CONTENTS.

My Beautiful Lady: by _Thomas Woolner_ 1 Of my Lady in Death: by _Thomas Woolner_ 5 The Love of Beauty: by _F. Madox Brown_ 10 The Subject in Art, (No. 1.) 11 The Seasons 19 Dream Land: by _Ellen Allyn_ 20 Songs of one Household, (My Sister's Sleep): by _Dante G. Rossetti_ 21 Hand and Soul: by _Dante G. Rossetti_ 23 REVIEWS: The "Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich": by _Wm. M. Rossetti_ 34 Her First Season: by _Wm. M. Rossetti_ 46 A Sketch From Nature 47 An End: by _Ellen Allyn_ 48

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[Ill.u.s.tration]

My Beautiful Lady

I love my lady; she is very fair; Her brow is white, and bound by simple hair; Her spirit sits aloof, and high, Altho' it looks thro' her soft eye Sweetly and tenderly.

As a young forest, when the wind drives thro', My life is stirred when she breaks on my view.

Altho' her beauty has such power, Her soul is like the simple flower Trembling beneath a shower.

As bliss of saints, when dreaming of large wings, The bloom around her fancied presence flings, I feast and wile her absence, by Pressing her choice hand pa.s.sionately-- Imagining her sigh.

My lady's voice, altho' so very mild, Maketh me feel as strong wine would a child; My lady's touch, however slight, Moves all my senses with its might, Like to a sudden fright.

A hawk poised high in air, whose nerved wing-tips Tremble with might suppressed, before he dips,-- In vigilance, not more intense Than I; when her word's gentle sense Makes full-eyed my suspense.

Her mention of a thing--august or poor, Makes it seem n.o.bler than it was before: As where the sun strikes, life will gush, And what is pale receive a flush, Rich hues--a richer blush.

My lady's name, if I hear strangers use,-- Not meaning her--seems like a lax misuse.

I love none by my lady's name; Rose, Maud, or Grace, are all the same, So blank, so very tame.

My lady walks as I have seen a swan Swim thro' the water just where the sun shone.

There ends of willow branches ride, Quivering with the current's glide, By the deep river-side.

Whene'er she moves there are fresh beauties stirred; As the sunned bosom of a humming-bird At each pant shows some fiery hue, Burns gold, intensest green or blue: The same, yet ever new.

What time she walketh under flowering May, I am quite sure the scented blossoms say, "O lady with the sunlit hair!

"Stay, and drink our odorous air-- "The incense that we bear:

"Your beauty, lady, we would ever shade; "Being near you, our sweetness might not fade."

If trees could be broken-hearted, I am sure that the green sap smarted, When my lady parted.

This is why I thought weeds were beautiful;-- Because one day I saw my lady pull Some weeds up near a little brook, Which home most carefully she took, Then shut them in a book.

A deer when startled by the stealthy ounce,-- A bird escaping from the falcon's trounce, Feels his heart swell as mine, when she Stands statelier, expecting me, Than tall white lilies be.

The first white flutter of her robe to trace, Where binds and perfumed jasmine interlace, Expands my gaze triumphantly: Even such his gaze, who sees on high His flag, for victory.

We wander forth unconsciously, because The azure beauty of the evening draws: When sober hues pervade the ground, And life in one vast hush seems drowned, Air stirs so little sound.

We thread a copse where frequent bramble spray With loose obtrusion from the side roots stray, (Forcing sweet pauses on our walk): I'll lift one with my foot, and talk About its leaves and stalk.

Or may be that the p.r.i.c.kles of some stem Will hold a prisoner her long garment's hem; To disentangle it I kneel, Oft wounding more than I can heal; It makes her laugh, my zeal.

Then on before a thin-legged robin hops, Or leaping on a twig, he pertly stops, Speaking a few clear notes, till nigh We draw, when quickly he will fly Into a bush close by.

A flock of goldfinches may stop their flight, And wheeling round a birchen tree alight Deep in its glittering leaves, until They see us, when their swift rise will Startle a sudden thrill.

I recollect my lady in a wood, Keeping her breath and peering--(firm she stood Her slim shape balanced on tiptoe--) Into a nest which lay below, Leaves shadowing her brow.

I recollect my lady asking me, What that sharp tapping in the wood might be?

I told her blackbirds made it, which, For slimy morsels they count rich, Cracked the snail's curling niche:

She made no answer. When we reached the stone Where the sh.e.l.l fragments on the gra.s.s were strewn, Close to the margin of a rill; "The air," she said, "seems damp and chill, "We'll go home if you will."

"Make not my pathway dull so soon," I cried, "See how those vast cloudpiles in sun-glow dyed, "Roll out their splendour: while the breeze "Lifts gold from leaf to leaf, as these "Ash saplings move at ease."

Piercing the silence in our ears, a bird Threw some notes up just then, and quickly stirred The covert birds that startled, sent Their music thro' the air; leaves lent Their rustling and blent,

Until the whole of the blue warmth was filled So much with sun and sound, that the air thrilled.

She gleamed, wrapt in the dying day's Glory: altho' she spoke no praise, I saw much in her gaze.

Then, flushed with resolution, I told all;-- The mighty love I bore her,--how would pall My very breath of life, if she For ever breathed not hers with me;-- Could I a cherub be,

How, idly hoping to enrich her grace, I would s.n.a.t.c.h jewels from the orbs of s.p.a.ce;-- Then back thro' the vague distance beat, Glowing with joy her smile to meet, And heap them round her feet.

Her waist shook to my arm. She bowed her head, Silent, with hands clasped and arms straightened: (Just then we both heard a church bell) O G.o.d! It is not right to tell: But I remember well

Each breast swelled with its pleasure, and her whole Bosom grew heavy with love; the swift roll Of new sensations dimmed her eyes, Half closing them in ecstasies, Turned full against the skies.

The rest is gone; it seemed a whirling round-- No pressure of my feet upon the ground: But even when parted from her, bright Showed all; yea, to my throbbing sight The dark was starred with light.

Of My Lady In Death

All seems a painted show. I look Up thro' the bloom that's shed By leaves above my head, And feel the earnest life forsook All being, when she died:-- My heart halts, hot and dried As the parched course where once a brook Thro' fresh growth used to flow,-- Because her past is now No more than stories in a printed book.

The gra.s.s has grown above that breast, Now cold and sadly still, My happy face felt thrill:-- Her mouth's mere tones so much expressed!

Those lips are now close set,-- Lips which my own have met; Her eyelids by the earth are pressed; Damp earth weighs on her eyes; Damp earth shuts out the skies.

My lady rests her heavy, heavy rest.

To see her slim perfection sweep, Trembling impatiently, With eager gaze at me!

Her feet spared little things that creep:-- "We've no more right," she'd say, "In this the earth than they."

Some remember it but to weep.

Her hand's slight weight was such, Care lightened with its touch; My lady sleeps her heavy, heavy sleep.

My day-dreams hovered round her brow; Now o'er its perfect forms Go softly real worms.

Stern death, it was a cruel blow, To cut that sweet girl's life Sharply, as with a knife.

Cursed life that lets me live and grow, Just as a poisonous root, From which rank blossoms shoot; My lady's laid so very, very low.