II. When my passion seeks Smiling, never speaks : So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple, From beneath her gathered wimple Glancing with black-beaded eyes, Till the lightning laughters dimple The baby-roses in her cheeks; III. Prythee weep, May Lilian! Gaiety without eclipse Wearieth me, May Lilian : Thro' my very heart it thrilleth When from crimson-threaded lips Silver-treble laughter trilleth : Prythee weep, May Lilian. IV. Praying all I can, If prayers will not hush thee, Airy Lilian, Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, Fairy Lilian. ISABEL. I. EYES not down-dropt nor over - bright, but fed With the clear-pointed flame of chastity, Of her still spirit; locks not wide-dispread, Madonna-wise on either side her head; Sweet lips whereon perpetually did reign The summer calm of golden charity, Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mood, Revered Isabel, the crown and head, The stately flower of female fortitude, Of perfect wifehood and pure lowlihead. II. The intuitive decision of a bright withhold; The laws of marriage character'd in gold Upon the blanched tablets of her heart; A love still burning upward, giving light To read those laws; an accent very low In blandishment, but a most silver flow Of subtle-paced counsel in distress, Right to the heart and brain, tho' undescried, Winning its way with extreme gentle ness Thro' all the outworks of suspicious pride; III. The mellow'd reflex of a winter moon; The vexed eddies of its wayward A leaning and upbearing parasite, Clothing the stem, which else had fallen quite With cluster'd flower-bells and ambrosial orbs Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on each other Shadow forth thee:-the world hath not another (Tho' all her fairest forms are types of thee, And thou of God in thy great charity) MARIANA. 'Mariana in the moated grange.' Measure for Measure. WITH blackest moss the flower-plots That held the pear to the gable-wall. The broken sheds look'd sad and strange: Unlifted was the clinking latch; Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. She only said, 'My life is dreary, Her tears fell with the dews at even; Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats, When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement-curtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats. She only said, 'The night is dreary, He cometh not,' she said; She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!' Upon the middle of the night, From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her without hope of change, In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn, Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange. She only said, 'The day is dreary, About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small, The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. II. Smiling, frowning, evermore, Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow Thy smile and frown are not aloof Each to each is dearest brother; III. A subtle, sudden flame, About thee breaks and dances: O'erflows thy calmer glances, And o'er black brows drops down A sudden-curved frown: But when I turn away, Thou, willing me to stay, Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest; But, looking fixedly the while, All my bounding heart entanglest In a golden-netted smile; Then in madness and in bliss, If my lips should dare to kiss Thy taper fingers amorously, Again thou blushest angerly; And o'er black brows drops down A sudden-curved frown. SONG THE OWL. I. WHEN cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb, II. When merry milkmaids click the latch, Twice or thrice his roundelay, Alone and warming his five wits, SECOND SONG. TO THE SAME. I. THY tuwhits are lull'd, I wot, That her voice untuneful grown, II. I would mock thy chaunt anew; Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, With a lengthen❜d loud halloo, RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. WHEN the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free In the silken sail of infancy, ΙΟ RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold, Anight my shallop, rustling thro' Of good Haroun Alraschid. A goodly place, a goodly time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Above thro' many a bowery turn A walk with vary-colour'd shells Wander'd engrain'd. On either side All round about the fragrant marge From fluted vase, and brazen urn In order, eastern flowers large, Some dropping low their crimson bells Half-closed, and others studded wide With disks and tiars, fed the time With odour in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Far off, and where the lemon grove Often, where clear-stemm'd platans guard The living airs of middle night The outlet, did I turn away The boat-head down a broad canal A motion from the river won I enter'd, from the clearer light, Of hollow boughs.-A goodly time, Of good Haroun Alraschid. Still onward; and the clear canal Died round the bulbul as he sung; Of good Haroun Alraschid. Black the garden-bowers and grots Of good Haroun Alraschid. |