Alack, for Corydon no rival now! But when Sicilian shepherds lost a mate, Some good survivor with his flute would go, Piping a ditty sad for Bion's fate; And cross the unpermitted ferry's flow, And relax Pluto's brow, And make leap up with joy the beauteous head Of Proserpine, among whose crowned hair Are flowers first open'd on Sicilian air, And flute his friend, like Orpheus, from the dead. O easy access to the hearer's grace When Dorian shepherds sang to Proserpine! For she herself had trod Sicilian fields, She knew the Dorian water's gush divine, She knew each lily white which Each rose with blushing face; She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian strain. But ah, of our poor Thames she never heard! Her foot the Cumner cowslips never stirr'd; And we should tease her with our plaint in vain! THE LAST WORD. Let the long contention cease! They out-talk'd thee, hiss'd thee, tore | Charge once more, then, and be dumb! [SYDNEY DOBELL was born at Cranbrook in Kent in 1824, was educated at home, and for the greater part of his life was engaged in business in Gloucestershire. His first published poem, The Roman, inspired by his life-long enthusiasm for the Italian cause, appeared in 1850; his next, Balder, was finished in 1853. In 1855 he wrote in conjunction with Alexander Smith a series of sonnets, suggested by the Crimean struggle. This volume was followed by another, of descriptive and lyrical verses, on the same theme, England in Time of War. Subsequently his health gave way, and after living for several years, the winters of which he passed abroad, more or less in the condition of an invalid, he died at Barton End House near Nailsworth, in 1874. A complete edi. tion of his poems was published in 1875.] TOMMY'S DEAD. You may give over plough, boys, Send the colt to the fair, boys- The sky is shrivelled and shred; Wherever I turn my head, And Tommy's dead. What am I staying for, boys? She was always sweet, boys, She knew she'd never see't, boys, I've been sitting up alone, boys, For he'd come home, he said, But it's time I was gone, boys, For Tommy's dead. Put the shutters up, boys, For my eyes are heavy as lead; There's something wrong i' the cup, boys, And Tommy's dead. I'm not right, I doubt, boys, I shall never more be stout, boys, 1 "How's my boy-my boy? What care I for the ship, sailor — Be she afloat or be she aground Every man aboard her." How's my boy-my boy? MISS MENELLA BUTE SMEDLEY. Circa 1825-circa 1875. [A SISTER to F. E. Smedley. Author of Nina, 1861; Twice Lost, and other Prose Tales, 1863; Linnet's Trial, 1864; A Mere Story, 1869; Other Folks' Lives, 1869; Lays and Bal lads from English History, 1858; Poems, 1868; Two Dramatic Poems, 1874. Her reputation as a poet rests chiefly upon her shorter poems.] Up all the shining heights he prayed But that poor Shadow, still outside, And all the souls went up and cried, The answer none might understand, ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. (BORN at London, Oct. 30, 1825; daughter of Bryan Waller Procter (Barry Cornwall). Her first contributions to Household Words, under the name "Mary Berwick," were in 1853, to which periodical she became a regular contributor. She also wrote for Cornhill and Good Words. Her Poems, Legends, and Lyrics, were published in two volumes, 1858 and 1860. Died at London, Feb. 2, 1864. Her works were reissued in 1865, with an introduction by Charles Dickens.] |