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All else had perished, save a wedding-ring, I will go down to her, I and none other,
Close with her, kiss her, and mix her with me; Engraven with a name, the name of both, Cling to her, strive with her, hold her fast. “ Ginevra,"
O fair white mother, in days long past
Sea, that art clothed with the sun and the rain,
Thy large embraces are keen like pain !
Save me and hide me with all thy waves,
Find me one grave of thy thousand graves,
Those pure cold populous graves of thine, The mistletoe hung in the castle hall,
Wrought without hand in a world without stain. The holly branch shone on the old oak wall ; And the baron's retainers were blithe and gay, I shall sleep, and move with the moving ships, And keeping their Christmas holiday.
Change as the winds change, veer in the tide ; The baron beheld with a father's pride
My lips will feast on the foam of thy lips, His beautiful child, young Lovell's bride ; I shall rise with thy rising, with thee subside. While she with her bright eyes seemed to be Sleep, and not know if she be, if she were, The star of the goodly company.
Filled full with life to the eyes and hair,
As a rose is fulfilled to the rose-leaf tips “I'm weary of dancing now," she cried ;
With splendid summer and perfume and pride. “Here tarty a moment, - I 'll hide, I'll hide ! And, Lovell, be sure thou 'rt first to trace
This woven raiment of nights and days, The clew to my secret lurking-place."
Were it once cast off and unwound from me, Away she ran, — and her friends began
Naked and glad would I walk in thy ways, Each tower to search, and each nook to scan ;
Alive and aware of thy waves and thee; And young Lovellcried, “O, where dost thou hide? Clear of the whole world, hidden at home, I'm lonesome without thee, my own dear bride.” Clothed with the green, and crowned with the foam, They sought her that night ! and they sought her A pulse of the life of thy straits and bays, next day!
A vein in the heart of the streams of the sea. And they sought her in vain when a week passed
And years flew by, and their grief at last
It was many and many a year ago, "See ! the old man weeps for his fairy bride."
In a kingdom by the sea, At length an oak chest, that had long lain hid, That a maiden lived, whom you may know Was found in the castle, — they raised the lid,
By the name of Annabel Lee; And a skeleton form lay mouldering there
And this maiden she lived with no other thought In the bridal wreath of that lady fair !
Than to love, and be loved by me. 0, sad was her fate !- in sportive jest She hid from her lord in the old oak chest.
I was a child and she was a child, It closed with a spring ! --and, dreadful doom,
In this kingdom by the sea ; The bride lay clasped in her living tomb !
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabel Lee,
Coveted her and me.
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.
THE DISAPPOINTED LOVER.
I WILL go back to the great sweet mother,
Mother and lover of men, the sea.
And this was the reason that long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
See ! the white moon shines on high ;
Whiter is my true-love's shroud, Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud.
My love is dead, &c.
So that her high-born kinsmen came,
And bore her away from me,
In this kingdom by the sea.
Went envying her and me.
In this kingdom by the sea,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we,
Of many far wiser than we ;
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
Here, upon my true-love's grave
Shall the barren flowers be laid, Nor one holy saint to save All the coldness of a maid.
My love is dead, &c.
With my hands I 'll bind the briers
Round his holy corse to gre ; Ouphant fairy, light your fires ; Here my body still shall be.
My love is dead, &c.
Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my heart's blood away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day.
My love is dead, &c.
EDGAR ALLAN POE,
Black his hair as the winter night,
White his neck as the summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light; Cold he lies in the grave below.
My love is dead, &c.
Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note ;
Quick in dance as thought can be ;
My love is dcad, &c.
'T was a scandal and shame to the business-like
street, One terrible blot in a ledger so neat: The shop full of hardware, but black as a hearse, And the rest of the mansion a thousand times worse. Outside, the old plaster, all spatter and stain, Looked spotty in sunshine and streaky in rain ; The window sills sprouted with mildewy grass, And the panes from being broken were known to
be glass. On the rickety signboard no learning could spell The merchant who sold, or the goods he'd to
Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the briered dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing To the nightmares as they go.
My love is dead, &c.
"HERE LYES PERYS OF COKBURNE AND HIS WYFE
But for house and for man a new title took growth, | A nosegay was laid before one special chair, Like a fungus, — the Dirt gave its name to them And the faded blue ribbon that bound it lies there. both.
The old man has played out his parts in the scene. Within, there were carpets and cushions of dust, Wherever he now is, I hope he 's more clean. The wood was half rot, and the metal half rust, Yet give we a thought free of scoffing or ban Old curtains, half cobwebs, hung grimly aloof; To that Dirty Old House and that Dirty Old Man. 'T was a Spiders' Elysium from cellar to roof. There, king of the spiders, the Dirty Old Man Lives busy and dirty as ever he can ;
LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW. With dirt on his fingers and dirt on his face,
(This ballad relates to the execution of Cockburne of HenderFor the Dirty Old Man thinks the dirt no disgrace. land, a border freebooter
, hanged over the gate of his own tower by
James V. in his famous expedition, in 1529, against the marauders From his wig to his shoes, from his coat to hisshirt, of the border. In a deserted burial-place near the ruins of the cas
tle, the monument of Cockburne and his lady is still shown. The His clothes are a proverb, a marvel of dirt ; following inscription is still legible, though defaced :The dirt is pervading, unfading, exceeding,
MARJORY." Yet the Dirty Old Man has both learning and
SIR WALTER SCOTT.] breeding
My love he built me a bonnie bower,
And clad it a' wi' lily flower ;
A brawer bower ye ne'er did see,
Than my true-love he built for me.
There came a man, by middle day, The Dirty Man's manners were truly delightful. He spied his sport, and went away ;
And brought the king that very night, Upstairs might they venture, in dirt and in gloom,
Who brake my bower, and slew my knight. To peep at the door of the wonderful room Such stories are told about, none of them true ! He slew my knight, to me sae dear; The keyhole itself has no mortal seen through. He slew my knight, and poin'd his gear :
My servants all for life did flee, That room, — forty years since, folk settled and
And left me in extremitie. decked it. The luncheon's prepared, and the guests are ex
I sewed his sheet, making my mane ; pected.
I watched the corpse mysell alane ; The handsome young host he is gallant and gay,
I watched his body night and day ; For his love and her friends will be with him to-day.
No living creature came that way. With solid and dainty the table is drest,
I took his body on my back,
And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat ; The wine beams its brightest, the flowers bloom their best;
I digged a grave, and laid him in, Yet the host need not smile, and no guests will
And happed him with the sod sae green. appear,
But think na ye my heart was sair, For his sweetheart is dead, as he shortly shall hear. When I laid the moul on his yellow hair ?
O, think na ye my heart was wae, Full forty years since turned the key in that door. When I turned about, away
gae 'Tis a room deaf and dumb mid the city's uproar. The guests, for whosejoyance that table was spread,
Nae living man I'll love again,
Wi' ae lock o' his yellow hair
and go ;
The seats are in order, the dishes a-row :
THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE.
WORD was brought to the Danish king
(Hurry !) Cup and platterare masked in thick layers of dust; That the love of his heart lay suffering, The flowers fallen to powder, the wine swathed in And pined for the comfort his voice would bring;
(O, ride as though you were flying !)
“Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells ! Ply all your changes, all your swells !
Play uppe The Brides of Enderby!"
say it was a “stolen tyde," The Lord that sent it, he knows all, But in myne ears doth still abide
The message that the bells let fall ; And there was naught of strange, beside The flights of mews and peewits pied,
By millions crouched on the old sea-wall.
I sat and spun within the doore ;
My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes : The level sun, like ruddy ore,
Lay sinking in the barren skies ; And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth! My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.
“ Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha !" calling,
I heard her song.
Floweth, floweth, From the meads where melick groweth, Faintly came her milking-song.
“Cusha! Cusha! Cusha !” calling, “For the dews will soone be falling; Leave your meadow grasses mellow,
Mellow, mellow ! Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ! Come uppe, Whitefoot ! come uppe, Lightfoot! Quit the stalks of parsley hollow,
Hollow, hollow ! Come uppe, Jetty! rise and follow; From the clovers lift your head ! Come uppe, Whitefoot ! come uppe, Lightfoot ! Come uppe, Jetty ! rise and follow, Jetty, to the milking-shed."
If it be long, ay, long ago —
When I beginne to think howe long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow,
Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong ; And all the aire, it seemeth mee, Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), That ring the tune of Enderby.
Better he loves each golden curl
And his rose of the isles is dying !
Thirty nobles saddled with speed;
(0, ride as though you were flying !)
(Hurry !) They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward
gone ; His little fair page now follows alone,
For strength and for courage trying ! The king looked back at that faithful child; Wan was the face that answering smiled ; They passed the drawbridge with clattering din, Then he dropped ; and only the king rode in
Where his rose of the isles lay dying ! The king blew a blast on his bugle horn ;
(Silence !) No answer came ; but faint and forlorn An echo returned on the cold gray morn,
Like the breath of a spirit sighing. The castle portal stood grimly wide ; None welcomed the king from that weary ride ; For dead, in the light of the dawning day, The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay,
Who had yearned for his voice while dying !
The panting steed, with a drooping crest,
The king returned from her chamber of rest,
And, that dumb companion eying,
To the halls where my love lay dying!”
HIGH-TIDE ON THE COAST OF LIN.
The old mayor climbed the belfry tower,
The ringers ran by two, by three; “Pull ! if ye never pulled before ;
Good ringers, pull your best," quoth hee.
Alle fresh the level pasture lay,
And not a shadowe mote be seene, Save where, full fyve good miles away,
The steeple towered from out the greene. And lo! the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country side That Saturday at eventide.
Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout, -
The swannerds, where their sedges are,
Moved on in sunset's golden breath ; The shepherde lads I heard afarre,
And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth; Till, floating o'er the grassy sea, Came downe that kyndly message free, The Brides of Mavis Enderby.
So farre, so fast, the eygre drave,
The heart had hardly time to beat Before a shallow seething wave
Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet: The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea.
Upon the roofe we sate that night ;
The noise of bells went sweeping by ; I marked the lofty beacon light
Stream from the church tower, redand high,A lurid mark, and dread to see ; And awsome bells they were to mee, That in the dark rang Enderby.
They rang the sailor lads to guide,
From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ; And I, — my sonne was at my side,
And yet the ruddy beacon glowed ;
Then some looked uppe into the sky,
And all along where Lindis flows To where the goodly vessels lie,
And where the lordly steeple shows. They sayde, “And why should this thing be, What danger lowers by land or sea ? They ring the tune of Enderby. “For evil news from Mablethorpe,
Of pyrate galleys, warping down, For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe,
They have not spared to wake the towne ; But while the west bin red to see, And storms be none, and pyrates flee, Why ring The Brides of Enderby ? I looked without, and lo! my sonne
Came riding downe with might and main ; He raised a shont as he drew on,
Till all the welkin rang again : “Elizabeth! Elizabeth !” (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) “The olde sea-wall” (he cryed) “ is downe !
The rising tide comes on apace ; And boats adrift in yonder towne
Go sailing uppe the market place !" He shook as one that looks on death : “God save yon, mother !” straight he sayth ; “Where is my wife, Elizabeth ?” “Good sonne, where Lindis winds away
With her two bairns I marked her long; And ere yon bells beganne to play,
Afar I heard her milking-song."
For lo ! along the river's bed
And uppe the Lindis raging sped.
Shook all her trembling bankes amaine ;
And didst thou visit him no more?
Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare, The waters laid thee at his doore
Ere yet the early dawn was clear :
That cbbe swept out the flocks to sea,
To manye more than myne and mee ; But cach will mourne his own (she sayth) And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.
I shall never hear her more
I shall never see her more,