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She looked on the rose-bud, she looked round, and thought On all her heart had whispered, and all the Nun had taught. "I am worshipped by lovers, and brightly shines my fame, All Christendom resoundeth the noble Blanch's name. Nor shall I quickly wither like the rose-bud from the tree, My queen-like graces shining when my beauty's gone from me. But when the sculptured marble is raised o'er my head, And the matchless Blanch lies lifeless among the noble dead, This saintly lady Abbess hath made me justly fear, It nothing will avail me that I were worshipped here."

LINES

ON THE SAME PICTURE BEING REMOVED TO MAKE PLACE FOR A PORTRAIT

OF A LADY BY TITIAN.

WHO art thou, fair one, who usurpest the place

Of Blanch, the lady of the matchless grace?

Come, fair and pretty, tell to me,

Who, in thy lifetime, thou mightest be.

Thou pretty art and fair,

But with the lady Blanch thou never must compare.

No need for Blanch her history to tell;

Whoever saw her face, they there did read it well.

But when I look on thee, I only know

There lived a pretty maid some hundred years ago.

LINES

ON THE CELEBRATED PICTURE BY LIONARDO DA VINCI, CALLED THE VIRGIN

OF THE ROCKS.

WHILE young John runs to greet

The greater Infant's feet,

The Mother standing by, with trembling passion

Of devout admiration,

Beholds the engaging mystic play, and pretty adoration;

Nor knows as yet the full event

Of those so low beginnings,

From whence we date our winnings,

But wonders at the intent

Of those new rites, and what that strange child-worship meant.

But at her side

An angel doth abide,

With such a perfect joy

As no dim doubts alloy,
An intuition,

A glory, an amenity,
Passing the dark condition

Of blind humanity,

As if he surely knew

All the blest wonder should ensue,

Or he had lately left the upper sphere,

And had read all the sovran schemes and divine riddles there.

ON THE SAME.

MATERNAL lady with the virgin grace,
Heaven-born thy Jesus seemeth sure,
And thou a virgin pure.

Lady most perfect, when thy sinless face
Men look upon, they wish to be

A Catholic, Madonna fair, to worship thee.

SONNETS.

I.

TO MISS KELLY.

You are not, Kelly, of the common strain,
That stoop their pride and female honor down
To please that many-headed beast the town,
And vend their lavish smiles and tricks for gain;
By fortune thrown amid the actors' train,
You keep your native dignity of thought;
The plaudits that attend you come unsought,
As tributes due unto your natural vein.
Your tears have passion in them, and a grace

Of genuine freshness, which our hearts avow;
Your smiles are winds whose ways we cannot trace,
That vanish and return we know not how-

And please the better from a pensive face,
A thoughtful eye, and a reflecting brow.

II.

ON THE SIGHT OF SWANS IN KENSINGTON GARDEN.
QUEEN-BIRD that sittest on thy shining nest,
And thy young cygnets without sorrow hatchest,
And thou, thou other royal bird, that watchest
Lest the white mother wandering feet molest:
Shrined are your offspring in a crystal cradle,
Brighter than Helen's ere she yet had burst
Her shelly prison. They shall be born at first
Strong, active, graceful, perfect, swan-like able
To tread the land or waters with security.
Unlike poor human births, conceived in sin,
In grief brought forth, both outwardly and in
Confessing weakness, error, and impurity.

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Did heavenly creatures own succession's line,
The births of heaven like to yours would shine.

III.

Was it some sweet device of Faery

That mocked my steps with many a lonely glade,
And fancied wanderings with a fair-haired maid?
Have these things been? or what rare witchery,
Impregning with delights the charmed air,
Enlighted up the semblance of a smile

In those fine eyes? methought they spake the while
Soft soothing things, which might enforce despair
To drop the murdering knife, and let go by
His foul resolve. And does the lonely glade
Still court the footsteps of the fair-haired maid?
Still in her locks the gales of summer sigh?
While I forlorn do wander reckless where,
And 'mid my wanderings meet no Anna there.

IV.

METHINKS how dainty sweet it were, reclined
Beneath the vast out-stretching branches high
Of some old wood, in careless sort to lie,
Nor of the busier scenes we left behind
Aught envying. And, O Anna! mild-eyed maid!
Beloved! I were well content to play
With thy free tresses all a summer's day,
Losing the time beneath the greenwood shade.
Or we might sit and tell some tender tale
Of faithful vows repaid by cruel scorn,
A tale of true love, or of friend forgot;
And I would teach thee, lady, how to rail
In gentle sort, on those who practise not
Or love or pity, though of woman born.

V.

WHEN last I roved these winding wood-walks green, Green winding walks, and shady pathways sweet,

Ofttimes would Anna seek the silent scene,

Shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat.

No more I hear her footsteps in the shade:
Her image only in these pleasant ways

Meets me self-wandering, where in happier days
I held free converse with the fair-haired maid.

I passed the little cottage which she loved, The cottage which did once my all contain; It spake of days which ne'er must come again, Spake to my heart, and much my heart was moved. "Now fair befall thee, gentle maid!” said I, And from the cottage turned me with a sigh.

VI.

THE FAMILY NAME.

WHAT reason first imposed thee, gentle name,
Name that my father bore, and his sire's sire,
Without reproach? we trace our stream no higher;
And I, a childless man, may end the same.
Perchance some shepherd on Lincolnian plains,
In manners guileless as his own sweet flocks,
Received thee first amid the merry mocks
And arch allusions of his fellow swains.
Perchance from Salem's holier fields returned,
With glory gotten on the heads abhorred
Of faithless Saracens, some martial lord
Took HIS meek title, in whose zeal he burned,
Whate'er the fount whence thy beginnings came,
No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle name.

VII.

Ir from my lips some angry accents fell,
Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind,
'Twas but the error of a sickly mind

And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well,
And waters clear, of Reason; and for me
Let this my verse the poor atonement be—
My verse, which thou to praise wert ever inclined
Too highly, and with a partial eye to see
No blemish. Thou to me didst ever show
Kindest affection; and would ofttimes lend

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