Though the world for this commend thee-
Though it smile upon the blow,
E'en its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe.

Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not;
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away:
Still thine own its life retaineth-
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat
And th' undying thought which paineth
Is-that we no more may meet.
These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow
Wake us from a widow'd bed.
And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!"
Though his care she must forego?
When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is presed,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of him thy love had blest!
Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more mayst see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults perchance thou knowest
All my madness none can know ;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
Wither, yet with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,
E'en my soul forsakes me now.

But 'tis done-all words are idle-
Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will.
Fare thee well!-thus disunited,
Torn from every nearer tie,

Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted,
More than this I scarce can die.

10. THE SHIPWRECK.

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell,
Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave,
Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell,
As eager to anticipate their
grave;

And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell,

And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave, Like one who grapples with his enemy,

And strives to strangle him before he die.
And first one universal shriek there rush'd,
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash
Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush'd,
Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash
Of billows; but at intervals there gush'd,
Accompanied with a convulsive splash,

A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry

Of some strong swimmer in his agony.

11. PUNISHMENT OF MAZEPPA.

"Bring forth the horse!"-the horse was brought;

In truth, he was a noble steed,

A Tartar of the Ukraine breed,

Who look'd as though the speed of thought
Were in his limbs; but he was wild,

Wild as the wild deer, and untaught,

With spur and bridle undefiled

'Twas but a day he had been caught;
And snorting, with erected mane,
And struggling fiercely, but in vain,
In the full foam of wrath and dread
To me the desert-born was led :

They bound me on, that menial throng,
Upon his back with many a thong;
They loos'd him with a sudden lash-
Away!-away!—and on we dash !—
Torrents less rapid and less rash.
Away!-away! My breath was gone—
I saw not where he hurried on:
'Twas scarcely yet the break of day,
And on he foam'd-away!-away!-
The last of human sounds which rose,
As I was darted from my foes,

Was the wild shout of savage laughter,
Which on the wind came roaring after
A moment from that rabble rout:
With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head,
And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane
Had bound my neck in lieu of rein,
And, writhing half my form about,
Howl'd back my curse; but 'midst the tread,
The thunder of my courser's speed,

Perchance they did not hear nor heed:
It vexes me- -for I would fain

Have paid their insult back again.
I paid it well in after days:
There is not of that castle gate,

Its drawbridge and portcullis weight,
Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left;
Nor of its fields a blade of grass,

Save what grows on a ridge of wall,

Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall;
And many a time ye there might pass,
Nor dream that e'er that fortress was:
I saw its turrets in a blaze,

Their crackling battlements all cleft,

And the hot lead pour down like rain From off the scorch'd and blackening roof Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. They little thought that day of pain, When launch'd as on the lightning's flash, They bade me to destruction dash,

That one day I should come again,

With twice five thousand horse, to thank
The Count for his uncourteous ride.
They play'd me then a bitter prank,
When, with the wild horse for my guide,
They bound me to his foaming flank:
At length I play'd them one as frank-
For time at last sets all things even-
And if we do but watch the hour,
There never yet was human power
Which could evade, if unforgiven,
The patient search and vigil long
Of him who treasures up a wrong.

12. THE SCORPION-REMORSE.
The mind that broods o'er guilty woes,
Is like the scorpion girt by fire';
In circle narrowing as it glows,
The flames around their captive close,
Till inly searched by thousand throes,
And maddening in her ire,

One sad and sole relief she knows,
The sting she nourished for her foes,
Whose venom never yet was vain,
Gives but one pang, and cures all pain,
And darts into her desperate brain :
So do the dark in soul expire,

Or live like Scorpion girt by fire;

So writhes the mind Remorse hath riven,
Unfit for earth, undoomed for heaven,
Darkness above, despair beneath,

Around it flame, within it death.

CCCXII. CAROLINE SYMMONS, 1788-18**.

THE HAREBELL.

In spring's green lap there blooms a flower,
Whose cup imbibes each vernal shower;
That sips fresh nature's balmy dew,
Clad in her sweetest, purest blue;
Yet shuns the ruddy eye of morning,
The shaggy wood's brown shades adorning.

Simple flow'ret! child of May!

Though hid from the broad gaze of day,
Doom'd in the shade thy sweets to shed,
Unnotic'd droops thy languid head;
Still nature's darling thou'lt remain,
She feeds thee with her softest rain;
Fills each sweet bud with honeyed tears,
With genial gales thy bosom cheers.
Ah, then unfold thy simple charms,
In yon deep thicket's circling arms,
Far from the fierce and sultry glare,
No heedless hand shall harm thee there;
Still, then, avoid the gaudy scene,

The flaunting sun, th' embroider'd green,
And bloom, and fade, with chaste reserve, unseeu.
CCCXIII. RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM,

1788-1845.

RECEIPT FOR SALAD.

Two large potatoes passed through kitchen sieve,
Unwonted softness to the salad give;

Of ardent mustard add a single spoon,
Distrust the condiment which bites so soon;
But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault
To add a double quantity of salt;
Three times the spoon with oil of Lucca crown,
And once with vinegar, procured from town:
True flavour needs it, and your poet begs
The pounded yellow of two well-boiled eggs;
Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl,
And, scarce suspected, animate the whole;
And lastly, on the flavoured compound toss

A magic teaspoon of anchovy sauce.

Then, though green turtle fail, though venison's tough And ham and turkey are not boiled enough,

Serenely full, the epicure may say,

"Fate cannot harm me,-I have dined to-day!"

CCCXIV. MARY RUSSEL MITFORD, 1786—1855. 1. PRAISE.

There is a voice of magic power

To charm the old, delight the young