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His art he placed the ring that's there,
In token of a marriage rare :
3. Little girl with the poor coarse hand
I turned from to a cold clay cast I have my lesson, understand
The worth of flesh and blood at last ! Nothing but beauty in a Hand ?
Because he could not change the hie,
Mend the lines and make them true
Would Da Vinci turn from you?
Shall earth and the cramped moment-space
IX. ON DECK.
THERE is nothing to remember in me,
Nothing I ever said with a grace,
Nothing I was that deserves a place
Conceded ! In turn, concede to me,
Such things have been as a mutual flame.
You might let it loose, till I grew the same
That I was the harsh, ill-favored one?
We both should be like as pea and
pea; It was ever so since the world begun : So, let me proceed with my reverie.
had all me,
As I have all you in my heart and brain,
Who never lifted the hand in vain
Rose like your own face present now,
Much such a mouth, and as bright a brow,
Love that was life, life that was love;
A passion to stand as your thoughts approve,
Come in a word or å look of yours,
Round me and round while life endures,-
St. 3. Here it is indicated that she had not the personal charms which were needed to maintain her husband's interest. A pretty face was more to him than a deep loving soul.
St. 6. vv. 3-5 express the entire devotion and submissiveness of her love.
8. Why, fade you might to a thing like me,
grow these coarse hanks of hair, Your skin, this bark of a gnarled tree,
You might turn myself ! — should I know or care, When I should be dead of joy, James Lee?
EPILOGUE TO THE Two POETS OF CROISIC."
WHAT a pretty tale you told me
Once upon a time - Said
found it somewhere (scold me !)
Anyhow there's no forgetting
This much if no more,
Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore,
3. Well, he had to sing, nor merely
Sing but play the lyre ; Playing was important clearly
Quite as singing: I desire, Sir, you keep the fact in mind For a purpose that's behind.
There stood he, while deep attention
Held the judges round,
To detect the slightest sound
Played in time and tune,
Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon,
When, a mischief! Were they seven
Strings the lyre possessed ?
Thank you! Well, sir, — who had guessed
All was lost, then ! No! a cricket
(What “ cicada”? Pooh!)
For mere love of music — flew
“Cicada," do you say? Pooh! that's bringing the mysterious little thing down to the plane of entomology.