« PreviousContinue »
SWEET Emma Moreland of yonder town
Met me walking on yonder way, “ And have
heart ?" she said ; “And are you married yet, Edward Gray ?*
Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me:
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : “Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more
Can touch the heart of Edward Gray.
“ Ellen Adair she loved me well,
Against her father's and mother's will : To-day I sat for an hour and wept,
By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill.
“Shy she was, and I thought her cold;
Thought her proud, and fled over the sea ; Fill'd I was with folly and spite,
When Ellen Adair was dying for me.
“Cruel, cruel the words I said !
Cruelly came they back to-day : • You're too slight and fickle,' I said,
• To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.'
“ There I put my face in the grass
Whisper'd ‘Listen to my despair : I repent me of all I did :
Speak a little, Ellen Adair !'
“ Then I took a pencil, and wrote
On the mossy stone, as I lay, Here lies the body of Ellen Adair;
And here the heart of Edward Gray!'
“Love may come, and love may go,
And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree : But I will love no more, no more,
Till Ellen Adair come back to me.
Bitterly wept I over the stone :
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away: There lies the body of Ellen Adair !
And there the heart of Edward Gray !”
WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE
MADE AT THE COCK,
O PLUMP head-waiter at The Cock,
To which I most resort,
Go fetch a pint of port :
You set before chance-comers,
On Lusitanian summers.
No vain libation to the Muse,
But may she still be kind,
Her influence on the mind,
Ere they be half-forgotten;
I pledge her, and she comes and dips
Her laurel in the wine,
These favour'd lips of mine ;
New lifeblood warm the bosom,
In full and kindly blossom.
I pledge her silent at the board ;
Her gradual fingers steal
Of all I felt and feel.
And phantom hopes assemble;
Begins to move and tremble.
Thro' many an hour of summer suns
By many pleasant ways,
The current of my days:
The gas-light wavers dimmer;
My college friendships glimmer.
I grow in worth, and wit, and sense,
Unboding critic-pen, Or that eternal want of
pence, Which veres public men, Who hold their hands to all, and
cry For that which all deny themWho sweep the crossings, wet or dry,
And all the world go by them.
Ah yet, tlo' all the world forsake,
Tho’ fortune clip my wings,
Half-views of men and things.
There must be stormy weather;
All parties work together.
Let there be thistles, there are grapes ;
If old things, there are new ;
Yet glimpses of the true.
We lack not rhymes and reasons,
We circle with the seasons.