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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 I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour,

And of how, after all, old things were 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;

Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet

Where a mummy is half unroll'd.

And I turn'd and look'd: 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 betroth'd, 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.)

And the jasmine flower in her fair young To my early love from my future bride

breast,

(Oh, 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;

One moment I look'd. 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,

And it all seem'd then, in the waste of Had brought her back from the grave

life,

Such a very little thing!

For I thought of her grave below the hill, Which the sentinel cypress tree stands

over,

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 I thought, "Were she only living And the very first word that her sweet

still,

lips said,

How I could forgive her, and love her!"

My heart grew youthful again.

The Marchioness there, of Carabas,

She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still,

That, though the heart would break with

more,

It could not live with less;

And but for her, well, we'll let that This is love, faithful love,

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They that are rich in words must needs | By the solemn rites' permission, discover To his heart his true love took,

They are but poor in that which makes And the destinies recorded

a lover.

Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart,
The merit of true passion,
With thinking that he feels no smart
Who sues for no compassion.

Since if my plaints were not t' approve
The conquest of thy beauty,

It comes not from defect of love,
But fear t' exceed my duty.

For, knowing that I sue to serve
A saint of such perfection
As all desire, but none deserve
A place in her affection,

I rather choose to want relief

Than venture the revealing :-
Where glory recommends the grief,
Despair disdains the healing.

Thus those desires that boil so high
In any mortal lover,
When reason cannot make them die,
Discretion them must cover.

Yet when discretion doth bereave

The plaints that I should utter, Then your discretion may perceive That silence is a suitor.

Silence in love bewrays more woe Than words, though ne'er so witty: A beggar that is dumb, you know,

May challenge double pity.

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart,
My love, for secret passion:

He smarteth most that hides his smart,
And sues for no compassion.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

THE GROOMSMAN TO THE BRIDES

MAID.

EVERY wedding, says the proverb,

Makes another, soon or late; Never yet was any marriage Enter'd in the book of fate, But the names were also written Of the patient pair that wait.

Blessings, then, upon the morning When my friend, with fondest look,

Other two within their book.

While the priest fulfill'd his office, Still the ground the lovers eyed, And the parents and the kinsmen Aim'd their glances at the bride; But the groomsmen eyed the virgins Who were waiting at her side.

Three there were that stood beside her;
One was dark, and one was fair;
But nor fair nor dark the other,
Save her Arab eyes and hair;
Neither dark nor fair I call her,
Yet she was the fairest there.

While the groomsman-shall I own it?
Yes to thee, and only thee-
Gazed upon this dark-eyed maiden

Who was fairest of the three, Thus he thought: "How blest the bridal Where the bride were such as she!"

Then I mused upon the adage,

Till my wisdom was perplex'd, And I wonder'd, as the churchman Dwelt upon his holy text, Which of all who heard his lesson Should require the service next.

Whose will be the next occasion

For the flowers, the feast, the wine? Thine, perchance, my dearest lady;

Or, who knows?-it may be mine, What if 'twere-forgive the fancyWhat if 'twere-both mine and thine? THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.

ZARA'S EAR-RINGS.

My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they've dropp'd into the well,

And what to say to Muça, I cannot, cannot

tell

'Twas thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daughter:

The well is deep-far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water;

To me did Muça give them when he spake My ear-rings! my ear-rings! O luckless,

his sad farewell,

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luckless well,

For what to say to Muça-alas! I cannot tell.

I'll tell the truth to Muça-and I hope he will believe

That I thought of him at morning and thought of him at eve;

That, musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone,

His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone;

And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my hand they fell,

And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the well.

(From the Spanish.) JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART.

LOOK OUT, BRIGHT EYES. LOOK out, bright eyes, and bless the air! Even in shadows you are fair. Shut-up beauty is like fire, That breaks out clearer still and higher. Though your beauty be confined,

And soft Love a prisoner bound, Yet the beauty of your mind

Neither check nor chain hath found.

Look out nobly, then, and dare

He'll think when I to market went I Even the fetters that you wear.

loiter'd by the way;

He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the

lads might say;

He'll think some other lover's hand, among my tresses noosed,

From the ears where he had placed them my rings of pearl unloosed;

He'll think when I was sporting so beside this marble well

My pearls fell in-and what to say, alas! I cannot tell.

He'll say I am a woman, and we are all the same;

He'll say I loved when he was here to whisper of his flame

But when he went to Tunis, my virgin

troth had broken,

And thought no more of Muça, and cared not for his token.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

TAKE, OH TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY.

TAKE, oh take those lips away

That so sweetly were forsworn,
And those eyes, the break of day,

Lights that do mislead the morn!
But my kisses bring again,
Seals of love, though seal'd in vain.

Hide, oh hide those hills of snow

Which thy frozen bosom bears, On whose tops the pinks that grow

Are yet of those that April wears. But first set my poor heart free, Bound in those icy chains by thee.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

Go, LOVELY ROSE.

"Go, lovely rose !

Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows

When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

"Tell her that's young,

And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung

In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

"Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired:
Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.

"Then die! that she

The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee,

How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair."
EDMUND WALLER.

MUSIC, WHEN SOFT VOICES DIE.

MUSIC, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory-
Odors, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose-leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heap'd for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art
gone,

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Love itself shall slumber on.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

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THERE IS A GARDEN IN HER FACE.
THERE is a garden in her face,

Where roses and white lilies blow;
A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;
There cherries grow that none may buy,

TO HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

BOHEMIA.

You meaner beauties of the night,

That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light—
You common people of the skies-
What are you when the moon shall rise?

You curious chanters of the wood,

That warble forth dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood

Those cherries fairly do enclose

Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rosebuds filled with

snow;

Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still.

Her brows like bended bows do stand,

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