"TO WIN AT THE GAME WHOSE MOVES ARE DEATH, MAKETH MAN DRAW TOO PROUD A BREATH;-(HUNT) SWEET HERO'S EYES, THREE THOUSAND YEARS AGO,-(LEIGH HUNT) 222 LEIGH HUNT. Because less moved, and less ingenuous. Let them get charity that show it. Gin. [Who has reseated herself] I pray you Let Fiordilisa come to me. My lips [AGOLANTI rings a bell on the table, and Ago. When you have seen your mistress well again, Go to Matteo, and tell him, from herself, [Exit. And convalescence. Mark you that addition- But in her grave! She knows me. He has gone-the signor's gone. Gin. [Listening] Fior. Nothing, madam ;-I heard nothing. Gin. Fior. What's that? Everything Gives me a painful wonder ;—you, your face, 'Tis Father Anselmo, madam, in the chapel, It might have done no harm to you, and him, madam, And slow, is the good father. [GINEVRA kisses her, and then weeps abundantly. WERE MADE PRECISELY LIKE THE BEST WE KNOW."-LEIGH HUNT. AND TO SEE HIS FORCE TAKEN FOR REASON AND RIGHT, TENDETH TO UNSEAL HIS REASON QUITE."-HUNT. 66 THOSE FINER INSTINCTS THAT, LIKE SECOND SIGHT-INGELOW) Gin. Thank Heaven! thank Heaven and the sweet sounds! Fior. I have not wept, Fiordilisa, now, for many a day, Pitied of angels surely. Perhaps, madam, You will rest here, and try to sleep awhile? Is half commanding it; When duty's done. Bed is for night, not day, So cheer we as we may. [From Leigh Hunt's "Legend of Florence."] "THE LOOKINGS ONWARD OF THE RACE BEFORE IT HAD A PAST TO MAKE IT LOOK BEHIND; Jean Ingelow. [THIS agreeable poetess, whose works are characterized by so much liquid sweetness, intense pathos, and refined delicacy, was born about 1830. She is the author of "The Story of Doom, and Other Poems" (1867); of "Studies for Stories"-a volume of exquisite prose narrative, remarkable for its keen analysis of character; and of "Winstanley," "The High Tide," and various songs, ballads, and lyrics, collected and republished in 1867. In all her poems there is a soft subtle beauty and tender melancholy, which almost imperceptibly wins upon the reader; but they are deficient, we think, in strength-are wanting in vigour and force of colour.] DIVIDED. I. N empty sky, a world of heather, Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom; Shaking out honey, treading perfume. AND HEARING, CATCH CREATION'S UNDERSONG."-JEAN INGELOW. ITS REVERENT WONDERS, AND ITS DOUBTINGS SORE, ITS ADORATIONS BLIND."-JEAN INGELOW. "THE THUNDER OF ITS WAR-SONGS, AND THE GLOW OF CHANTS TO FREEDOM BY THE OLD WORLD SUNG; * "But 'tis that miracle and queen of gems THAT DEEP THINGS ARE TO FEEL."-INGELOW. THE SWEET LOVE CADENCES THAT LONG AGO DROPPED FROM THE OLD-WORLD TONGUE."-JEAN INGELOW. "OH, STRANGE IT IS, AND WIDE, THE NEW-WORLD LORE, FOR NEXT IT TREATETH OF OUR NATIVE DUST! SURELY FROM THE HEAVEN DROPS LIGHT FOR YOUTH, DIVIDED. Hand in hand, while the sun peered over, We lapped the grass on that youngling spring; And said, "Let us follow it westering." 225 MUST DIG OUT BURIED MONSTERS, AND EXPLORE THE GREEN EARTH'S FRUITFUL CRUST."-JEAN INGELOW. Flit on the beck,* for her long grass parteth His flattering smile on her wayward track. "DOUBT, A BLANK TWILIGHT OF THE HEART, WHICH MARS ALL SWEETEST COLOURS IN ITS DIMNESS SAME; 226 "shall I be sLAVE TO EVERY NOBLE SOUL,-(JEAN INGELOW) JEAN INGELOW. IV. A breathing sigh, a sigh for answer, A little talking of outward things: Keeping sweet time to the air she sings. "Cross to me now-for her wavelets swell: The loud beck drowns them; we walk, and weep. V. A yellow moon in splendour drooping, The desert heavens have felt her sadness; STUDY THE DEAD, AND TO THEIR SPIRITS BEND?"-INGELOW. A SOUL-MIST, THROUGH WHOSE RIFTS FAMILIAR STARS, BEHOLDING, WE MISNAME."-JEAN INGELOW. |