"TO WIN AT THE GAME WHOSE MOVES ARE DEATH, MAKETH MAN DRAW TOO PROUD A BREATH;-(HUNT)

SWEET HERO'S EYES, THREE THOUSAND YEARS AGO,-(LEIGH HUNT)

222

LEIGH HUNT.

Because less moved, and less ingenuous.

Let them get charity that show it.

Gin. [Who has reseated herself]

I pray you

Let Fiordilisa come to me. My lips
Will show you that I faint.

[AGOLANTI rings a bell on the table, and
FIORDILISA enters to her mistress.

Ago. When you have seen your mistress well again,

Go to Matteo, and tell him, from herself,
That 'tis her orders she be excused at present
To all that come, her state requiring it,

[Exit.

And convalescence. Mark you that addition-
She's getting well; but to get well, needs rest.
Fior. Needs rest! Alas! when will you let her rest,
My lady! my sweet mistress!
[Applying a volatile to her temples.

But in her grave!

She knows me. He has gone-the signor's gone.
[Aside] She sighs as though she mourned him.

Gin. [Listening]

Fior. Nothing, madam ;-I heard nothing.

Gin.

Fior.

What's that?

Everything

Gives me a painful wonder ;—you, your face,
These walls. My hand seems to me not more human
Than animal; and all things unaccountable.
'Twill pass away. What's that? [A church organ is heard.
Yes, I hear that.

'Tis Father Anselmo, madam, in the chapel,
Touching the new organ. In truth, I asked him,
Thinking that as the signor is so moved
By whatsoever speaks him of religion,

It might have done no harm to you, and him, madam,
To hear it while conversing. But he's old

And slow, is the good father.

[GINEVRA kisses her, and then weeps abundantly.

WERE MADE PRECISELY LIKE THE BEST WE KNOW."-LEIGH HUNT.

AND TO SEE HIS FORCE TAKEN FOR REASON AND RIGHT, TENDETH TO UNSEAL HIS REASON QUITE."-HUNT.

66 THOSE FINER INSTINCTS THAT, LIKE SECOND SIGHT-INGELOW)

Gin. Thank Heaven! thank Heaven and the sweet sounds!

Fior.

I have not wept, Fiordilisa, now, for many a day,
And the sound freshens me-loosens my heart. [Music.
O blessed music! at thy feet we lie,

Pitied of angels surely.

Perhaps, madam,

You will rest here, and try to sleep awhile?
Gin. No, Fiordilisa [rising]. Meeting what must be,
and in this breath

Is half commanding it;
Of heaven, my mind feels duty set erect,
Fresh out of tears.

When duty's done.

Bed is for night, not day,

So cheer we as we may.
[Exeunt; the music continuing.

[From Leigh Hunt's "Legend of Florence."]

"THE LOOKINGS ONWARD OF THE RACE BEFORE IT HAD A PAST TO MAKE IT LOOK BEHIND;

Jean Ingelow.

[THIS agreeable poetess, whose works are characterized by so much liquid sweetness, intense pathos, and refined delicacy, was born about 1830. She is the author of "The Story of Doom, and Other Poems" (1867); of "Studies for Stories"-a volume of exquisite prose narrative, remarkable for its keen analysis of character; and of "Winstanley," "The High Tide," and various songs, ballads, and lyrics, collected and republished in 1867. In all her poems there is a soft subtle beauty and tender melancholy, which almost imperceptibly wins upon the reader; but they are deficient, we think, in strength-are wanting in vigour and force of colour.]

DIVIDED.

I.

N empty sky, a world of heather,

Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom;
We two among them wading together,

Shaking out honey, treading perfume.

AND HEARING, CATCH CREATION'S UNDERSONG."-JEAN INGELOW.

ITS REVERENT WONDERS, AND ITS DOUBTINGS SORE, ITS ADORATIONS BLIND."-JEAN INGELOW.

"THE THUNDER OF ITS WAR-SONGS, AND THE GLOW OF CHANTS TO FREEDOM BY THE OLD WORLD SUNG;

* "But 'tis that miracle and queen of gems
That Nature pranks her in, attracts my soul."
SHAKESPEARE, Twelfth Night, act ii., scene iv.

THAT DEEP THINGS ARE TO FEEL."-INGELOW.

THE SWEET LOVE CADENCES THAT LONG AGO DROPPED FROM THE OLD-WORLD TONGUE."-JEAN INGELOW.

"OH, STRANGE IT IS, AND WIDE, THE NEW-WORLD LORE, FOR NEXT IT

TREATETH OF OUR NATIVE DUST!

SURELY FROM THE HEAVEN DROPS LIGHT FOR YOUTH,

DIVIDED.

Hand in hand, while the sun peered over,

We lapped the grass on that youngling spring;
Swept back its rushes, smoothed its clover,

And said, "Let us follow it westering."

225

MUST DIG OUT BURIED MONSTERS, AND EXPLORE THE GREEN EARTH'S FRUITFUL CRUST."-JEAN INGELOW.

Flit on the beck,* for her long grass parteth
As hair from a maid's bright eyes blown back;
And, lo, the sun like a lover darteth

His flattering smile on her wayward track.

"DOUBT, A BLANK TWILIGHT OF THE HEART, WHICH MARS ALL SWEETEST COLOURS IN ITS DIMNESS SAME;

226

"shall I be sLAVE TO EVERY NOBLE SOUL,-(JEAN INGELOW)

JEAN INGELOW.

IV.

A breathing sigh, a sigh for answer,

A little talking of outward things:
The careless beck is a merry dancer,

Keeping sweet time to the air she sings.
A little pain when the beck grows wider;

"Cross to me now-for her wavelets swell:
"I may not cross"-and the voice beside her
Faintly reacheth, though heeded well.
No backward path; ah! no returning ;
No second crossing that ripple's flow :
"Come to me now, for the west is burning;
Come ere it darkens;"-"Ah, no! ah, no!"
Then cries of pain, and arms outreaching—
The beck grows wider and swift and deep :
Passionate words as of one beseeching-

The loud beck drowns them; we walk, and weep.

V.

A yellow moon in splendour drooping,
A tired queen with her state oppressed,
Low by rushes and swordgrass stooping,
Lies she soft on the waves at rest.

The desert heavens have felt her sadness;
Her earth will weep her some dewy tears;
The wild beck ends her tune of gladness,
And goeth stilly as soul that fears.
We two walk on in our grassy places
On either marge of the moonlit flood,
With the moon's own sadness in our faces,
Where joy is withered, blossom and bud.

STUDY THE DEAD, AND TO THEIR SPIRITS BEND?"-INGELOW.

A SOUL-MIST, THROUGH WHOSE RIFTS FAMILIAR STARS, BEHOLDING, WE MISNAME."-JEAN INGELOW.