THE WEEPEN LIADY.

Whither the swans and turtles go,
In fair Elysium to endure,

With milk-white lambs, and ermins pure.
O do not run too fast! for I
Will but bespeak thy grave- and die.
First, my unhappy statue shall

Be cut in marble; and withal,
Let it be weeping too. But there
Th' engraver sure his art may spare;
For I so truly thee bemoan,

That I shall weep, though I be stone,
Until my tears, still drooping, wear
My breast, themselves engraving there.
There at my feet shalt thou be laid,
Of purest alabaster made;

For I would have thine image be
White as I can, though not as thee.

ANDREW MARVELL.

THE WEEPEN LIADY.

WHEN liate o' nights, above the green,
By thik wold house the moon da sheen,
A liady there, a-hangen low

Her head's, a wa'ken to an' fro,

In robes so white's the driven snow:

Wi' oon yarm down, while oon da rest,
All lily-white, athirt the breast

O'thik poor weepen liady.

THE WEEPEN LIADY.

The whirdlen win' and whislen squall
Da shiake the ivy by the wall,
An' miake the plyen tree-tops rock,
But never ruffle her white frock;
An' slammen door, an' rottlen lock,
That in thik empty house da zound,
Da never zeem to miake look round
Thik ever downcast liady.

A liady, as the tiale da goo,

That oonce lived there, an' loved too true,

Wer by a young man cast azide :

A mother zad, but not a bride;
An' then her father, in his pride
An' anger, offered oon o' two
Vull bitter things to undergoo,
To thik poor weepen liady :

That she herzuf shood leave his door,
To darken it agen noo muore ;
Ar that her little playsome chile,
A-zent awoy a thousan' mile,
Shood never meet her eyes, to smile
An' play agen; till she in shiame
Shood die, an' leave a tarnished niame:
A zad varziaken liady!

"Let me be lost," she cried, "the while
I da but know var my poor chile;"
An' left the huome ov all her pride,
To wander droo the wordle wide,

DRIFTING.

Wi' grief that vew but she ha tried;
An' lik' a flower a blow ha broke,
She withered wi' thik deadly stroke,
An' died a weepen liady.

An' she da keep a-comen on,
To zee thik father dead an' gone;
As if her soul cood ha' noo rest,
Avore her teary cheäk's a-prest
By his vargiven kiss. Zoo blest

Be they that can but live in love,
An' vind a pliace o' rest above,

Unlik the weepen liady!

WILLIAM BARNES.

DRIFTING.

My soul to-day

Is far away,

Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;

My winged boat,

A bird afloat,

Swims round the purple peaks remote:

Round purple peaks

It sails, and seeks

Blue inlets and their crystal creeks,

Where high rocks throw,

Through deeps below,

A duplicated golden glow.

DRIFTING.

Far, vague, and dim,

The mountains swim; While on Vesuvius' misty brim, With outstretched hands

The gray smoke stands, O'erlooking the volcanic lands.

Here Ischia smiles

O'er liquid miles;

And yonder, bluest of the isles,

Calm Capri waits,

Her sapphire gates

Beguiling to her bright estates.

I heed not if

My rippling skiff

Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff;

With dreamful eyes

My spirit lies

Under the walls of Paradise.

Under the walls

Where swells and falls

The bay's deep breast at intervals,
At peace I lie,

Blown softly by,

A cloud upon this liquid sky.

The day, so mild,

Is Heaven's own child,

With Earth and Ocean reconciled;

DRIFTING.

The airs I feel

Around me steal

Are murmuring to the murmuring keel.

Over the rail

My hand I trail

Within the shadow of the sail :

A joy intense,

The cooling sense

Glides down my drowsy indolence.

With dreamful eyes

My spirit lies

Where Summer sings and never dies;

O'erveiled with vines,

She glows and shines

Among her future oil and wines.

Her children, hid

The cliffs amid,

Are gambolling with the gambolling kid;

Or down the walls,

With tipsy calls,

Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls.

The fisher's child,

With tresses wild,

Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled,

With glowing lips

Sings as she skips,

Or gazes at the far-off ships.