and even,

ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON (Owen Meredith).

I thought of our little quarrels and strife, The world is filled with folly and sin,
And the letter that brought me back my ring; Aul love must cling where it can,

I say :
And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, For beauty is easy enough to win;
Such a very little thing !

But one is n't loved every day. For I thought of

And I think, in the lives of most women and men, grave below the hill, Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over :

There's a moment when all would go smooth And I thought, " Were she only living still, How I could forgive her and love her !”

If only the dead could find out when

To come back and he forgiven.
And I swear, as I thought of herthus, in that hour, But 0, the smell of that jasmine flower !
And of how, after all, old things are best,

And O, that music! and 0, the way
That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower

That voice rang out from the donjon tower, Which she used to wear in her breast.

Non ti scordar di me,

Non ti scordar di me!
It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet,

It made me creep, and it made me cold !
Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet
Where a mummy is half unrolled.

THE PORTRAIT.
And I turned and looked : she was sitting there, MIDNIGHT past ! Not a sound of aught
In a dim box over the stage ; and drest

Through the silent house, but the wind at his In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair,

prayers. And that jasmine in her breast !

I sat by the dying fire, and thought

Of the dear dead woman up stairs.
I was here, and she was there ;
And the glittering horseshoe curved between!

A night of tears ! for the gusty rain
From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair

Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet ; And her sumptuous scornful mien,

And the moon looked forth, as though in pain,

With her face all white and wet : To my early love with her eyes downcast,

Nobody with me, my watch to keep, And over her primrose face the shade,

But the friend of my bosom, the man I love : (In short, from the future back to the past,)

And grief had sent him fast to sleep There was but a step to be made.

In the chamber up above. To my early love from my future bride

Nobody else, in the country place One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door,

All round, that knew of my loss beside, I traversed the passage ; and down at her side

But the good young Priest with the Raphael-face, I was sitting, a moment more.

Who confessed her when she died. My thinking of her, or the music's strain,

That good young Priest is of gentle nerve, Or something which never will be exprest, And my grief had moved him beyond control; Had brought her back from the grave again, For his lip grew white, as I could observe, With the jasmine in her breast.

When he speeded her parting soul.
She is not dead, and she is not wed!

I sat by the dreary hearth alone :
But she loves me now, and she loved me then ! I thought of the pleasant days of yore :
And the very first word that her sweet lips said, I said, “The staff of my life is gone :
My heart grew youthful again.

The woman I loved is no more.
The marchioness there, of Carabas,

On her cold dead bosom my portrait lies, She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still ; Which next to her heart she used to wear And but for her — well, we'll let that pass ; Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes She may marry whomever she will.

When my own face was not there. But I will marry my own first love,

“ It is set all round with rubies red, With her primrose face, for old things are best ; And pearls which a Peri inight have kept. And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above For each ruby there my heart hath bled : The brooch in my lady's breast.

For each pearl my eyes have wept."