66

BARTHRAM'S DIRGE.

(FROM MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER.")

HEY shot him on the Nine-Stane Rig,

TH

Beside the Headless Cross;

And they left him lying in his blood,
Upon the muir and moss.

They made a bier of the broken bough,
The saugh' and the aspen grey;
And they bore him to the Lady Chapel,
And waked him there all day.

A lady came to that lonely bower,
And threw her robes aside,
She tore her 'ling-long yellow hair,
And knelt at Barthram's side.

She bathed him in the Lady-Well,
His wounds sae deep and sair;

And she plaited a garland for his breast,
And a garland for his hair.

They row'd him in a lily sheet,

And bare him to his earth,

And the Grey Friars sung the dead man's mass, As they pass'd the Chapel-Garth.

They buried him at the mirk midnight,

When the dew fell cold and still, When the aspen grey forgot to play,

And the mist clung to the hill.

1 Saugh, "sally," willow.

2

Ling, heather.

They dug his grave but a bare foot deep,

By the edge of the Nine-Stane Burn, And they cover'd him o'er wi' the heather-flower, The moss and the lady-fern.

A Grey Friar stay'd upon the grave,

And sang till the morning-tide;

And a friar shall sing for Barthram's soul,

While the Headless Cross shall bide.

THE WORLD'S WANDERERS.

ELL me, thou star whose wings of light
Speed thee in thy fiery flight,

In what cavern of the night

Will thy pinions close now?

Tell me, moon, thou pale and grey
Pilgrim of heaven's homeless way,
In what depth of night or day
Seekest thou repose now?

Weary wind who wanderest
Like the world's rejected guest,
Hast thou still some secret nest

On the tree or billow?

SHELLEY.

TH

MY LAST DUCHESS.

(FERRARA.)

HAT'S my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive; I call
That piece a wonder, now; Frà Pandolf's hands
Work'd busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turn'd (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)

And seem'd as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so not the first
Are you
to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, call'd that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Frà Pandolf chanced to say, " Her mantle laps
Over my Lady's wrist too much," or

"Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat;" such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart-how shall I say!—too soon made glad,
Too easily impress'd; she liked whate'er
She look'd on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace-all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,

Or blush, at least. She thank'd men,-good; but

thank'd

Somehow, I know not how-as if she rank'd
My gift of a nine hundred years old name

With anybody's gift.
This sort of trifling?

Who'd stoop to blame
Even had you skill

In speech-(which I have not)—to make your
will
Quite clear to such an one, and say "Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark”—and if she let
Herself be lesson'd so, nor plainly set

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
-E'en then would be some stooping, and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh Sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I pass'd her; but who pass'd without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave com-
mand;

Then all smiles stopp'd together. There she stands
As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below then. I repeat
The Count your Master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallow'd;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avow'd
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, Sir! Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me.
ROBERT BROWNING.

SONG.

[THE SEASON FOR WOOING.]

D

OST thou idly ask to hear

At what gentle seasons Nymphs relent, when lovers near Press the tenderest reasons? Ah, they give their faith too oft To the careless wooer ;

Maidens' hearts are always soft;

Would that men's were truer !

Woo the fair one, when around
Early birds are singing;

When, o'er all the fragrant ground,

Early herbs are springing :

When the brookside, bank, and grove,

All with blossoms laden,

Shine with beauty, breathe of love,-
Woo the timid maiden.

Woo her when, with rosy blush,

Summer eve is sinking; When on rills that softly gush Stars are softly winking;

When, through boughs that knit the bower,

Moonlight gleams are stealing;

Woo her, till the gentle hour
Wake a gentler feeling.

Woo her when autumnal dyes

n;

Tinge the woody mountain When the dropping foliage lies In the weedy fountain;