But, O the change! The winds grow high,
Impending tempests charge the sky,
The lightning flies, the thunder roars,
The big waves lash the frightened shores.
Struck with the horror of the sight,
She turns her head and wings her flight;
And, trembling, vows she'll ne'er again
Approach the shore or view the main.

"Once more at least look back," said I, 66 'Thyself in that large glass descry: When thou art in good humor drest, When gentle reason rules thy breast, The sun upon the calmest sea Appears not half so bright as thee: 'Tis then that with delight I rove Upon the boundless depth of love : I bless my chain, I hand my oar, Nor think on all I left on shore.

"But when vain doubt and groundless fear
Do that dear foolish bosom tear;
When the big lip and watery eye
Tell me the rising storm is nigh;
'T is then thou art yon angry main
Deformed by winds and dashed by rain;
And the poor sailor that must try
Its fury labors less than I.
Shipwrecked, in vain to land I make,
While love and fate still drive me back :
Forced to dote on thee thy own way,
I chide thee first, and then obey:

Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic; She had one brother just thirteen,

Whose color was extremely hectic ; Her grandmother for many a year,

Had fed the parish with her bounty;

I with thee, or without thee, die."

MATTHEW PRIOR.

THE BELLE OF THE BALL.

YEARS, years ago, ere yet my dreams

Had been of being wise or witty, Ere I had done with writing themes,

Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty, Years, years ago, while all my joys Were in my fowling-piece and filly; In short, while I was yet a boy,

I fell in love with Laura Lilly.

I saw her at the county ball;
There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle
Gave signal sweet in that old hall

Of hands across and down the middle,

Hers was the subtlest spell by far

Of all that sets young hearts romancing:

She was our queen, our rose, our star;

And then she danced, -O Heaven! her dancing.

"His cheek was redder than the rose; The comeliest youth was he !

But he is dead and laid in his grave: Alas, and woe is me!"

"Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever: One foot on sea and one on land,

To one thing constant never.

"Hadst thou been fond, he had been false,

And left thee sad and heavy;

For young men ever were fickle found,
Since summer trees were leafy."

"Now say not so, thou holy friar,

I pray thee say not so;

My love he had the truest heart, –

O, he was ever true!

PYGMALION AND THE IMAGE.

FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE."

ARGUMENT.

A Man of Cyprus, a Sculptor named Pygmalion, made an Image of a Woman, fairer than any that had yet been seen, and in the end came to love his own handiwork as though it had been alive: wherefore, praying to Venus for help, he obtained his end, for she made the Image alive indeed, and a Woman, and Pygmalion wedded her.

AT Amathus, that from the southern side
Of Cyprus looks across the Syrian sea,
There did in ancient time a man abide
Known to the island-dwellers, for that he
Had wrought most godlike works in imagery,
And day by day still greater honor won,
Which man our old books call Pygmalion.

And didst thou die for me?

Then farewell home; for evermore

A pilgrim I will be.

"But first upon my true-love's grave

My weary limbs I'll lay,

And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf

That wraps his breathless clay."

"Yet stay, fair lady: rest awhile Beneath this cloister wall;

Because when he the untouched block did see
In wandering veins that form there seemed to be,
Whereon he cried out in a careless mood,
"O lady Venus, make this presage good!

"And then this block of stone shall be thy maid, And, not without rich golden ornament, Shall bide within thy quivering myrtle-shade." So spoke he, but the goddess, well content, Unto his hand such godlike mastery sent, That like the first artificer he wrought,

And drizzly rain doth fall."

"O stay me not, thou holy friar,
O stay me not, I pray;
No drizzly rain that falls on me
Can wash my fault away."

"Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,
And dry those pearly tears;
For see, beneath this gown of gray
Thy own true-love appears.

"Here forced by grief and hopeless love,

These holy weeds I sought;
And here, amid these lonely walls,
To end my days I thought.

"But haply, for my year of grace
Is not yet passed away,
Might I still hope to win thy love,
No longer would I stay."

"Now farewell grief, and welcome joy
Once more unto my heart;
For since I have found thee, lovely youth,
We nevermore will part."

Adapted by THOMAS PERCY.

And yet, but such as he was wont to do, At first indeed that work divine he deemed, And as the white chips from the chisel flew Of other matters languidly he dreamed, For easy to his hand that labor seemed. And he was stirred with many a troubling thought, And many a doubt perplexed him as he wrought.

And yet, again, at last there came a day When smoother and more shapely grew the stone, And he, grown eager, put all thought away But that which touched his craftsmanship alone, And he would gaze at what his hands had done, Until his heart with boundless joy would swell That all was wrought so wonderfully well.

Yet long it was ere he was satisfied, And with his pride that by his mastery This thing was done, whose equal far and wide In no town of the world a man could see, Came burning longing that the work should be E'en better still, and to his heart there came A strange and strong desire he could not name.

seemed,

A vain thing seemed his flowery garden fair; Though through the night still of his work he dreamed,

were,

That thence he could behold the marble hair; Naught was enough, until with steel in hand He came before the wondrous stone to stand.

Blinded with tears, his chisel up he caught, And, drawing near, and sighing, tenderly Upon the marvel of the face he wrought, E'en as he used to pass the long days by; But his sighs changed to sobbing presently, And on the floor the useless steel he flung, And, weeping loud, about the image clung.

"Alas!" he cried, "why have I made thee then, That thus thou mockest me? I know indeed That many such as thou are loved of men, Whose passionate eyes poor wretches still will lead Into their net, and smile to see them bleed; But these the Gods made, and this hand made thee Who wilt not speak one little word to me."

Then from the image did he draw aback
To gaze on it through tears and you had said,
Regarding it, that little did it lack

To be a living and most lovely maid ;
Naked it was, its unbound locks were laid
Over the lovely shoulders; with one hand
Reached out, as to a lover, did it stand,

The other held a fair rose over-blown ; No smile was on the parted lips, the eyes Seemed as if even now great love had shown Unto them something of its sweet surprise, Yet saddened them with half-seen mysteries, And still midst passion maiden-like she seemed, As though of love unchanged for aye she dreamed.

Reproachfully beholding all her grace, Pygmalion stood, until he grew dry-eyed, And then at last he turned away his face As if from her cold eyes his grief to hide; And thus a weary while did he abide, With nothing in his heart but vain desire, The ever-burning, unconsuming fire.

No word indeed the moveless image said, But with the sweet grave eyes his hands had wrought

Still gazed down on his bowed imploring head, Yet his own words some solace to him brought, Gilding the net wherein his soul was caught

And at the last drew forth a book of rhymes,
Wherein were writ the tales of many climes,

| And read aloud the sweetness hid therein
Of lovers' sorrows and their tangled sin.

And when the sun went down, the frankincense Again upon the altar-flame he cast That through the open window floating thence O'er the fresh odors of the garden passed; And so another day was gone at last, And he no more his lovelorn watch could keep, But now for utter weariness must sleep.

But the next morn, e'en while the incense-smoke At sunrising curled round about her head, Sweet sound of songs the wonted quiet broke Down in the street, and he by something led, He knew not what, must leave his prayer unsaid, And through the freshness of the morn must see The folk who went with that sweet minstrelsy;

Damsels and youths in wonderful attire, And in their midst upon a car of gold An image of the Mother of Desire, Wrought by his hands in days that seemed grown

old,

Though those sweet limbs a garment did enfold. Colored like flame, enwrought with precious things,

Most fit to be the prize of striving kings.

Then he remembered that the manner was That fair-clad priests the lovely Queen should take Thrice in the year, and through the city pass, And with sweet songs the dreaming folk awake; And through the clouds a light there seemed to break

When he remembered all the tales well told
About her glorious kindly deeds of old.

So his unfinished prayer he finished not,
But, kneeling, once more kissed the marble feet,
And, while his heart with many thoughts waxed
hot,

He clad himself with fresh attire and meet
For that bright service, and with blossoms sweet
Entwined with tender leaves he crowned his head,
And followed after as the goddess led.

So there he stood, that help from her to gain, Bewildered by that twilight midst of day; Downcast with listening to the joyous strain He had no part in, hopeless with delay