And but for her-well, we 'll let that pass; She may marry whomever she will.

But I will marry my own first love,

96

With her primrose face: for old things are best;

And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in my lady's breast.

The world is filled with folly and sin,
And love must cling where it can, I say:
For beauty is easy enough to win;

But one is n't loved every day.

100

104

And I think, in the lives of most women and men,

There's a moment when all would go

smooth and even,

If only the dead could find out when
To come back and be forgiven.

But O, the smell of that jasmin-flower!
And O that music! and O the way
That voice rang out from the donjon tower,
Non ti scordar di me,

1859.

Non ti scordar di me!

108

The Earl of Lytton (Owen Meredith).

113

THE COURTIN'

GOD makes sech nights, all white an' still
Fur 'z you can look or listen;
Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill,
All silence an' all glisten.

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown

An' peeked in thru' the winder, An' there sot Huldy all alone,

'Ith no one nigh to hender.

A fireplace filled the room's one side,
With half a cord o' wood in-

There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died)
To bake ye to a puddin'.

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out

Towards the pootiest, bless her!

An' leetle flames danced all about

The chiny on the dresser.

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,

An' in amongst 'em rusted

4

8

12

16

The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young Fetched back f'om Concord busted.

20

The very room, coz she was in,

Seemed warm f'om floor to ceilin', An' she looked full ez rosy agin

Ez the apples she was peelin'.

'T was kin' o' kingdom-come to look On sech a blessèd cretur,

A dogrose blushin' to a brook

Ain't modester nor sweeter.

24

28

He was six foot o' man, A 1,

Clear grit an' human natur';

None could n't quicker pitch a ton,
Nor dror a furrer straighter.

He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells

All is, he could n't love 'em.

But long o' her his veins 'ould run

All crinkly like curled maple,

The side she breshed felt full o' sun

32

36

Ez a south slope in Ap'il.

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing
Ez hisn in the choir;

My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring,
She knowed the Lord was nigher.

An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer,
When her new meetin'-bunnet

40

44

Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair
O' blue eyes sot upun it.

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some!
She seemed to 've gut a new soul,
For she felt sartin-sure he'd come,
Down to her very shoe-sole.

She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu,
A-raspin' on the scraper,-
All ways to once her feelins flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,
Some doubtfle o' the sekle,
His heart kep' goin' pity-pat,
But hern went pity Zekle.

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk

Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work,

Parin' away like murder.

"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?
"Wal . . . no . . I come dasignin'
"To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo’es
Agin to-morrer's i'nin'."

To say why gals acts so or so,
Or don't, 'ould be persumin';
Mebby to mean yes an' say no
Comes nateral to women.

He stood a spell on one foot fust,
Then stood a spell on t'other,
An' on which one he felt the wust

He could n't ha' told ye nuther.

Says he, "I'd better call agin;

Says she, "Think likely, Mister:
Thet last word pricked him like a pin,
An' . . . Wal, he up an' kist her.

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips,
Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
All kin' o'smily roun' the lips

An' teary roun' the lashes.

For she was jes' the quiet kind

Whose naturs never vary,

Like streams that keep a summer mind
Snowhid in Jenooary.

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued
Too tight for all expressin',

Tell mother see how metters stood,

An' gin 'em both her blessin.'

Then her red come back like the tide
Down to the Bay o' Fundy,

An' all I know is they was cried
In meetin' come nex' Sunday.

James Russell Lowell.

76

80

84

88

92

96

1848. 1862.