No one heareth her, no one heedeth her: (WITHIN.) The skies are wild, and the blast is cold; (WITHOUT.) She who is slain in the winter weather, Had gentleness-vanity-maiden shame; The harlot's fame was her doom to-day, While the world runs merry as heretofore! (WITHIN) He who yon lordly feast enjoyeth, He who doth rest on his couch of down, He it was, who threw the forsaken Under the feet of the trampling town: Liar,-betrayer-false as cruel, What is the doom for his dastard sin? His peers, they scorn? high dames, they shun him?- There, yet his deeds are all trumpet-sounded, Maidens as fair as the summer morning, Watching him rise from the sparkling wine. Mothers all proffer their stainless daughters; Men of high honour salute him "friend;" Skies! oh, where are your cleansing waters? World! oh, where do thy wonders end? BARRY CORNWALL. The Flowers Name. I. HERE's the garden she walked across, Arm in my arm, such a short while since: Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss Hinders the hinges and makes them wince! She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, As back with that murmur the wicket swung; For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned, To feed and forget it the leaves among. II. Down this side of the gravel-walk She went while her robe's edge brushed the box: And here she paused in her gracious talk To point me a moth on the milk-white flox. Roses, ranged in valiant row, I will never think that she passed you by! She loves you, noble roses, I know; But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie. III. This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim; Speech half-asleep, or song half-awake? IV. Roses, if I live and do well, I may bring her one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell, Fit you each with his Spanish phrase! But do not detain me now; for she lingers There, like sunshine over the ground, And ever I see her soft white fingers Searching after the bud she found. V. Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not, Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never! VI. Where I found her not, beauties vanish; Is there no method to tell her in Spanish June's twice June since she breathed it with me? Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces---- ROBERT BROWNING. Ginebra. Ir thou shouldest ever come by choice or chance Among her ancient trophies is preserved Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, Will long detain thee; through their arched walks, Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight, "T is of a lady in her earliest youth, As though she said 'Beware.' Her vest of gold And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, A coronet of pearls. But then her face So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, Alone it hangs Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion, |