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No one heareth her, no one heedeth her:
But Hunger, her friend, with his bony hand,
Grasps her throat, whispering huskily-
"What dost thou in a Christian land?"

(WITHIN.)

The skies are wild, and the blast is cold;
Yet riot and luxury brawl within:
Slaves are waiting, in crimson and gold,
Waiting the nod of a child of sin.
The fire is crackling, wine is bubbling
Up in each glass to its beaded brim:
The jesters are laughing, the parasites quaffing
Happiness,"-honour,"--and all for him!

(WITHOUT.)

She who is slain in the winter weather,
Ah! she had once a village fame;
Listened to love on the moon-lit heather;

Had gentleness-vanity-maiden shame;
Now, her allies are the tempest howling;
Prodigal's curses; self-disdain;
Poverty; misery: Well,-no matter;
There is an end unto every pain!

The harlot's fame was her doom to-day,
Disdain; despair; by to-morrow's light.
The ragged boards and the pauper's pall;
And so she'll be given to dusty night!
Without a tear or a human sigh,
She's gone,-poor life and its "fever" o'er!
So, let her in calm oblivion lie;

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?-
Unbar yon palace, and gaze within.

There, yet his deeds are all trumpet-sounded,
There, upon silken seats recline

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;
Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip,
Its soft meandering Spanish name.
What a name? was it love or praise?

Speech half-asleep, or song half-awake?
I must learn Spanish, one of these days,
Only for that slow sweet name's sake.

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,
Stay as you are and be loved for ever!
Bud if I kiss you 't is that you blow not,

Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never!
For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle,
Twinkling the audacious leaves between,
Till round they turn and down they nestle-
Is not the dear mark still to be seen?

VI.

Where I found her not, beauties vanish;
Whither I follow her, beauties flee;

Is there no method to tell her in Spanish

June's twice June since she breathed it with me?
Come, bud, show me the least of her traces,
Treasure my lady's lightest foot-fall;

Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces----
Roses, you are not so fair after all!

ROBERT BROWNING.

Ginebra.

Ir thou shouldest ever come by choice or chance
TO MODENA, where still religiously

Among her ancient trophies is preserved
BOLOGNA'S bucket (in its chain it hangs
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine).
Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the ORSINI.

Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,

Will long detain thee; through their arched walks,
Dim at noon-day, discovering many a glimpse
Of knights and dames, such as in old romance,
And lovers, such as in heroic song,

Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,
That in the spring-time, as alone they sat,
Venturing together on a tale of love,
Read only part that day.-A summer-sun
Sets ere one-half is seen; but, ere thou go,
Enter the house-prythee, forget it not-
And look awhile upon a picture there.

"T is of a lady in her earliest youth,
The very last of that illustrious race,
Done by ZAMPIERI-but by whom I care not.
He who observes it, ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes, and comes again,
That he may call it up, when far away.
She sits, inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half open, and her finger up,

As though she said 'Beware.' Her vest of gold
Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot,
An emerald stone in every golden clasp;

And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,

A coronet of pearls. But then her face

So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart-

It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!

Alone it hangs

Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,

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