming downward over all,

"That won his praises night and morn?” From heat to heat the day decreased, And “Ah," she said, “but I wake alone, And slowly rounded to the east I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn.” The one black shadow from the wall.

“ The day to night,” she made her moan,

“ The day to night, the night to morn; Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat,

And day and night I am left alorie, Nor any cloud would cross the vault, But day increased from heat to heat,

To live forgotten, and love forlorn."
On stony drought and steaming salt;
Till now at noon she slept again,

At eve a dry cicala sung;
And seemed knee-deep in mountain grass, There came a sound as of the sea;

And heard her native breezes pass, Backward the lattice-blind she flung,
And runlets babbling down the glen.

And leaned upon the balcony. She breathed in sleep a lower moan; There all in spaces rosy-bright

And murmuring, as at night and morn, Large Hesper glittered on her tears, She thought, “My 'spirit is here alone, And deepening through the silent spheres, Walks forgotten, and is forlorn." Heaven over Heaven, rose the night,

And weeping then she made her moan,

" The night comes on that knows not Dreaming, she knew it was a dream;

morn; She felt he was and was not there.

When I shall cease to be all alone, She woke: the babble of the stream

To live forgotten, and love forlorn." Fell, and without the steady glare

ALFRED TENNYSON. Shrank the sick olive sere and small.

The river-bed was dusty white;

And all the furnace of the light Struck up against the blinding wall.

SONG. She whispered, with a stifled moan

More inward than at night or morn, " A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, “Sweet Mother, let me not here alone

A weary lot is thine!
Live forgotten, and die forlorn."

To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,

And press the rue for wine!

A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, And, rising, from her bosom drew

A feather of the blue,
Old letters, breathing of her worth ;

A doublet of the Lincoln green-
For “Love,” they said, “must needs be true,
To what is loveliest upon earth.”

No more of me you knew,

My love!
An image seemed to pass the door.
To look at her with slight, and say,

No more of me you knew.
“But now thy beauty flows away,
So be alone for evermore."

“This morn is merry June, I trow – “O cruel heart," she changed her tone,

The rose is budding fain ; " And cruel love, whose end is scorn,

But she shall bloom in winter snow Is this the end-to be left alone,

Ere we two meet again."
To live forgotten, and die forlorn!"

He turned his charger as he spake,

Upon the river shore;

He gave his bridle reins a shake, But sometimes in the falling day

Said, Adieu for evermore, An image seemed to pass the door,

My love! To look into her eyes and say,

And adieu for evermore.” “But thou shalt be alone no more."




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Then her cheek was pale and thinner than

should be for one so young, LOOKSLEY HALL.

And her eyes on all my motions with a mute COMRADES, leave me here a little, while as observance hung.

yet 't is early morn-Leave me here, and when you want me, sound

And I said, “My cousin Amy, speak, and upon the bugle horn.

speak the truth to me;

Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being 'T is the place, and all around it, as of old, the

sets to thee." curlews call, Dreary gleams about the moorland, flying over Locksley Hall;

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a

color and a light, Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the the sandy tracts,

northern night. And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts.

And she turned-her bosom shaken with a

sudden storm of sighs— Many a night from yonder ivied casement, All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of ere I went to rest,

hazel eyesDid I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West.

Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they

should do me wrong; Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through Saying, “Dost thou love me, cousin?” weepthe mellow shade,

ing, "I have loved thee long." Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.

Love took up the glass of Time, and turned Here about the beach I wandered, nourishing

it in his glowing hands; a youth sublime

Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in With the fairy tales of science, and the long golden sands. result of Time ;

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on When the centuries behind me like a fruitful all the chords with might; land reposed;

Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, When I clung to all the present for the prom passed in music out of sight. ise that it closed;

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear When I dipt into the future far as human eye

the copses ring, could see

And her whisper thronged my pulses with Saw the vision of the world, and all the won

the fulness of the Spring. der that would be. In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the Many an evening by the waters did we watch robin's breast;

the stately ships, In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets him- And our spirits rushed together at the touchself another crest;

ing of the lips.

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the O my cousin, shallow-hearted! O my Amy, burnished dove;

mine no more! In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barturns to thoughts of love.

ren, barren shore !

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all Cursed be the sickly forms that err from songs have sung

honest Nature's rule! Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a Cursed be the gold that gilds the straitened shrewish tongue !

forehead of the fool!

Is it well to wish thee happy-having known Well—'t is well that I should bluster!-Hadst me; to decline

thou less unworthy proved, On a range of lower feelings and a narrower Would to God-for I had loved thee more heart than mine!

than ever wife was loved.

Yet it shall be: thou shalt lower to his level Am I mad, that I should cherish that which day by day,

bears but bitter fruit? What is fine within thee growing coarse to I will pluck it from my bosom, though my sympathize with clay.

heart be at the root.

As the husband is, the wife is; thou art Never! though my mortal summers to such mated with a clown,

length of years should come And the grossness of his nature will have As the many-wintered crow that leads the weight to drag thee down.

clanging rookery home.

He will hold thee, when his passion shall Where is comfort? in division of the records have spent its novel force,

of the mind ? Something better than his dog, a little dearer Can I part her from herself, and love her, as than his horse.

I knew her, kind ?

What is this? his eyes are heavy-think not I remember one that perished; sweetly did they are glazed with wine.

she speak and move; Go to him; it is thy duty-kiss him; take Such a one do I remember, whom to look at his hand in thine.

was to love.

It may


my lord is weary, that his brain is Can I think of her as dead, and love her for overwrought

the love she bore? Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him No—she never loved me truly ; love is love with thy lighter thought.

for evermore.

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to Comfort ? comfort scorned of devils! this is understand

truth the poet sings, Better thou wert dead before me, though I That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is rememslew thee with my hands.

bering happier things.

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest the heart's disgrace,

thy heart be put to proof, Rolled in one another's arms, and silent in a In the dead, unhappy night, and when the last embrace.

rain is on the roof.

Cursed be the social wants that sin against Like a dog, he hunts in dreams; and thou art the strength of youth!

staring at the wall, Cursed be the social lies that warp us from where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the the living truth!

shadows rise and fall.

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