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, Out of a deeper current, The song brings back to me 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 With the rude strain swelling, sinking, 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. HAT'S my last Duchess painted on the wall, THAT's my last on That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands 66 Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat; such stuff 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. The dropping of the daylight in the west, 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 In speech (which I have not) — to make your will - Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, The Count your master's known munificence Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me. 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 Hast thou, like me, some true-love of thine own, Oh, tell that woodbird that the summer grieves Fly from the winter of the world to her! 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 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; 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; They passed the drawbridge with clattering din, Then he dropped; and only the king rode in The king blew a blast on his bugle horn; (Silence ! ) No answer came; but faint and forlorn |