EDWARD GRAY. SWEET Emma Moreland of yonder town "And have you lost your heart?" she said; Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me : "Ellen Adair she loved me well, 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, 66 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, How goes the time? 'Tis five o'clock. Go fetch a pint of port: But let it not be such as that You set before chance-comers, On Lusitanian summers. No vain libation to the Muse, But may she still be kind, To make me write my randoin rhymes, Ere they be half-forgotten; Till all be ripe and rotten. I pledge her, and she comes and dips And lays it thrice upon my lips, Until the charm have power to make I pledge her silent at the board; And touch upon the master-chord Of all I felt and feel. Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans, And phantom hopes assemble; And that child's heart within the man's Begins to move and tremble. Thro' many an hour of summer suns I kiss the lips I once have kiss'd; My college friendships glimmer. I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, Unboding critic-pen, Or that eternal want of pence, Which vexes public men, Who hold their hands to all, and cry Ah yet, tho' all the world forsake, Let there be thistles, there are grapes; Yet glimpses of the true. Let raff's be rife in prose and rhyme, We lack not rhymes and reasons, As on this whirligig of Time We circle with the seasons. |