The Portrait

As I stretched my hand, I held my breath;

I turned as I drew the curtains apart:
I dared not look on the face of death:
I knew where to find her heart.

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

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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
Looked first at me, and then at the dead.
"There is a portrait here," he began:

"There is. It is mine," I said.

Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt,
The portrait was, till a month ago,
When this suffering angel took that out,
And placed mine there, I know."

"This woman, she loved me well," said I.
"A month ago," said my friend to me:
"And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie!"
He answered, "Let us see."

"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:
We opened it by the tapers' shine:
The gems were all unchanged: the face
Was-neither his nor mine.

"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
In delicate form and Grecian face,—

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,
Fair tremulous lips and shining hair,
A something born of mournful dreams
Breathes round her sad enchanted air;
No blithesome thoughts at hide and seek
From out her dimples smiling start;
If still the rose be on her cheek,
A thorn is in her heart.

Young lover, tossed 'twixt hope and fear,
Your whispered vow and yearning eyes

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;
Cast away the cowardice that counsels you to flight,
Lest you turn at last to find that you have lost the way 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;
Teach him all the tenderness that only love can know,
And if ever there should come a memory of me to him,
Bid him judge me gently for the sake of long ago.
Amelia Josephine Burr [18

A LIGHT WOMAN

So far as our story approaches the end,
Which do you pity the most of us three?—
My friend, or the mistress of my friend
With her wanton eyes, or me?

My friend was already too good to lose,

And seemed in the way of improvement yet,
When she crossed his path with her hunting-noose,
And over him drew her net.

When I saw him tangled in her toils,

A shame, said I, if she adds just him
To her nine-and-ninety other spoils,
The hundredth for a whim!

And before my friend be wholly hers,
How easy to prove to him, I said,
An eagle's the game her pride prefers,
Though she snaps at a wren instead!

So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take,
My hand sought hers as in earnest need,
And round she turned for my noble sake,
And gave me herself indeed.

The eagle am I, with my fame in the world,
The wren is he, with his maiden face.
-You look away and your lip is curled?
Patience, a moment's space!

For see, my friend goes shaking and white;
He eyes me as the basilisk:

I have turned, it appears, his day to night,
Eclipsing his sun's disk.

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
As a pear late basking over a wall;
Just a touch to try and off it came;
'Tis mine, can I let it fall?

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 soon shall seem to his love, you guess:

What I seem to myself, do you ask of me?

No hero, I confess.

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From the Turkish

'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls,
And matter enough to save one's own:
Yet think of my friend, and the burning coals
He played with for bits of stone!

One likes to show the truth for the truth;
That the woman was light is very true:
But suppose she says,-Never mind that youth!
What wrong have I done to you?

Well, anyhow, here the story stays,
So far at least as I understand;

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 lute I added sweet in sound,

The heart that offered both was true,
And ill deserved the fate it found.

These gifts were charmed by secret spell
Thy truth in absence to divine;

And they have done their duty well,
Alas! they could not teach thee thine.

That chain was firm in every link,

But not to bear a stranger's touch;

That lute was sweet-till thou couldst think
In other hands its notes were such.

Let him, who from thy neck unbound
The chain which shivered in his grasp,

Who saw that lute refuse to sound,

Restring the chords, renew the clasp.

When thou wert changed, they altered too;
The chain is broke, the music mute:

'Tis past-to them and thee adieu

False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]