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A SERENADE AT THE VILLA.

I.

THAT was I, you heard last night,

When there rose no moon at all, Nor, to pierce the strained and tight Tent of heaven, a planet small : Life was dead, and so was light.

II.

Not a twinkle from the fly,

Not a glimmer from the worm, When the crickets stopped their cry, When the owls forbore a term, You heard music: that was I.

III.

Earth turned in her sleep with pain,
Sultrily suspired for proof:
In at heaven and out again,

Lightning!-where it broke the roof,
Bloodlike, some few drops of rain.

IV.

What they could my words expressed,
O my love, my all, my one!
Singing helped the verses best;

And, when singing's best was done,
To my lute I left the rest.

V.

So wore night; the east was gray,

White the broad-faced hemlock-flowers;

There would be another day;

Ere its first of heavy hours

Found me, I had passed away.

VI.

What became of all the hopes,
Words and song and lute as well?
Say, this struck you—“ When life gropes
Feebly for the path where fell

Light last on the evening slopes,

VII.

"One friend in that path shall be, To secure my step from wrong; One to count night day for me,

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Patient through the watches long, Serving most with none to see."

VIII.

Never say-as something bodesSo the worst has yet a worse! When life halts 'neath double loads. Better the taskmaster's curse Than such music on the roads!

IX.

"When no moon succeeds the sun,

Nor can pierce the midnight's tent, Any star, the smallest cne,

While some drops, where lightning rent, Show the final storm begun

X.

"When the fire-fly hides its spot,

When the garden-voices fail In the darkness thick and hot,-Shall another voice avail,

That shape be where these are not?

XI.

"Has some plague a longer lease, Proffering its help uncouth? Can't one even die in peace?

As one shuts one's eyes on youth, Is that face the last one sees?

XII.

Oh, how dark your villa was,
Windows fast and obdurate!
How the garden grudged me grass
Where I stood-the iron gate
Ground its teeth to let me pass!

YOUTH AND ART.

I.

IT once might have been, once only:
We lodged in a street together,
You, a sparrow on the housetop lonely,
I, a lone she-bird of his feather.

II.

Your trade was with sticks and clay :

You thumbed, thrust, patted, and polished, Then laughed, "They will see, some day; Smith made, and Gibson demolished.'

III.

My business was song, song, song:
I chirped, cheeped, trilled, and twittered,
"Kate Brown's on the boards ere long,
And Grisi's existence embittered!'

IV.

I earned no more by a warble
Than you by a sketch in plaster:
You wanted a piece of marble,
I needed a music-master.

V.

We studied hard in our styles,

Chipped each at a crust like Hindoos; For air, looked out on the tiles,

For fun, watched each other's windows.

VI.

You lounged, like a boy of the South,
Cap and blouse—nay, a bit of beard too;
Or you got it, rubbing your mouth
With fingers the clay adhered to.

VII.

And I-soon managed to find

Weak points in the flower-fence facing, Was forced to put up a blind,

And be safe in my corset-lacing.

VIII.

No harm! It was not my fault

If you never turned your eye's tail up As I shook upon E in alt.,

Or ran the chromatic scale up;

IX.

For spring bade the sparrows pair,
And the boys and girls gave guesses,
And stalls in our street looked rare
With bulrush and watercresses.

X.

Why did not you pinch a flower
In a pellet of clay and fling it?

Why did not I put a power

Of thanks in a look, or sing it?

XI.

I did look, sharp as a lynx

(And yet the memory rankles), When models arrived, some minx

Tripped upstairs, she and her ankles.

XII.

But I think I gave you as good!

"That foreign fellow,--who can know How she pays, in a playful mood, For his tuning her that piano ?”

XIII.

Could you say so, and never say,

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Suppose we join hands and for tunes,

And I fetch her from over the way,

Her, piano, and long tunes and short tunes?”

XIV.

No, no; you would not be rash,

Nor I rasher and something over; You've to settle yet Gibson's hash, And Grisi yet lives in clover.

XV.

But you meet the Prince at the Board,
I'm queen myself at bals-paré,
I've married a rich old lord,

And you're dubbed knight and an R. A.

XVI.

Each life's unfulfilled, you see;

It hangs still, patchy and scrappy :
We have not sighed deep, laughed free,
Starved, feasted, despaired-been happy.

XVII.

And nobody calls you a dunce,

And people suppose me clever :

This could but have happened once,

And we missed it, lost it forever.

THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS.

YOU'RE my friend :

I.

I was the man the Duke spoke to;

I helped the Duchess to cast off his yoke, too:
So, here's the tale from beginning to end,

My friend !

II.

Ours is a great wild country:

If you climb to our castle's top,

I don't see where your eye can stop;

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