And I turned and looked: she was sitting there, 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, 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 But O the smell of that jasmine flower! That voice rang out from the donjon tower, 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, 'Tis 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. 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? BYRON. 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, THE MOTHER'S LAST SONG. SLEEP! - The ghostly winds are blowing! No moon abroad, no star is glowing; The river is deep, and the tide is flowing To the land where you and I are going! We are going afar, Beyond moon or star, To the land where the sinless angels are! I lost my heart to your heartless sire But now we'll go Where the waters flow, And make us a bed where none shall know. WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY. O, WALY, waly up the bank, And waly, waly down the brae, I leaned my back unto an aik, O, waly, waly, but love be bonny, 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, But had I wist, before I kissed, That love had been sae ill to win, ANONYMOUS, LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT. A SCOTTISH SONG. BALOW, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! Balow, my babe, ly stil and slcipe! I cannae chuse, but ever will Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth That ever kist a woman's mouth! I wish all maids be warned by mee, ANONYMOUS, MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE. My heid is like to rend, Willie, O, lay your cheek to mine, Willie, I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie, Ay, press your hand upon my heart, O, wae 's me for the hour, Willie, |