PENELOPE AWAITING ULYSSES.

The patient grief and endurance of Absence; while the tapestry woven by day stands on the frame to be unravelled by night, as the loyal wife puts off her suitors. Painting by RUDOLPH VON DEUTSCH.

POEMS OF SORROW AND

CONSOLATION.

I.

DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE.

FROM

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.

MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM," ACT I. SC. 1.

FOR aught that ever I could read,

Could ever hear by tale or history,

The course of true love never did run smooth:

But, either it was different in blood,

Or else misgraffèd in respect of years,

Or else it stood upon the choice of friends;
Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it,
Making it momentary as a sound,

Swift as a shadow, short as any dream;
Brief as the lightning in the collied night,
That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,
And ere a man hath power to say,-Behold!
The jaws of darkness do devour it up:

So quick bright things come to confusion.

3

SHAKESPEARE.

4

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE.

YASALI BMS OF SORROW.

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE,

Of me you shall not win renown;
You thought to break a country heart
For pastime, ere you went to town.
At me you smiled, but unbeguiled
I saw the snare, and I retired:
The daughter of a hundred Earls,
You are not one to be desired.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

I know you proud to bear your name;
Your pride is yet no mate for mine,

Too proud to care from whence I came.
Nor would I break for your sweet sake
A heart that dotes on truer charms.
A simple maiden in her flower

Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

Some meeker pupil you must find,
For were you queen of all that is,

I could not stoop to such a mind.
You sought to prove how I could love,
And my disdain is my reply.

The lion on your old stone gates
Is not more cold to you than I.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

You put strange memories in my head.

Not thrice your branching lines have blown
Since I beheld young Laurence dead.
O your sweet eyes, your low replies:

A great enchantress you may be;
But there was that across his throat
Which you had hardly cared to see.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind,

She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed I heard one bitter word

That scarce is fit for you to hear;

Her manners had not that repose

Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

There stands a spectre in your hall: The guilt of blood is at your door: You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fixed a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,

From yon blue heavens above us bent The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me,

"T is only noble to be good.

Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere:

You pine among your halls and towers: The languid light of your proud eyes

Is wearied of the rolling hours.

In glowing health, with boundless wealth, But sickening of a vague disease,

You know so ill to deal with time,

You needs must play such pranks as these.

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere,

If Time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate,

Nor any poor about your lands? Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read, Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, Pray Heaven for a human heart, And let the foolish yeoman go.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

LINDA TO HAFED.

FROM THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS."

"How sweetly," said the trembling maid, Of her own gentle voice afraid,

So long had they in silence stood,

Looking upon that moonlight flood,-
"How sweetly does the moonbeam smile
To-night upon yon leafy isle!
Oft in my fancy's wanderings,

I've wished that little isle had wings,