Listen! from the forest boughs
The voice-like angel of the spring
Utters his soft vows

To the proud rose blossoming.

And now beneath thy lattice dear!
I am like the bird complaining:
Thou above (I fear)

Like the rose disdaining.

From her chamber in the skies

Shouts the lark at break of morning,

And when day-light flies

Comes the raven's warning.

This of gloom and that of mirth
In their mystic numbers tell;
But thoughts of sweeter birth
Teacheth the nightingale.

Barry Cornwall.

PINE....Pity.

Naught is there under Heaven's wide hollowness
That moves more dear compassion of the mind
Than beauty brought to unworthy wretchedness
Through envy's snares, or fortune's freaks unkind:
I, whether lately through her brightness blind,
Or through allegiance and vast fealty,

Which I do owe unto all womankind,

Feel my heart pierced with so great agony,
When such I see, that all for pity I could die.

Like Ariadne, when in pale despair

The Athenian left her, so sad Eva pined, And so she went complaining to the air,

Spenser.

And gave her tresses to the careless wind:—
The colour of her fate was on her mind,
Dark, death-like, and despairing;—and her eye
Shone lustrous, like the light of prophecy.

Over the grassy meads,—beside lone streams,

To perilous heights which no weak step could reach, She wandered, feeding her unearthly dreams

With musing, and would move the tremulous beech And shuddering aspen with imploring speech; For nothing that did live, save they (who sighed) Pitied the downfall of her amorous pride. Barry Cornwall.