Can this with faded pinion soar Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die, LORD BYRON. WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY. I LOVED thee once, I'll love no more, Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, When new desires had conquered thee, And changed the object of thy will, It had been lethargy in me, Not constancy, to love thee still. Yea, it had been a sin to go Since we are taught no prayers to say Yet do thou glory in thy choice, Thy choice of his good fortune boast; I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice, To see him gain what I have lost; The height of my disdain shall be, To laugh at him, to blush for thee; To love thee still, but go no more A begging to a beggar's door. SIR ROBERT AYTON. THE TRUE AND THE FALSE. WHERE shall the lover rest BALOW, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! Abune the clay-cauld deid; And this green turf we're sittin' on, Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen, Will hap the heart that luvit thee As warld has seldom seen. She only said, "The day is dreary, About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blackened waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small, The clustered marish-mosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway, All silver green with gnarlèd bark, For leagues no other tree did dark The level waste, the rounding gray. She only said, "My life is dreary, And ever when the moon was low, And the shrill winds were up and away, In the white curtain, to and fro, She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low, And wild winds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow. She only said, "The night is dreary, All day within the dreamy house, The doors upon their hinges creaked, The blue fly sung i' the pane; the mouse Behind the moldering wainscot shrieked, Or from the crevice peered about. Old faces glimmered through the doors, She only said, "My life is dreary, The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof The poplar made, did all confound Her sense; but most she loathed the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his western bower. Then, said she, "I am very dreary, He will not come," she said; She wept, "I am aweary, aweary, O God, that I were dead!" ALFRED TENNYSON. |