The Portrait As I stretched my hand, I held my breath; I turned as I drew the curtains apart: I thought at first, as my touch fell there, It had warmed that heart to life, with love; For the thing I touched was warm, I swear, And I could feel it move. 'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slow 1009 O'er the heart of the dead,-from the other side: And at once the sweat broke over my brow: "Who is robbing the corpse?" I cried. Opposite me by the tapers' light, The friend of my bosom, the man I loved, Stood over the corpse, and all as white, And neither of us moved. "What do you here, my friend?". . . The man "There is. It is mine," I said. Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt, "This woman, she loved me well," said I. "Enough!" I returned, "let the dead decide: And whosesoever the portrait prove, His shall it be, when the cause is tried, Where Death is arraigned by Love." We found the protrait there, in its place: "One nail drives out another, at least! The face of the portrait there," I cried, "Is our friend's, the Raphael-faced young Priest, Who confessed her when she died." The setting is all of rubies red, And pearls which a Peri might have kept. For each ruby there my heart hath bled: For each pearl my eyes have wept. Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton [1831-1891) THE ROSE AND THORN SHE'S loveliest of the festal throng A beautiful, incarnate song, A marvel of harmonious grace; And yet I know the truth I speak: From those gay groups she stands apart, A rose upon her tender cheek, A thorn within her heart. Though bright her eyes' bewildering gleams, Young lover, tossed 'twixt hope and fear, Yon marble Clytie pillared near Could move as soon to soft replies; A Light Woman Or, if she thrill at words you speak, Love's memory prompts the sudden start; The rose has paled upon her cheek, The thorn has pierced her heart. ΙΟΙΙ Paul Hamilton Hayne [1830-1886] TO HER-UNSPOKEN Go to him, ah, go to him, and lift your eyes aglow to him; Fear not royally to give whatever he may claim; All your spirit's treasury scruple not to show to him. He is noble; meet him with a pride too high for shame. Say to him, ah, say to him, that soul and body sway to him; Lest you stretch your arms in vain across a starless night. Be to him, ah, be to him, the key that sets joy free to him; A LIGHT WOMAN So far as our story approaches the end, My friend was already too good to lose, And seemed in the way of improvement yet, When I saw him tangled in her toils, A shame, said I, if she adds just him And before my friend be wholly hers, So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take, The eagle am I, with my fame in the world, For see, my friend goes shaking and white; I have turned, it appears, his day to night, And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief: Though I love her-that, he comprehendsOne should master one's passions, (love, in chief) And be loyal to one's friends!" And she, she lies in my hand as tame With no mind to eat it, that's the worst! Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist? 'Twas quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirst When I gave its stalk a twist. And I,-what I seem to my friend, you see: What I seem to myself, do you ask of me? No hero, I confess. 1013 From the Turkish 'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls, One likes to show the truth for the truth; Well, anyhow, here the story stays, And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays, Here's a subject made to your hand! Robert Browning [1812-1889] FROM THE TURKISH THE chain I gave was fair to view, The heart that offered both was true, These gifts were charmed by secret spell And they have done their duty well, That chain was firm in every link, But not to bear a stranger's touch; That lute was sweet-till thou couldst think Let him, who from thy neck unbound Who saw that lute refuse to sound, Restring the chords, renew the clasp. When thou wert changed, they altered too; 'Tis past-to them and thee adieu False heart, frail chain, and silent lute. George Gordon Byron [1788-1824] |