Oh! that we two sat dreaming On the sward of some sheep-trimmed down, Over river and mead and town. Oh! that we two lay sleeping In our nest in the churchyard sod, With our limbs at rest on the quiet earth's breast, And our souls at home with God! Charles Kingsley [1819-1875] TWICE I TOOK my heart in my hand But this once hear me speak (O my love, O my love)— Yet a woman's words are weak; You should speak, not I. You took my heart in your hand With a critical eye you scanned, Then set it down, And said, "It is still unripe, Better wait awhile; Wait while the skylarks pipe, Till the corn grows brown." As you set it down it broke- Since then, nor questioned since, Nor sung with the singing bird. WHEN Jessie comes with her soft breast, And yields the golden keys, Then is it as if God caressed Twin babes upon His knees— Twin babes that, each to other pressed, Just feel the Father's arms, wherewith they both are blessed. But when I think if we must part, And all this personal dream be fled O then my heart! O then my useless heart! Would God that thou wert dead A clod insensible to joys and ills— A stone remote in some bleak gully of the hills! Thomas Edward Brown [1830-1897] THE CHESS-BOARD My little love, do you remember, Ah! still I see your soft white hand Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight; Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand; The double Castles guard the wings; The Bishop, bent on distant things, Moves, sliding, through the fight. Our fingers touch; our glances meet, Against my cheek; your bosom sweet Ah me! the little battle's done: Dispersed is all its chivalry. Full many a move, since then, have we 'Mid Life's perplexing chequers made, This, this at least,-if this alone: That never, never, never more, Aux Italiens Shut out the world and wintry weather, 869 Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton [1831-1891] AUX ITALIENS Ar Paris it was, at the Opera there;— And she looked like a queen in a book that night, Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; And Mario can soothe with a tenor note The souls in Purgatory. The moon on the tower slept soft as snow: And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, "Non ti scordar di me"? The Emperor there, in his box of state, The red flag wave from the city-gate Where his eagles in bronze had been. The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye. You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again, For one moment, under the old blue sky, To the old glad life in Spain. Well! there in our front-row box we sat, And both were silent, and both were sad. With that regal, indolent air she had; So confident of her charm! I have not a doubt she was thinking then Of her former lord, good soul that he was! Who died the richest and roundest of men, The Marquis of Carabas. I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love, As I had not been thinking of aught for years, Till over my eyes there began to move Something that felt like tears. I thought of the dress that she wore last time, In the crimson evening weather; Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot), And the jasmine-flower in her fair young breast, I thought of our little quarrels and strife, For I thought of her grave below the hill, |