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Ah, my gossip! you were older,

And more learned, and a man!Yet that shadow-the enfolder

Of your quiet eyelidsran Both our spirits to one level,

And I turned from hill and lea,
And the summer-sun's green revel,

To your eyes that could not see.
Now Christ bless you with the one light

Which goes shining night and day!
May the flowers which grow

in sunlight Shed their fragrance in your way! Is it not right to remember

All your kindness, friend of mine, When we two sate in the chamber

And the poets poured us wine ?
So, to come back to the drinking

Of this Cyprus,—it is well-
But those memories, to my thinking,

Make a better ænomel;
And whoever be the speaker,

None can murmur with a sigh, That, in drinking from that beaker, I am sipping like a fly.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

CLARE drew her from the sight away,
Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan,
And half he murmured—“Is there none,

Of all my halls have nurst,
Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring
Of blessed water from the spring,

To slake my dying thirst ?”

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Oh, woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made;
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou !-
Scarce were the piteous accents said,
When, with the baron's casque, the maid

To the nigh streamlet ran :
Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears;
The plaintive voice alone she hears,

Sees but the dying man.
She stooped her by the runnel's side,

But in abhorrence backward drew;
For, oozing from the mountain wide,
Where raged the war, a dark red tide

Was curdling in the streamlet blue.
Where shall she turn ?-behold her mark

A little fountain-cell,
Where water, clear as diamond spark,

In a stone basin fell.
Above, some half-worn letters say,
“Drink. weary. pilgrim. drink, and pray.
For. the. kind. soul. of. Sybil. Grey.

Who. built. this. cross. and well.”
She filled the helm, and back she hied,
And with surprise and joy espied

A Monk supporting Marmion's head;
A pious man, whom duty brought
To dubious verge of battle fought,

To shrieve the dying, bless the dead.


With fruitless labour, Clara bound,
And strove to stanch, the gushing wound :



The Monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the Church's prayers ;
Ever, he said, that, close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear,
And that the priest he could not hear;

For that she ever sung, In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!

So the notes rung;
" Avoid thee, Fiend !—with cruel hand,
Shake not the dying sinner's sand !—
O look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine ;

O think on faith and bliss !-
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,

But never aught like this.”
The war, that for a space

did fail,
Now trebly thundering, swelled the gale,

And—STANLEY! was the cry:
A light on Marmion's visage spread,

And fired his glazing eye:
With dying hand, above his head
He shook the fragment of his blade,

And shouted—“Victory ! -
Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!”
Were the last words of Marmion.

Sir W. Scott.



Obe. Well, go thy way: thou shalt not from this

grove, Till I torment thee for this injury.My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou remember'st



Since once I sat upon a promontory,
And heard a mermaid, on a dolphin's back,
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath,
That the rude sea grew

civil at her song;
And certain stars shot madly from their spheres,
To hear the sea-maid's music ?

Puck. I remember.
Obe. That very time I saw (but thou could'st

Flying between the cold moon and the earth,
Cupid all arm’d: a certain aim he took
At a fair vestal throned by the west;
And loos’d his love-shaft smartly from his bow,
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts :
But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft
Quench'd in the chaste beams of the wat’ry moon;
And the imperial vot'ress passed on,
In maiden meditation, fancy free.
Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell :
It fell upon a little western flower—
Before, milk-white; now purple with love's wound-
And maidens call it, love-in-idleness.
Fetch me that flower; the herb I show'd thee once:
The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid,
Will make or man or woman madly dote
Upon the next live creature that it sees.
Fetch me this herb: and be thou here again,
Ere the leviathan can swim a league.

Puck. I'll put a girdle round about the earth In forty minutes.

[Exit Puck. Obe. Having once this juice, I'll watch Titania when she is asleep, And drop the liquor of it in her eyes : The next thing then she waking looks upon (Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull, On meddling monkey, or on busy ape), She shall pursue it with the soul of love. And ere I take this charm off from her sight



(As I can take it, with another herb),
I'll make her render


page to me.
But who comes here?



“Hail, awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast,
And woo the weary to profound repose !
Can Passion's wildest uproar lay to rest,
And whisper comfort to the man of woes ?
Here Innocence may wander, safe from foes,
And Contemplation soar on seraph-wings.
O Solitude! the man who thee foregoes,

When lucre lures him, or ambition stings,
Shall never know the source whence real grandeur

springs. “ Vain man! is grandeur given to gay attire Then let the butterfly thy pride upbraid: To friends, attendants, armies, bought with hire ? It is thy weakness that requires their aid : To palaces, with gold and gems inlaid. ? They fear the thief, and tremble in the storm : To hosts, through carnage who to conquest wade ?

Behold the victor vanquish'd by the worm!
Behold what deeds of woe the locust can perform!

“True dignity is his, whose tranquil mind
Virtue has raised above the things below;
Who, every hope and fear to Heaven resign'd,
Shrinks not, though Fortune aim her deadliest blow!”
This strain, from 'midst the rocks, was heard to flow
In solemn sounds. Now beam'd the evening star;
And from embattled clouds, emerging slow,

Cynthia came riding on her silver car;
And hoary mountain-cliffs shone faintly from afar.


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