How quick we credit every oath, And hear her plight the willing troth!

Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye, When, lo! she changes in a day.

This record will forever stand, "Woman, thy vows are traced in sand."

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

LOVE'S SPITE

You take a town you cannot keep; And, forced in turn to fly, O'er ruins you have made shall leap Your deadliest enemy!

Her love is yours--and be it so-- But can you keep it? No, no, no!

Upon her brow we gazed with awe, And loved, and wished to love, in vain But when the snow begins to thaw We shun with scorn the miry plain.

Women with grace may yield: but she Appeared some Virgin Deity.

Bright was her soul as Dian's crest Whitening on Vesta's fane its sheen: Cold looked she as the waveless breast Of some stone Dian at thirteen.

Men loved: but hope they deemed to be A sweet Impossibility!

Aubrey Thomas De Vere [1814-1902]

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Of me you shall not win renown: You thought to break a country heart For pastime, ere you went to town.

At me you smiled, but unbeguiled I saw the snare, and I retired: The daughter of a hundred earls, You are not one to be desired.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I know you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for mine, Too proud to care from whence I came.

Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that dotes on truer charms.

A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find, For, were you queen of all that is, I could not stoop to such a mind.

You sought to prove how I could love, And my disdain is my reply.

The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you than I.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You put strange memories in my head.

Not thrice your branching limes have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead.

O, your sweet eyes, your low replies!

A great enchantress you may be; But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, When thus he met his mother's view, She had the pa.s.sions of her kind, She spake some certain truths of you.

Indeed I heard one bitter word That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere,

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, There stands a specter in your hall; The guilt of blood is at your door; You changed a wholesome heart to gall.

You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fixed a vacant stare, And slew him with your n.o.ble birth.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent, The gardener Adam and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent.

Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only n.o.ble to be good.

Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere; You pine among your halls and towers: The languid light of your proud eyes Is wearied of the rolling hours.

In glowing health, with boundless wealth, But sickening of a vague disease, You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these.

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, If time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate, Nor any poor about your lands?

O, teach the orphan-boy to read, Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, Pray Heaven for a human heart, And let the foolish yeoman go.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

SHADOWS

They seemed, to those who saw them meet, The casual friends of every day, Her smile was undisturbed and sweet, His courtesy was free and gay.

But yet if one the other's name In some unguarded moment heard, The heart you thought so calm and tame Would struggle like a captured bird:

And letters of mere formal phrase Were blistered with repeated tears,-- And this was not the work of days, But had gone on for years and years!

Alas, that love was not too strong For maiden shame and manly pride!

Alas, that they delayed so long The goal of mutual bliss beside!

Yet what no chance could then reveal, And neither would be first to own, Let fate and courage now conceal, When truth could bring remorse alone.

Richard Monckton Milnes [1809-1885]

SORROWS OF WERTHER

Werther had a love for Charlotte Such as words could never utter; Would you know how first he met her?

She was cutting bread and b.u.t.ter.

Charlotte was a married lady, And a moral man was Werther, And, for all the wealth of Indies, Would do nothing for to hurt her.

So he sighed and pined and ogled, And his pa.s.sion boiled and bubbled, Till he blew his silly brains out, And no more was by it troubled.

Charlotte, having seen his body Borne before her on a shutter, Like a well-conducted person, Went on cutting bread and b.u.t.ter.

William Makepeace Thackeray [1811-1863]

THE AGE OF WISDOM