On each live spray, no vapour steaming up, Mer. The night Of your life I spoke what am I, what my life, to waste A thought about, when you are by me?—you And pulled the night upon.-'Twas day with me- Mil. You have been happy: take my hand! Mer. [After a pause.] Your brother is ! I figured him a cold Come what, come will, How good Oh, what is over? what must I live through Which make believe that when they strive to form It is the nearest ever they approached A stranger's... Henry, yours that stranger's . . lip With cheek that looks a virgin's, and that is Shall murmur no smooth speeches got by heart, Disgrace I cannot suffer by myself. A word informs your brother I retract I'll share This morning's offer; time will yet bring forth Mil. I'll meet their faces, Mertoun ! Get done with it! Mil. When? to-morrow? Oh, Henry, not to-morrow! Next day! I never shall prepare my words And looks and gestures sooner.-How you must Mer. Mildred, break it if you choose, A heart the love of you uplifted-still Uplifts, thro' this protracted agony, To Heaven! but, Mildred, answer me,—first pace Calmly the part, the . . . what it is of me You see contempt (for you did say contempt) Mer. I was scarce a boy--e'en now What am I more? And you were infantine That morn to see the shape of many a dream Of yours, each word of yours, with power to test If you To sit beside you, hear you breathe, and watch If I grew mad at last with enterprise And must behold my beauty in her bower My own desires-what then were you ?) if sorrow- My reason, blind myself to light, say truth Mil. Do you believe. Or, Henry, I'll not wrong you-you believe The past! We'll love on-you will love me still! Go! Mil. Mer. This is not our last meeting? Mil. One night more. Then, no sweet courtship-days, Mer. And then-think, then! Mil. No dawning consciousness of love for us, No strange and palpitating births of sense From words and looks, no innocent fears and hopes, Mer. How else should love's perfected noontide follow? All the dawn promised shall the day perform. Mil. So may it be! but You are cautious, love? 2 His foot is on the yew-tree bough; the turf Receives him now the moonlight as he runs : Embraces him—but he must go—is gone Ah, once again he turns-thanks, thanks, my love! No mother-God forgot me—and I fell. There may be pardon yet: all's doubt beyond. FROM COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY. THE COURTIERS OF COLOMBE, DUCHESS OF JULIERS AND CLEVES, LEARN THAT HER DUCHY IS CLAIMED BY PRINCE BERTHOLD. Guibert. That this should be her birthday; and the day We all invested her, twelve months ago, As the late Duke's true heiress and our liege; And that this also must become the day. . 2nd Court. Well, Guibert? 3rd Court. But your news, my friend, your news! The sooner, friend, one learns Prince Berthold's pleasure |