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Since with saintly

Watch unfaintly Out of heaven shall o'er you lean “Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.”

But, but nowyet unremovëd

Up to heaven, they glisten fast;
You may cast away, Belovëd,
In your future all my past :

Such old phrases

May be praises For some fairer bosom-queen“Sweetest eyes, were ever seen!”

Eyes of mine, what are ye doing ?

Faithless, faithless,--praised amiss If a tear be of your showing, Dropt for any hope of his !

Death has boldness

Beside coldness, If unworthy tears demean “Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.”

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I will look out to his future ;

I will bless it till it shine.
Should he ever be a suitor
Unto sweeter eyes than mine,

Sunshine gild them,

Angels shield them,
Whatsoever eyes terrene
Be the sweetest His have seen!



A poet writes to his friend. PLACE-A room in Wycombe Hall.

TIME-Late in the evening:

DEAR my friend and fellow-student, I would lean my

spirit o'er you! Down the purple of this chamber tears should scarcely

run at will. I am humbled who was humble. Friend, I bow my head

before you :

You should lead me to my peasants, but their faces are

too still.

There's a lady, an earl's daughter,—she is proud and she

is noble, And she treads the crimson carpet and she breathes the

perfumed air, And a kingly blood sends glances up, her princely eye to

trouble, And the shadow of a monarch's crown is softened in her



She has halls among the woodlands, she has castles by

the breakers, She has farms and she has manors, she can threaten and

command, And the palpitating engines snort in steam across her

acres, As they mark upon the blasted heaven the measure of There are none of England's daughters who can show a

the land.

prouder presence : Upon princely suitors praying, she has looked in her

disdain. She was sprung of English nobles, I was born of English

peasants ; What was I that I should love her, save for competence

to pain?

I was only a poor poet, made for singing at her case

ment, As the finches or the thrushes, while she thought of other

things. Oh, she walked so high above me, she appeared to my

abasement, In her lovely silken murmur, like an angel clad in wings !

Many vassals bow before her as her carriage sweeps their

doorways ; She has blest their little children, as a priest or queen

were she : Far too tender, or too cruel far, her smile upon the poor

was, For I thought it was the same smile which she used to

smile on me.

She has voters in the commons, she has lovers in the

palace, And of all the fair court ladies, few have jewels half as

fine ;

Oft the prince has named her beauty 'twixt the red wine

and the chalice : Oh, and what was I to love her ? my beloved, my

Geraldine !

Yet I could not choose but love her : I was born to

poet-uses, *To love all things set above me, all of good and all of

fair. Nymphs of mountain, not of valley, we are wont to call

the Muses; And in nympholeptic climbing, poets pass from mount to


And because I was a poet, and because the public

praised me, With a critical deduction for the modern writer's

fault, I could sit at rich men's tables,-though the courtesies

that raised me, Still suggested clear between us the pale spectrum of the


And they praised me in her presence ;—“Will your book

appear this summer ?" Then returning to each other—“Yes, our plans are for

the moors." Then with whisper dropped behind me—“There he is !

the latest comer. Oh, she only likes his verses ! what is over, she endures.

* Quite low-born, self-educated ! somewhat gifted though

by nature, And we make a point of asking him,--of being very

kind. You may speak, he does not hear you! and besides, he

writes no satire,All these serpents kept by charmers leave the natural

sting behind.”

I grew scornfuller, grew colder, as I stood up there

among them, Till as frost intense will burn you, the cold scorning

scorched my brow ; When a sudden silver speaking, gravely cadenced, over

rung them, And a sudden silken stirring touched my inner nature


I looked upward and beheld her : with a calm and reg

nant spirit, Slowly round she swept her eyelids, and said clear before

them all“Have you such superfluous honour, sir, that able to

confer it You will come down, Mister Bertram, as my guest to

Wycombe Hall?"


Here she paused; she had been paler at the first word of

her speaking, But because a silence followed it, blushed somewhat, as

for shame, Then, as scorning her own feeling, resumed calmly—“I

am seeking More distinction than these gentlemen think worthy of

my claim.

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“ Ne’ertheless, you see, I seek it—not because I am a

woman," (Here her smile sprang like a fountain, and, so, over

flowed her mouth,) “But because my woods in Sussex have some purple

shades at gloaming Which are worthy of a king in state, or poet in his youth.

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