Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind,

She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed I heard one bitter word

That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

There stands a spectre in your hall : The guilt of blood is at your door :

You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse,

To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fixed a vacant stare,

And slew him with your noble birth.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,

From yon blue heavens above us bent The grand old gardener and his wife

Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me,

"T is only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere:

You pine among your halls and towers: The languid light of your proud eyes

Is wearied of the rolling hours.

In glowing health, with boundless wealth,
But sickening of a vague disease,

You know so ill to deal with time,

You needs must play such pranks as these.

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere,

If Time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate, Nor any poor about your lands? Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read, Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, Pray Heaven for a human heart, And let the foolish yeoman go.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

LINES ON ISABELLA MARKHAM.

WHENCE comes my love? O heart, disclose ;
It was from checks that shamed the rose,
From lips that spoil the ruby's praise,
From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze :
Whence comes my woe? as freely own;
Ah me! 't was from a heart like stone.

The blushing check speaks modest mind, The lips befitting words most kind,

The eye does tempt to love's desire,
And seems to say 't is Cupid's fire ;
Yet all so fair but speak my moan,
Sith nought doth say the heart of stone.

Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak
Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek –
Yet not a heart to save my pain;

O Venus, take thy gifts again!
Make not so fair to cause our moan,
Or make a heart that's like our own.
JOHN HARRINGTON.

THE VOW.

IN holy night we made the vow;
And the same lamp which long before
Had seen our early passion grow

Was witness to the faith we swore.

Did I not swear to love her ever;

And have I ever dared to rove? Did she not own a rival never

Should shake her faith, or steal her love?

Yet now she says those words were air,
Those vows were written all in water,
And by the lamp that saw her swear
Has yielded to the first that sought her.

From the Greek of MELEAGER.
Translation of JOHN HERMAN MERIVALE.

WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY.

O, WALY, waly up the bank,

And waly, waly down the brae,
And waly, waly yon burn side,
Where I and my love wont to gae.

I leaned my back unto an aik,
I thought it was a trusty tree;
But first it bowed, and syne it brak-
Sae my true love did lightly me!

O, waly, waly, but love be bonny,
A little time while it is new;
But when 't is auld it waxeth cauld,

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.

BALOW, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe ;
If thoust be silent, Ise be glad,
Thy maining maks my heart ful sad.
Balow, my boy, thy mither's joy!
Thy father breides me great annoy.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.

When he began to court my luve,
And with his sugred words to muve,
His faynings fals and flattering cheire
To me that time did not appeire:
But now I see, most cruell hee,
Cares neither for my babe nor mee.
Balow, etc.

Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile,
And when thou wakest sweitly smile:
But smile not, as thy father did,
To cozen maids; nay, God forbid !
But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire,
Thy fatheris hart and face to beire.
Balow, etc.

I cannae chuse, but ever will
Be luving to thy father stil:
Whaireir he gae, whaireir he ryde,
My luve with him maun stil abyde:

O, wae 's me for the hour, Willie,
When we thegither met,
O, wae's me for the time, Willie,
That our first tryst was set!
O, wae's me for the loanin' green
Where we were wont to gae,
And wae's me for the destinie

That gart me luve thee sae!

O, dinna mind my words, Willie,
I downa seek to blame;

But O, it's hard to live, Willie,

And dree a warld's shame!
Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek,
And hailin' ower your chin:
Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,
For sorrow, and for sin?

I'm weary o' this warld, Willie,

And sick wi' a' I see,

I canna live as I ha'e lived,
Or be as I should be.

But fauld unto your heart, Willie,

The heart that still is thine,

And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek
Ye said was red langsyne.

A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie,
A sair stoun' through my heart;
O, haud me up and let me kiss
Thy brow ere we twa pairt.

Anither, and anither yet!

How fast my life-strings break!·

་

Fareweel fareweel! through yon kirk-yard Step lichtly for my sake!

The lav'rock in the lift, Willie,

That lilts far ower our heid,

Will sing the morn as merrilie

Abune the clay-cauld deid;

And this green turf we 're sittin' on,

Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen, Will hap the heart that luvit thee As warld has seldom seen.

But O, remember me, Willie,

On land where'er ye be;

And O, think on the leal, leal heart,
That ne'er luvit ane but thee!

And O, think on the cauld, cauld mools
That file my yellow hair,

That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin
Ye never sall kiss mair!

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

A WOMAN'S LOVE.

A SENTINEL angel, sitting high in glory, Heard this shrill wail ring out from Purgatory: "Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story!

"I do not rage against his high decree, Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be; But for my love on earth who mourns for me.

"Great Spirit! Let me see my love again And comfort him one hour, and I were fain To pay a thousand years of fire and pain."

Then said the pitying angel, "Nay, repent
That wild vow! Look, the dial-finger 's bent
Down to the last hour of thy punishment!"

But still she wailed, "I pray thee, let me go!
I cannot rise to peace and leave him so.
O, let me soothe him in his bitter woe!"

The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar,
And upward, joyous, like a rising star,
She rose and vanished in the ether far.