A LIGHT WOMAN.

1.

So far as our story approaches the end,
Which do you pity the most of us three?
My friend, or the mistress of my friend
With her wanton eyes, or me?

2.

My friend was already too good to lose,

And seemed in the way of improvement yet, When she crossed his path with her hunting-noose And over him drew her net.

3.

When I saw him tangled in her toils,

A shame, said I, if she adds just him
To her nine-and-ninety other spoils,
The hundredth, for a whim!

And before

4.

my friend be wholly hers,

How easy to prove to him, I said,
An eagle's the game her pride prefers,

Though she snaps at the wren instead!

5.

So I gave her eyes my own eyes to take,
My hand sought hers as in earnest need,
And round she turned for my noble sake,
And gave me herself indeed.

6.

The eagle am I, with my fame in the world,
The wren is he, with his maiden face.

- You look away and your lip is curled? Patience, a moment's space!

For see

7.

my friend goes shaking and white;

He eyes me as the basilisk:

I have turned, it appears, his day to night,
Eclipsing his sun's disk.

8.

And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief:

"Though I love her

that he comprehends

One should master one's passions, (love, in chief)

And be loyal to one's friends!"

And she,

9.

she lies in my hand as tame

As a pear hung basking over a wall; Just a touch to try and off it came;

10.

With no mind to eat it, that's the worst!

Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist? 'Twas quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirst

When I gave its stalk a twist.

What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess.

What I seem to myself, do you ask of me?

No hero, I confess.

12.

"Tis an awkward thing to play with souls,
And matter enough to save one's own.
Yet think of my friend, and the burning coals
He played with for bits of stone!

13.

One likes to show the truth for the truth;
That the woman was light is very true:
But suppose she says, — never mind that youth-
What wrong have I done to you?

14.

Well, any how, here the story stays,

So far at least as I understand;

And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays,

Here's a subject made to your hand!

THE STATUE AND THE BUST.

THERE's a palace in Florence, the world knows well, And a statue watches it from the square,

And this story of both do the townsmen tell.

Ages ago, a lady there,

At the furthest window facing the east
Asked, "Who rides by with the royal air?"

The brides-maids' prattle around her ceased;
She leaned forth, one on either hand;
They saw how the blush of the bride increased

They felt by its beats her heart expand
As one at each ear and both in a breath
Whispered, "The Great-Duke Ferdinand."

That selfsame instant, underneath,

The Duke rode past in his idle way,
Empty and fine like a swordless sheath.

Gay he rode, with a friend as gay,

Till he threw his head back "Who is she?"

-"A Bride the Riccardi brings home to-day."

Hair in heaps laid heavily

Over a pale brow spirit-pure

Carved like the heart of the coal-black tree,

Crisped like a war-steed's encolure
Which vainly sought to dissemble her eyes
Of the blackest black our eyes endure.

And lo, a blade for a knight's emprise
Filled the fine empty sheath of a man,
The Duke grew straightway brave and wise.

He looked at her, as a lover can;
She looked at him, as one who awakes,
The past was a sleep, and her life began.

As love so ordered for both their sakes,
A feast was held that selfsame night
In the pile which the mighty shadow makes.

(For Via Larga is three-parts light, But the Palace overshadows one,

Because of a crime which may God requite!