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THE ROYAL GUEST.

What is it we have won ?
This, this at least — if this alone:

-
That never, never, nevermore,
As in those old still nights of yore,

(Ere we were grown so sadly wise,)

Can you and I shut out the skies,
Shut out the world, and wintry weather,

And eyes exchanging warmth with eyes,
Play chess, as then we played together!

ROBERT BULWER LYTTON.

THE ROYAL GUEST.

They tell me I am shrewd with other men ;
With thee I'm slow, and difficult of speech.
With others I may guide the car of talk;
Thou wing'st it oft to realms beyond my reach.

If other guests should come, I'd deck my hair,
And choose my newest garment from the shelf;
When thou art bidden, I would clothe my heart
With holiest purpose, as for God himself.

For them I while the hours with tale or song,
Or web of fancy, fringed with careless rhyme ;
But how to find a fitting lay for thee,
Who hast the harmonies of every time?

THINK ON ME.

O friend beloved! I sit apart and dumb,
Sometimes in sorrow, oft in joy divine;
My lip will falter, but my prisoned heart
Springs forth to measure its faint pulse with thine.

Thou art to me most like a royal guest,
Whose travels bring him to some lowly roof
Where simple rustics spread their festal fare
And, blushing, own it is not good enough.

Bethink thee then, whene'er thou com'st to me
From high emprise and noble toil to rest,
My thoughts are weak and trivial, matched with thine ;
But the poor mansion offers thee its best.

JULIA WARD HOWE.

THINK ON ME.

Go where the water glideth gently ever,

Glideth through meadows that the greenest be; Go, listen to our own beloved river,

And think on me.

Wander in forests, where the small flower layeth

Its fairy gem beneath the giant tree;
List to the dim brook, pining as it playeth,

And think on me.

THE LAST POET.

And when the sky is silver-pale at even,

And the wind grieveth in the lonely tree, Walk out beneath the solitary heaven,

And think on me.

And when the moon riseth as she were dreaming,

And treadeth with white feet the lulled sea, Go, silent as a star, beneath her beaming,

And think on me.

John HAMILTON.

THE LAST POET.

“ WHEN will your bards be weary

Of rhyming on? How long
Ere it is sung and ended,

The old, eternal song ?

“ Is it not long since empty,

The horn of full supply ?
And all the posies gathered,

And all the fountains dry ? ”

As long as the sun's chariot

Yet keeps its azure track,
And but one human visage

Gives answering glances back;

THE LAST POET.

As long as skies shall nourish

The thunderbolt and gale, And, frightened at their fury,

One throbbing heart shall quail ;

As long as after tempests

Shall spring one showery bow, One breast with peaceful promise

And reconcilement glow;

As long as night the concave

Sows with its starry seed, And but one man those letters

Of golden writ can read;

Long as a moonbeam glimmers,

Or bosom sighs a vow; Long as the wood-leaves rustle

To cool a weary brow;

As long as roses blossom,

And earth is green in May ; As long as eyes shall sparkle

And smile in pleasure's ray ;

As long as cypress shadows

The graves more mournful make, Or one cheek's wet with weeping,

Or one poor heart can break :

THE LAST POET.

So long on earth shall wander

The goddess Poesy,
And with her, one exulting

Her votarist to be.

And singing on, triumphing,

The old earth-mansion through,
Out marches the last minstrel ;

He is the last man too.

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Then ask — if of the question

Not weary yet — “How long
Ere it is sung and ended,
The old, eternal song ?"

ANTON ALEXANDER VON AUERSPERG. (Gerinan.) Translation of Rev. NATIJANIEL Langdon FROTHINGHAM.

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