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But when he haunts your door... the town

Marks coming and marks going... You seem to have stitched your eyelids down

To that long piece of sewing !


You never give a look, not you,

Nor drop him a “Good morning," To keep his long day warm and blue,

So fretted by your scorning.


No matter how or where we loved,

Or when we 'll wed, or what befall;
I only feel she 's mine at last,
I only know I 'll hold her fast,

Though to dust crumbles Moreton Hall.
Her pedigree - good sooth, 't is long !

Her grim sires stare from every wall ;
And centuries of ancestral grace
Revive in her sweet girlish face,

As meek she glides through Moreton Hall. Whilst I have nothing; save, perhaps,

Some worthless heaps of idle gold
And a true heart, the which her eye
Through glittering dross spied, womanly ;

Therefore they say her heart was sold !
I laugh ; she laughs ; the hills and vales

Laugh as we ride 'neath chestnuts tall,
Or start the deer that silent graze,
And up, large-eyed, with soft gaze,

At the fair maid of Moreton Hall;

She shook her head : “The mouse and bee

For crumb or flower will linger; The dog is happy at my knee,

The cat purrs at my finger.


“But he... to him, the least thing given

Means great things at a distance ; He wants my world, my sun, my heaven,

Soul, body, whole existence.


They say love gives as well as takes ;

But I'm a simple maiden, My mother's first smile when she wakes

I still have smiled and prayed in.

We let the neighbors talk their fill,

Fo” life is sweet, and love is strong, And two, close knit in 'marriage ties, The whole world's shams may well despise,

Its folly, madness, shame, and wrong.


“I only know my mother's love

Which gives all and asks nothing,

And this new loving sets the groove

Too much the way of loathing.


“Unless he gives me all in change,

I forfeit all things by him : The risk is terrible and strange -

I tremble, doubt, ... deny him.


“He's sweetest friend, or hardest foe,

Best angel, or worst devil ;
I either hate or ... love him so,

I can't be merely civil !


"You trust a woman who puts forth

Her blossoms thick as summer's ? You think she dreams what love is worth,

Who casts it to new-comers ?

That thou hast kept a portion back,

While I have staked the whole,
Let no false pity spare the blow,
But in true mercy tell me so.
Is there within thy heart a need

That mine cannot fulfil ?
One chord that any other hand

Could better wake or still ?
Speak now, lest at some future day
My whole life wither and decay.
Lives there within thy nature hid

The demon-spirit, change,
Shedding a passing glory still

On all things new and strange ?
It may not be thy fault alone,
But shield my heart against thine own.
Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day

And answer to my claim,
That fate, and that to-day's mistake,

Not thou, had been to blame ?
Some soothe their conscience thus ; but thou
Wilt surely warn and save me now.
Nay, answer not, - I dare not hear,

The words would come too late ; Yet I would spare thee all remorse,

So comfort thee, my fate : Whatever on my heart may fall, Remember, I would risk it all !

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A WOMAN'S QUESTION. BEFORE I trust my fate to thee,

Or place my hand in thine,
Before I let thy future give

Color and form to mine,
Before I peril all for thee,
Question thy soul to-night for me.
I break all slighter bonds, nor feel

A shadow of regret :
Is there one link within the past

That holds thy spirit yet ?
Or is thy faith as clear and free
As that which I can pledge to thee ?
Does there within thy dimmest dreams

A possible future shine,
Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe,

Untouched, unshared by mine?
If so, at any pain or cost,
O, tell me before all is lost !
Look deeper still : if thou canst feel,

Within thy inmost soul,

“YES," I answered you last night ;

“No," this morning, sir, I say. Colors seen by candle-light

Will not look the same by day. When the viols played their best,

Lamps above, and laughs below, Love me sounded like a jest,

Fit for yes or fit for no. Call me false or call me free,

Vow, whatever light may shine, No man on your face shall see

Any grief for change on mine. Yet the sin is on us both;

Time to dance is not to woo ; Wooing light makes fickle troth

Scorn of me recoils on you. Learn to win a lady's faith

Nobly, as the thing is high, Bravely, ns for life and death,

With a loyal gravity.

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him :


He cannot love: No, no! let him alone.”

THINK not I love him, though I ask for him ; And think so still, — if Stella know my minde. 'Tis but a peevish boy :- yet he talks well ;

But what care I for words ? — yet words do well, Profess, indeed, I do not Cupid's art;

When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. But you, faire maids, at length this true shall But, sure, he's proud ; and yet his pride becomes

finde, That his right badge is but worne in the hearte. He'll make a proper man: The best thing in him Dumb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers Is his complexion ; and faster than his tongue prove :

Did make offence, his eye did heal it up.
They love indees who quake to say they love. He is not very tall; yet for his years he's tall ;

His leg is but so so; and yet 't is well :
There was a pretty redness in his lip,

A little riper and more lusty red
THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE. Than that mixed in his cheek ; 't was just the

difference NEVER wedding, ever wooing,

Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask. Still a love-lorn heart pursuing,

There be some women, Silvius, had they marked Read you not the wrong you 're doing

him In my cheek's pale hue ?

In parcels, as I did, would have gone near
All my life with sorrow strewing,

To fall in love with him : but, for my part,
Wed, or cease to woo.

I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet

I have more cause to hate him than to love him : Rivals banished, bosoms plighted,

For what had he to do to chide at me? Still our days are disunited;

He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black; Now the lamp of hope is lighted,

And, now I am remembered, scorned at me : Now half quenched appears,

I marvel, why I answered not again : Damped and wavering and benighted

But that's all one ; omittance is no quittance. Midst my sighs and tears.





dearest blessing,
Lips that thrill at your caressing,
Eyes a mutual soul confessing,

Soon you ’ll make them grow
Dim, and worthless your possessing,
Not with age, but woe !


SHALL I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair ?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are ?

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And if I sleep, then pierceth he

With pretty slight,
And makes his pillow of my knee,

The livelong night ;
Strike I the lute, he tunes the string,
He music plays, if I but sing:
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet cruel, he my heart doth sting:

Ah! wanton, will you ? Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence, And bind you when you long to play,

For your offence ; I'll shut my eyes to keep you in, I'll make you fast it for your sin, I'll count your power not worth a pin, Alas ! what hereby shall I win

If he gainsay me !

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Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flowery meads in May,

If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?

Shall my foolish heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind ?
Or a well-disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature ?
Be she meeker, kinder than
The turtle dove or pelican,

If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be ?

Shall a-woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or, her well deservings known,
Make me quite forget mine own ?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may merit name of best,

If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die ?
Those that bear a noble mind
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do
That without them dare to woo ;

And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair :
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve.
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go ;

For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?



LET not woman e'er complain

Of inconstancy in love ;
Let not woman e'er complain

Fickle man is apt to rove ;
Look abroad through Nature's range,
Nature's mighty law is change ;
Ladies, would it not be strange

Man should then a monster prove ?

Mark the winds, and mark the skies ;

Ocean's ebb and ocean's flow; Sun and moon but set to rise, Round and round the seasons go.

CUPID and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses, — Cupid paid ;
He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows,
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose

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“Thanks, gentle Norah, fair and good,

We'll rest awhile our weary feet ; But though this old man needeth food,

There 's nothing here that he can eat. His taste is strange, he eats alone,

Beneath some ruined cloister's cope, Or on some tottering turret's stone,

While I can only live on — - Hope !


TOTHER day, as I was twining
Roses for a crown to dine in,
What, of all things, midst the heap,
Should I light on, fast asleep,
But the little desperate elf,
The tiny traitor, - Love himself !
By the wings I pinched him up
Like a bee, and in a cup
Of my wine I plunged and sank him ;
And what d'ye think I did ? – I drank him !
Faith, I thought him dead. Not he!
There he lives with tenfold glee;
And now this moment, with his wings
I feel him tickling my heart-strings.

“A week ago, ere you were wed;

It was the very night before, Upon so many sweets I fed

While passing by your mother's door, — It was that dear, delicious hour

When Owen here the nosegay brought, And found you in the woodbine bower,

Since then, indeed, I've needed naught.”


A blush steals over Norah's face,

A smile comes over Owen's brow, A tranquil joy illumes the place,

As if the moon were shining now; The boy beholds the pleasing pain,

The sweet confusion he has done, And shakes the crystal glass again,

And makes the sands more quickly run.


“Dear Norah, we are pilgrims, bound

Upon an endless path sublime; We pace the green earth round and round,

And mortals call us LOVE and TIME; He seeks the many, I the few;

I dwell with peasants, he with kings. We seldom meet; but when we do,

I take his glass, and he my wings.

Two pilgrims from the distant plain

Come quickly o'er the mossy ground. One is a boy, with locks of gold

Thick curling round his face so fair ; The other pilgrim, stern and old,

Has snowy beard and silver hair. The youth with many a merry trick

Goes singing on his careless way ; His old companion walks as quick,

But speaks no word by night or day. Where'er the old man treads, the grass

Fast fadeth with a certain doom ; But where the beauteous boy doth pass

Unnumbered flowers are seen to bloom. And thus before the sage, the boy

Trips -lightly o'er the blooming lands, And proudly bears a pretty toy,

A crystal glass with diamond sands.
A smile o'er any brow would pass

To see him frolic in the sun,
To see him shake the crystal glass,

And make the sands more quickly run. And now they leap the streamlet o'er,

A silver thread so white and thin, And now they reach the open door,

And now they lightly enter in :

“And thus together on we go,

Where'er I chance or wish to lead ; And Time, whose lonely steps are slow,

Now sweeps along with lightning speech Now on our bright predestined way

We must to other regions pass ; But take this gift, and night and day

Look well upon its truthful glass.

How quick or slow the bright sands fall

Is hid from lovers' eyes alone, If you can see them move at all,

Be sure your heart has colder grown.
"T is coldness makes the glass grow dry,

The icy hand, the freezing brow;
But warm the heart and breathe the sigh,

And then they 'll pass you know not how.".

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