Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow, of azure mixed with I white, guess 'twas wreathed by Zara, whom he will wed to-night. Rise up, rise up, Xarifa; lay the golden cushion down; Rise up; come to the window, and gaze with all the Town. 66 What aileth thee, Xarifa? what makes thine eyes look down? Why stay ye from the window far, nor gaze with all the Town? I've heard you say on many a day, and sure you said the truth, Andalla rides without a peer, among all Granāda's youth. Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk-white horse doth go, Beneath his stately master, with a stately step and slow. Then rise, O rise, Xarifa; lay the golden cushion down; Unseen here through the lattice, you may gaze with all the Town." The Zegri Lady rose not, nor laid her cushion down, And though her needle pressed the silk, no flower Xarifa wove; One bonny rose-bud she had traced, before the noise drew nigh That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow dropping from her eye, 66 No, no," she sighs: "bid me not rise, nor lay my cushion down, To gaze upon Andalla with all the gazing Town." 66 Why rise ye not, Xarifa, nor lay your cushion down? Why gaze ye not, Xarifa, with all the gazing Town? Hear, hear the trumpet how it swells, and how the people cry! He stops at Zara's palace gate-why sit ye still ?-O why ?" At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate; in him shall I discover The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth, with tears, and was my lover. I will not rise, with weary eyes, nor lay my cushion down, To gaze on false Andalla with all the gazing Town." THOMAS HOOD.-Born, 1798; Died, 1845. Thomas Hood was born in London, and served his apprenticeship as an engraver. In 1821 he began a literary life, and lived by his pen thenceforth. His humour and pathos are equally perfect, and though he never wrote any very long poem, some of his shorter ones are among the most perfect of their kind in the English language. WITH fingers weary and worn, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous1 pitch "Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work! work! work! Till the stars shine through the roof! 1 dolorous, sad. It's oh! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, "Work! work! work! Till the brain begins to swim; Till the eyes are heavy and dim! "Oh, Men, with Sisters dear! Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, "But why do I talk of Death? I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own, Because of the fasts I keep, Oh, God! that bread should be so dear, 2 She would rather be a slave to the Turk than a Christian woman, with such a life as hers. "Work! work! work! My labour never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw,- That shattered roof-and this naked floor- And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank "Work! work! work! From weary chime to chime, As prisoners work for crime! Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed "Work! work! work! In the dull December light; And work! work! work! When the weather is warm and bright While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, "Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweetWith the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet; chime, hour struck from the steeples. For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, And the walk that costs a meal! “Oh, but for one short hour! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, A little weeping would ease my heart, My tears must stop, for every drop With fingers weary and worn, In poverty, hunger and dirt, And still with a song of dolorous pitch, LOVE. Look how the golden ocean shines above 4 respite, here, an interval of rest. |