A something light as air, - a look,
A word unkind or wrongly taken,
O, love that tempests never shook,

A breath, a touch like this has shaken!
And ruder words will soon rush in
To spread the breach that words begin;
And eyes forget the gentle ray
They wore in courtship's smiling day;
And voices lose the tone that shed
A tenderness round all they said;
Till fast declining, one by one,
The sweetnesses of love are gone,
And hearts, so lately mingled, seem
Like broken clouds, -or like the stream,
That smiling left the mountain's brow,

As though its waters ne'er could sever, Yet, ere it reach the plain below,

Breaks into floods that part forever.

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,

The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore;
And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note,
The souls in purgatory.

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow;
And who was not thrilled in the strangest way,
As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low,
"Non ti scordar di me?"

The emperor there, in his box of state,
Looked grave; as if he had just then seen
The red flag wave from the city gate,

Where his eagles in bronze had been.

The empress, too, had a tear in her eye:

For one moment, under the old blue sky, To the old glad life in Spain.

Well

there in our front-row box we sat
Together, my bride betrothed and I ;
My gaze was fixed on my opera hat,
And hers on the stage hard by.

And both were silent, and both were sad;-
Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm,
With that regal, indolent air she had;

So confident of her charm!

I have not a doubt she was thinking then
Of her former lord, good soul that he was,
Who died the richest and roundest of men,
The Marquis of Carabas.

I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven,
Through a needle's eye he had not to pass;
I wish him well for the jointure given
To my lady of Carabas.

Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love

As I had not been thinking of aught for years; Till over my eyes there began to move Something that felt like tears.

I thought of the dress that she wore last time, When we stood 'neath the cypress-trees together, In that lost land, in that soft clime,

In the crimson evening weather;

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot);
And her warm white neck in its golden chain;
And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot,
And falling loose again;

And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast;
(O the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower!)
And the one bird singing alone to his nest ;
And the one star over the tower.

I thought of our little quarrels and strife,
And the letter that brought me back my ring
And it all seemed then, in the waste of life,
Such a very little thing!

For I thought of her grave below the hill,
Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over :
And I thought, "Were she only living still,
How I could forgive her and love her!"

And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, And of how, after all, old things are best, That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower Which she used to wear in her breast.

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet,
It made me creep, and it made me cold!

again,

Where a mummy is half unrolled.

And I turned and looked she was sitting there,
In a dim box over the stage; and drest
In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair,
And that jasmine in her breast!

I was here, and she was there;

And the glittering horse-shoe curved between:From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair And her sumptuous scornful mien,

To my early love with her eyes downcast,
And over her primrose face the shade,
(In short, from the future back to the past,)
There was but a step to be made.

To my early love from my future bride

One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, I traversed the passage; and down at her side I was sitting, a moment more.

My thinking of her, or the music's strain,

Or something which never will be exprest, Had brought her back from the grave again, With the jasmine in her breast.

She is not dead, and she is not wed!

But she loves me now, and she loved me then! And the very first word that her sweet lips said, My heart grew youthful again.

The marchioness there, of Carabas,

She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still; And but for her . . . . well, we'll let that pass; She may marry whomever she will.

But I will marry my own first love,

With her primrose face, for old things are best; And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in my lady's breast.

The world is filled with folly and sin,

And love must cling where it can, I say: For beauty is easy enough to win ;

But one is n't loved every day.

And I think, in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even,

If only the dead could find out when
To come back and be forgiven.

But O the smell of that jasmine flower!
And O that music! and O the way

That voice rang out from the donjon tower,
Non ti scordar di me,

Non ti scordar di me!

ROBERT BULWER LYTTON.

TRANSIENT BEAUTY.

THE GIAOUR.

As, rising on its purple wing,
The insect-queen of Eastern spring,
O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer,
Invites the young pursuer near,
And leads him on from flower to flower,

A weary chase and wasted hour,
Then leaves him, as it soars on high,
With panting heart and tearful eye;
So Beauty lures the full-grown child,
With hue as bright, and wind as wild;
A chase of idle hopes and fears,
Begun in folly, closed in tears.
If won, to equal ills betrayed,
Woe waits the insect and the maid:
A life of pain, the loss of peace,
From infant's play and man's caprice;
The lovely toy, so fiercely sought,
Hath lost its charm by being caught;
For every touch that wooed its stay
Hath brushed its brightest hues away,
Till, charm and hue and beauty gone,
"T is left to fly or fall alone.
With wounded wing or bleeding breast,
Ah! where shall either victim rest?
Can this with faded pinion soar
From rose to tulip as before?
Or Beauty, blighted in an hour,
Find joy within her broken bower?
No; gayer insects fluttering by
Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die,
And lovelier things have mercy shown
To every failing but their own,
And every woe a tear can claim,
Except an erring sister's shame.

WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY.

BYRON.

I LOVED thee once, I'll love no more,
Thine be the grief as is the blame;
Thou art not what thou wast before,
What reason I should be the same?
He that can love unloved again,
Hath better store of love than brain:
God send me love my debts to pay,

While unthrifts fool their love away.

Nothing could have my love o'erthrown,
If thou hadst still continued mine;
Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own,
I might perchance have yet been thine.
But thou thy freedom did recall,
That if thou might elsewhere inthrall;
And then how could I but disdain
A captive's captive to remain ?

I leaned my back unto an aik,

I thought it was a trusty tree;
But first it bowed, and syne it brak -
Sae my true love did lightly me!

O, waly, waly, but love be bonny,
A little time while it is new;
But when 't is auld it waxeth cauld,
And fades away like the morning dew.

O, wherefore should I busk my head?
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true love has me forsook,

And says he 'll never love me mair.

Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed;
The sheets shall ne'er be fyled by me;
Saint Anton's well shall be my drink,

Since my true love has forsaken me.
Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves off the tree?
O gentle death, when wilt thou come?
For of my life I'm weary.

"T is not the frost that freezes fell,

Nor blawing snaw's inclemency; "T is not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my love's heart grown cauld to me.

When we came in by Glasgow town,
We were a comely sight to see ;
My love was clad in the black velvet,
And I my sell in cramasie.

But had I wist, before I kissed,

That love had been sae ill to win,
I'd locked my heart in a case of gold,
And pinned it with a silver pin.
0, 0, if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse's knee,
And I my sell were dead and gane,
And the green grass growin' over me!

ANONYMOUS,

LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT.

A SCOTTISH SONG.

BALOW, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe ;
If thou 'st be silent, I 'se be glad,
Thy maining maks my heart ful sad.
Balow, my boy, thy mither's joy!
Thy father breides me great annoy.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.
When he began to court my luve,
And with his sugred words to muve,
His faynings fals, and flattering cheire,
To me that time did not appeire:
But now I see, most cruell hee,
Cares neither for my babe nor mee.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.
Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile,
And when thou wakest sweitly smile :
But smile not, as thy father did,
To cozen maids; nay, God forbid !
But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire,
Thy fatheris hart and face to beire.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ↑
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.

I cannae chuse, but ever will
Be luving to thy father stil:
Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde,
My luve with him maun stil abyde:
In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae,
Mine hart can neir depart him frae.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.
But doe not, doe not, prettie mine,
To faynings fals thine hart incline;
Be loyal to thy luver trew,
And nevir change hir for a new;
If gude or faire, of hir have care, '
For women's banning's wonderous sair.
Balow, my babe, ly stil and slcipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.
Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane,
Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine;
My babe and I'll together live,
He'll comfort me when cares doc grieve;
My babe and I right saft will ly,
And quite forget man's cruelty.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth That ever kist a woman's mouth!