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CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI.

1830

[DAUGHTER of Gabriele Rossetti, and sister of D. G. Rossetti; born at London, Dec. 5, 1830. Author of Goblin Market and Other Poems, 1862; The Prince's Progress and Other Poems, 1866; Commonplace and Other Short Stories in Prose, 1870; Sing Song, A Nursery Rhyme Book, 1872; Speaking Likenesses, 1874: Annus Domini, a Prayer for every day in the year, 1874; A Pageant and Other Poems, 1881; Called to be Saints, 1881.]

MAUDE CLARE.

OUT of the church she followed them

With a lofty step and mien: His bride was like a village maid, Maude Clare was like a queen.

'Son Thomas," his lady mother said,
With smiles, almost with tears:
'May Nell and you but live as true
As we have done for years;

'Your father thirty years ago
Had just your tale to tell;
But he was not so pale as you,
Nor I so pale as Nell."

My lord was pale with inward strife,
And Nell was pale with pride;
My lord gazed long on pale Maude Clare
Or ever he kissed the bride.

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She turn'd to Nell: "My Lady Nell,
I have a gift for you;

Though, were it fruit, the bloom were gone,

Or, were it flowers, the dew.

"Take my share of a fickle heart,

Mine of a paltry love:

Take it or leave it as you will,

I wash my hands thereof."

"And what you leave," said Nell, "I'll take,

And what you spurn I'll wear;
For he's my lord for better and worse,
And him I love, Maude Clare.

"Yea, though you're taller by the head,
More wise, and much more fair;
I'll love him till he loves me best,
Me best of all, Maude Clare."

UP-HILL.

DOES the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole
long day?

From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow dark hours

begin.

May not the darkness hide it from my face?

You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Those who have gone before.

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[DAUGHTER of Mr. Wm. Ingelow, late of Ipswich, Suffolk; born about 1830. Her first vol ume of poems came out in 1863, and five years afterwards A Story of Doom and Other Poems appeared. Miss Ingelow's other published works have been in prose, viz.: Studies for Stories, 1864; Stories told to a Child; Mopsa, the Fairy, 1869; Off the Skelligs, 1873; Fated to be Free, 1875; Sarah de Berenger, 1880; Don John, 1883. Her poems have obtained a remarkable degree of popularity, both in this country and in England.]

THE COMING IN OF THE "MERMAIDEN."

THE moon is bleached as white as wool,
And just dropping under;
Every star is gone but three,

And they hang far asunder-
There's a sea-ghost all in gray,
A tall shape of wonder!

I am not satisfied with sleep,-
The night is not ended.
But look how the sea-ghost comes,

With wan skirts extended,
Stealing up in this weird hour,

When light and dark are blended.

A vessel! To the old pier end

Her happy course she's keeping; I heard them name her yesterday: Some were pale with weeping;

Some with their heart-hunger sighed,
She's in-and they are sleeping.

O! now with fancied greetings blest,
They comfort their long aching:
The sea of sleep hath borne to them
What would not come with waking,
And the dreams shall most be true
In their blissful breaking.

The stars are gone, the rose-bloom

comes

No blush of maid is sweeter;
The red sun, half-way out of bed,
Shall be the first to greet her.
None tell the news, yet sleepers wake,
And rise, and run to meet her.

Their loss they have, they hold; from pain

A keener bliss they borrow. How natural is joy, my heart!

How easy after sorrow!

For once, the best is come that hope
Promised them "to-morrow."

LOVE'S THREAD OF GOLD. In the night she told a story,

In the night and all night through, While the moon was in her glory,

And the branches dropped with dew. 'Twas my life she told, and round it

Rose the years as from a deep;
In the world's great heart she found it,
Cradled like a child asleep.
In the night I saw her weaving

By the misty moonbeam cold,
All the weft her shuttle cleaving
With a sacred thread of gold.
Ah! she wept me tears of sorrow,
Lulling tears so mystic sweet;
Then she wove my last to-morrow,
And her web lay at my feet.
Of my life she made the story:
-so soon 'twas told!
glory,

I must weep
But your name did lend
And your love its thread of gold!

LIKE A LAVEROCK IN THE LIFT. It's we two, it's we two, it's we two for aye,

All the world and we two, and Heaven be our stay.

Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride!

All the world was Adam once, with Eve by his side.

What's the world, my lass, my love! what can it do?

I am thine, and thou art mine; life is sweet and new.

If the world have missed the mark, let it stand by,

For we two have gotten leave, and once more we'll try.

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[EDWARD ROBERT BULWER LYTTON, son of the great novelist and poet, was born Nov. 8 1831. Educated at Harrow, and afterwards at Bonn, in Germany. Entered the diplomatic service of the Crown in 1849, and has held important positions of trust at St. Petersburg, Constantinople, Vienna, and other European stations. Appointed in 1876 as the Viceroy of India, which office he resigned in 1880. His first work, Clytemnestra, The Earl's Return, and Other Poems, was published in 1855. The Wanderer; a Collection of Poems in Many Lands, appeared in 1859. This was followed in 1860 by Lucile, which has proved more popular than any of his works. Among his other works are Tannhauser, 1861; The Ring of Amasis, a prose romance, 1863; Fables in Song, 1874; and several volumes of prose writings, including a biography of his father, 1883-1884. In 1867, a collected edition of The Poetical Works of Owen Meredith appeared in two volumes, and were republished in the United States, where most of them had previously appeared.]

THE HEART AND NATURE.

THE lake is calm; and, calm, the skies
In yonder cloudless sunset glow,
Where, o'er the woodland, homeward
flies

The solitary crow;

No moan the cushat makes to heave

A leaflet round her windless nest; The air is silent in the eve;

The world's at rest.

All bright below; all pure above;

No sense of pain, no sign of wrong; Save in thy heart of hopeless love, Poor Child of Song!

Why must the soul through Nature rove,

At variance with her general plan? A stranger to the Power, whose love Soothes all save Man?

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