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A Fishing Song.

OWN in the wide, gray river

DOWN

The current is sweeping strong;

Over the wide, gray river

Floats the fisherman's song.

The oar-stroke times the singing,
The song falls with the oar;
And an echo in both is ringing,
I thought to hear no more.

Out of a deeper current,

The song brings back to me
A cry from mortal silence,
Of mortal agony.

Life that was spent and vanished,

Love that had died of wrong,

Hearts that are dead in living,

Come back in the fisherman's song.

I see the maples leafing,

Just as they leafed before,

The green grass comes no greener
Down to the very shore

With the rude strain swelling, sinking,
In the cadence of days gone by,
As the oar, from the water drinking,
Ripples the mirrored sky.

Yet the soul hath life diviner:

Its past returns no more,

But in echoes, that answer the minor

Of the boat-song, from the shore.

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HAT'S my last Duchess painted on the wall,

THAT's my last on

That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will 't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Frà Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps
Over my Lady's wrist too much," or Paint

66

Must never hope to reproduce the faint

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Half-flush that dies along her throat; such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough

For calling up that spot of joy. She had

A heart... how shall I say? . . . too soon made glad,

Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 't was all one! My favor at her breast,

The dropping of the daylight in the west,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace - all and each

Would draw from her alike the approving speech,

Or blush, at least. She thanked men - good; but thanked Somehow... I know not how . . . as if she ranked

My gift of a nine hundred years old name

With anybody's gift.

This sort of trifling?

Who'd stoop to blame
Even had you skill

In speech (which I have not) — to make your will
Quite clear to such a one, and say, "Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark" - and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set

-

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
- E'en then would be some stooping, and I chuse
Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will 't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,

The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, sir! Notice Neptune though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me.
ROBERT BROwning.

A BIRD AT SUNSET.

85

A Bird at Sunset.

WILD bird, that wingest wide the glimmering moors,

Whither, by belts of yellowing woods, away?

What pausing sunset thy wild heart allures

Deep into dying day?

Would that my heart, on wings like thine, could pass
Where stars their light in rosy regions lose-
A happy shadow o'er the warm brown grass,
Falling with falling dews!

Hast thou, like me, some true-love of thine own,
In fairy-lands beyond the utmost seas;
Who there, unsolaced, yearns for thee alone,
And sings to silent trees?

Oh, tell that woodbird that the summer grieves
And the suns darken and the days grow cold;
And, tell her, love will fade with fading leaves,
And cease in common mould.

Fly from the winter of the world to her!
Fly, happy bird! I follow in thy flight,
Till thou art lost o'er yonder fringe of fir
In baths of crimson light.

My love is dying far away from me.

She sits and saddens in the fading west. For her I mourn all day, and pine to be At night upon her breast.

ROBERT BULWER LYTTON.

The King of Denmark's Ride.

WORD

ORD was brought to the Danish king
(Hurry!)

That the love of his heart lay suffering,

And pined for the comfort his voice would bring; (O, ride as though you were flying!)

Better he loves each golden curl

On the brow of that Scandinavian girl

Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl:

And his rose of the isles is dying!

Thirty nobles saddled with speed; (Hurry!)

Each one mounting a gallant steed

Which he kept for battle and days of need;
(O, ride as though you were flying!)
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank;
Worn-out chargers staggered and sank;
Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst;
But ride as they would, the king rode first,
For his rose of the isles lay dying!

His nobles are beaten, one by one;

(Hurry!)

They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone ; His little fair page now follows alone,

For strength and for courage trying!

The king looked back at that faithful child;
Wan was the face that answering smiled;

They passed the drawbridge with clattering din,

Then he dropped; and only the king rode in
Where his rose of the isles lay dying!

The king blew a blast on his bugle horn; (Silence ! )

No answer came; but faint and forlorn

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