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Where, on thy dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying?
2. O'er fell and fountain sheen,
O’er moor and mountain green,
Over the cloudlet dim,
Over the rainbow's rim,
Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms,
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place-
THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS. [LEIGH Hunt, born 19th October, 1784, is the author of various
poems, none of which have taken a deep hold on the public mind. His shorter pieces are better known than his longer
works. He died 28th August, 1859.] 1. King FRANCIS was a hearty king, and loved a royal
sport, And one day, as his lions strove, sat looking on the
court: The nobles filled the benches round, the ladies by
their side, And ’mongst them Count de Lorge, with one he
hoped to make his bride ; And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning
show, Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal
2. Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing
jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their
paws ; With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled
one on another, Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thun
d'rous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing
through the air; Said Francis then, “ Good gentlemen, we're better
here than there!”
3. De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous,
lively dame, With smiling lips, and sharp bright eyes, which
always seemed the same : She thought, “ The Count, my lover, is as brave
as brave can be ; He surely would do desperate things to show his
love of me! King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the chance is
wondrous fine; I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory
shall be mine!”
4. She dropt her glove to prove his love: then looked
on him and smiled; He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions
wild : The leap was quick ; return was quick; he soon
regained his place; Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in
the lady's face! “In truth!” cried Francis, “rightly done!" and
he rose from where he sat: “No love," quoth he, “ but vanity, sets love a task like that!”
THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. [THOMAS Hood, born 1798, was the son of a London bookseller.
His works abound in sparkling wit and humour. His true power as a poet is best seen in such pieces as our extract. He died 3rd May, 1845.]
1. One more unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Gone to her death !
Lift her with care;
Young, and so fair.
Clinging like cerements :
Drips from her clothing;
Loving, not loathing,
Gently and humanly;
Now is pure womanly.
Rash and undutiful ;
Only the beautiful.
One of Eve's family,
Oozing so clammily.
7. Loop up her tresses,
Escaped from the comb,
Who was her mother ?
Had she a brother?
Yet, than all other? 8. Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity
Under the sun !
Home had she none ! 9. Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly,
Feelings had changed ;
With many a light
Houseless by night.
Made her tremble and shiver, But not the dark arch
Or the black flowing river.
Mad from life's history,
Swift to be hurled
Out of the world ! 12. In she plunged boldly, No matter how coldly
The rough river ran ;
Dissolute man !
Then, if you can. 13. Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care ;
Young, and so fair. 14. Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly,
them; And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly! 15. Dreadfully staring
Through muddy impurity,
Fixed on futurity. 16. Perishing gloomily,
Spurr'd by contumely,
Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,