the store By the banks of that lake, with his only beloved, For which Solomon's self might have given all And preferred in his heart the least ringlet that curled Down her exquisite neck to the throne of the world! There's a beauty, forever unchangingly bright, Like the long sunny lapse of a summer's day's light, Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender, Till love falls asleep in its sameness of splendor. This was not the beauty, O, nothing like this, That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of bliss, But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days, Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the That the navy from Ophir e'er winged to his shore, Yet dim before her were the smiles of them all, And the Light of his Harem was young Nourmahal! MEETING. THOMAS MOORE THE gray sea, and the long black land; Then a mile of warm, sea-scented beach; 86 But, O the change! The winds grow high, "Once more at least look back," said I, "Thyself in that large glass descry: When thou art in good humor drest, When gentle reason rules thy breast, The sun upon the calmest sea Appears not half so bright as thee: "T is then that with delight I rove Upon the boundless depth of love : I bless my chain, I hand my oar, Nor think on all I left on shore. "But when vain doubt and groundless fear Dark was her hair; her hand was white; Shot right and left a score of arrows : She talked of politics or prayers, Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's sonnets, Of danglers or of dancing bears, Of battles or the last new bonnets; If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmured Little. Through sunny May, through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them to the Sunday Journal. My mother laughed; I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling: My father frowned; but how should gout See any happiness in kneeling? She was the daughter of a dean, Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic; She had one brother just thirteen, Whose color was extremely hectic; Her grandmother for many a year, Had fed the parish with her bounty; Wretched when from thee, vexed when nigh, Her second cousin was a peer, I with thee, or without thee, die." MATTHEW PRIOR. And lord-lieutenant of the county. Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter, And autographs of Prince Leeboo, And recipes for elder water. And she was flattered, worshipped, bored ; Her steps were watched, her dress was noted; Her poodle-dog was quite adored; Her sayings were extremely quoted. She smiled on many just for fun, I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first, the only one, Her heart had thought of for a minute. In phrase which was divinely moulded; Our love was most like other loves, And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir, Some hopes of dying broken-hearted; A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows, and then we parted. : We parted months and years rolled by ; Our meeting was all mirth and laughter! For in my heart's most secret cell There had been many other lodgers; And she was not the ball-room's belle, But only Mrs. Something-Rogers! "But chiefly by his face and mien, "O lady, he's dead and gone! Lady, he's dead and gone! And at his head a green grass turf, And at his heels a stone. "Within these holy cloisters long He languished, and he died, Lamenting of a lady's love, And 'plaining of her pride. "Here bore him barefaced on his bier "And art thou dead, thou gentle youth? "O weep not, lady, weep not so; "O do not, do not, holy friar, My sorrow now reprove; For I have lost the sweetest youth That e'er won lady's love. "And now, alas! for thy sad loss I'll evermore weep and sigh: For thee I only wished to live, For thee I wish to die." "Weep no more, lady, weep no more, Thy sorrow is in vain ; For violets plucked, the sweetest showers Will ne'er make grow again. "Our joys as wingéd dreams do fly; Why then should sorrow last? Since grief but aggravates thy loss, Grieve not for what is past." "O say not so, thou holy friar; I pray thee, say not so; For since my true-love died for me, 'Tis meet my tears should flow. "And will he never come again? Will he ne'er come again? Ah! no he is dead and laid in his grave, Forever to remain. "His cheek was redder than the rose; Alas, and woe is me!" "Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, To one thing constant never. "Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, And left thee sad and heavy ; For young men ever were fickle found, "Now say not so, thou holy friar, I pray thee say not so; My love he had the truest heart, O, he was ever true! A Man of Cyprus, a Sculptor named Pygmalion, made an Image of a Woman, fairer than any that had yet been seen, and in the end came to love his own handiwork as though it had been alive: wherefore, praying to Venus for help, he obtained his end, for she made the Image alive indeed, and a Woman, and Pygmalion wedded her. AT Amathus, that from the southern side The lessening marble that he worked upon, A woman's form now imaged doubtfully, "And art thou dead, thou much-loved youth, And in such guise the work had he begun, And didst thou die for me? Then farewell home; for evermore "But first upon my true-love's grave And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf "Yet stay, fair lady: rest awhile Because when he the untouched block did see "And then this block of stone shall be thy maid, See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, Who made the gift that woe to all men brought. "O stay me not, thou holy friar, "Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, "Here forced by grief and hopeless love, "But haply, for my year of grace No longer would I stay." "Now farewell grief, and welcome joy Adapted by THOMAS PERCY. The night seemed long, and long the twilight With something like to hope, and all that day seemed, A vain thing seemed his flowery garden fair; Though through the night still of his work he dreamed, And though his smooth-stemmed trees so nigh it Some tender words he ever found to say; And still he felt as something heard him speak; And when the sun went down, the frankincense But the next morn, e'en while the incense-smoke Damsels and youths in wonderful attire, Though those sweet limbs a garment did enfold. Most fit to be the prize of striving kings. Then he remembered that the manner was When he remembered all the tales well told So his unfinished prayer he finished not, He clad himself with fresh attire and meet So there he stood, that help from her to gain, |
