OUR WEE WHITE ROSE. ALL in our marriage garden Grew, smiling up to God, A bonnier flower than ever Suckt the green warmth of the sod; O, beautiful unfathomably Its little life unfurled; And crown of all things was our wee From out a balmy bosom Our bud of beauty grew; Our leaves of love were curled With mystical faint fragrance Our house of life she filled; see Such precious promise pearled Upon the petals of our wee White Rose of all the world. But evermore the halo Of angel-light increased, And dropt i' the grave - God's lap our wee White Rose of all the world. Our Rose was but in blossom, With holy dews impearled!" You scarce could think so small a thing From dawn to sunset's marge. WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 1828-1889. [BORN at Ballyshannon, in the north-west part of Ireland. After contributing to the Athemum, Household Words, and other periodicals, his first volume, Poems, was published in 1850; in 1854, Day and Night Songs appeared, and in 1855 an enlarged edition, with illustrations by D. G. Rossetti, Millais, and A. Hughes; Laurence Bloomfield in Ireland, a Modern Poem in welve chapters, in 1869; Songs, Poems, and Ballads, 1877.] LOVELY MARY DONNELLY. O LOVELY Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best! If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest. Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will, Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still. Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock, How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many a shock. rowans warm in sunshine, and wetted with a shower, Red Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power. Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up, Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup, Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine; It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine. The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before; No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor; But Mary kept the belt of love, and O, but she was gay! She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away. When she stood up for dancing, her steps were 30 complete The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet; The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised, But blessed himself he wasn't deaf when once her voice she raised. And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung, Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue; But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands, And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands. O, you're the flower o' womankind in country or in town; The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright, And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right. O, might we live together in a lofty palace hall, Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall! O, might we live together in a cottage mean and small; With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall! O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress; It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less. The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low; But blessings be about you, dear, where ever you may go! THE FAIRIES. Up the airy mountain, For fear of little men; Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather! Down along the rocky shore Some make their home, Of the black mountain-lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs, All night awake. High on the hill-top The old King sits; He's nigh lost his wits. From Slieveleague to Rosses; Or going up with music On cold starry nights, To sup with the queen Of the gay Northern Lights. They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came down again Her friends were all gone. They took her lightly back, Between the night and morrow; They thought that she was fast asleep, But she was dead with sorrow. [SON of Gabriel; born at London in 1828; educated at King's College. His love of art led him to found, in connection with Holman Hunt, Millais, and others, what is known as the "PreRaphaelite" school of painting; is widely known through his designs for illustrated works. His Early Italian Poets, a volume of translations, appeared in 1861. Dante and his Circle, in 1874, a revised edition of the preceding; and a volume of Poems in 1870. As a poet he is associated with that school of latter-day singers of which Morris and Swinburne are also notable members. Died April 9, 1882.] THE SEA-LIMITS. CONSIDER the sea's listless chime: Time's self it is, made audible, The murmur of the earth's own shell. Secret continuance sublime Is the sea's end: our sight may pass No furlong further. Since time was, This sound hath told the lapse of time. No quiet, which is death's, it hath Listen alone beside the sea, Listen alone among the woods; Those voices of twin solitudes Shall have one sound alike to thee: Hark where the murmurs of thronged men Surge and sink back and surge again, Still the one voice of wave and tree. CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI. 1830 [DAUGHTER of Gabriele Rossetti, and sister of D. G. Rossetti; born at London, Dec. 5, 1830. Author of Goblin Market and Other Poems, 1862; The Prince's Progress and Other Poems, 1866; Commonplace and Other Short Stories in Prose, 1870; Sing Song, A Nursery Rhyme Book, 1872; Speaking Likenesses, 1874: Annus Domini, a Prayer for every day in the year, 1874; A Pageant and Other Poems, 1881; Called to be Saints, 1881.] MAUDE CLARE. OUT of the church she followed them 'Son Thomas," his lady mother said, 'Your father thirty years ago My lord was pale with inward strife, And Nell was pale with pride; My lord gazed long on pale Maude Clare Or ever he kissed the bride. And what you spurn I'll wear; "Yea, though you're taller by the head, UP-HILL. DOES the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend. But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn. Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Those who have gone before. |