The weeping willows kiss the dust and sigh, ZARA'S EAR-RINGS. J. G. LOCKHART. [John Gibson Lockhart was editor of the "Quarterly Review," and son-inlaw of Sir Walter Scott. Enough this to link his name with the literary history of his own time, had it not been associated with his romances, "Valerius," "Adam Blair," "Reginald Dalton," and "Matthew Wald;" with his biographies of Burns and Napoleon, his "Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk," and his splendid rendering of the "Spanish Ballads." In 1843 his politics procured for him a sinecure of 400l. a year, which he enjoyed till his death in 1854. He was born in 1793, his father being the Rev. Dr. John Lockhart, minister of the College Church, Glasgow. Mr. Lockhart distinguished himself both at the Glasgow University and at Balliol College, Oxford.] "My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they've dropt into the well, And what to say to Muca I cannot, cannot tell." 'Twas thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daughter,— "The well is deep, far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water. To me did Muca give them, when he spake his sad farewell, And what to say when he comes back, alas! I cannot tell. "My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they were pearls in silver set, That when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget, That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smile on other's tale, But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear-rings pale. When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them in the well, Oh! what will Muca think of me, I cannot, cannot tell. "My ear-rings! my ear-rings! he'll say they should have been, He'll think some other lover's hand among my tresses noosed, From the ears where he had placed them, my rings of pearl un loosed; He'll think when I was sporting so beside this marble well, My pearls fell in-and what to say, alas! I cannot tell. "He'll say I am a woman, and we are all the same; "I'll tell the truth to Muca, and I hope he will believe- eve; That musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone, His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone; TO A SEA-GULL. GERALD GRIFFIN. [Gerald Griffin was born at Limerick, Dec. 12, 1803. Before he was one aud-twenty he came to London and obtained employment in reporting for the daily papers and contributing to the magazines. The "Munster Festivals," "Suil Dhuv, the Coiner," "The Collegians," &c. &c., made him a reputation which was still increasing when, it is said, in consequence of one of his sisters taking the veil, his devotional feelings were awakened, and he retreated from the world to join the Society of Christian Brothers, devoting himself to works of morality and education. He died of a fever in 1840.] WHITE bird of the tempest! O beautiful thing, Now breasting the surge with thy bosom so warm; Now lost in the storm-driven vapours, that fly On the sweet winds of Heaven, to thine own brilliant skies; Thou hidest thy wings in a mantle of light; And I think how a pure spirit gazing on thee, Must long for that moment-the joyous and free- When the bright day of service and suffering past, EVELYN HOPE. ROBERT BROWNING. [Mr. Browning was born at Camberwell in 1812, and educated at the London University. His "Paracelsus" was published in 1836, but did not take with the public; it was followed by "Pippa Passes," which found more favour. In 1837 his tragedy of "Strafford" was produced, "Sardello" followed; then "The Blot on the Scutcheon," brought out at Drury Lane (1843). His works are now published by Messrs. Chapman and Hall, and are receiving the attention that they all along deserved. He married Miss Barrett the poetess, who died in 1861.] BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead Sit and watch by her side an hour. She plucked that piece of geranium flower, Little has yet been changed, I think— Sixteen years old when she died! Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name- Her life had many a hope and aim, And now was quiet, now astir— And the sweet white brow is all of her. Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope? And just because I was thrice as old, And our paths in the world diverged so wide, No, indeed, for God above Is great to grant, as mighty to make, Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few— Ere the time be come for taking you. But the time will come,-at last it will, In the new life come in the old one's stead. I have lived, I shall say, so much since then, Gained me the gains of various men, Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes. Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, Either I missed or itself missed meAnd I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! What is the issue ? let us see! I loved you, Evelyn, all the while; My heart seemed full as it could hold→→ There was place and to spare for the frank young smile And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold So, hush, I will give you this leaf to keep, See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand. There, that is our secret! go to sleep; You will wake, and remember, and understand. (By permission of Messrs. Chapman and Hall.) THE HIGH TIDE. (ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE, 1571.) JEAN INGELOW. [Miss Jean Ingelow is a popular living poetess, whose works have now reached a ninth edition. She is a worthy follower of Mrs. E. B. Browning, on whom she appears to have founded her style, and writes very conscientiously; her subjects being very well chosen, and her thoughts original.] THE old mayor climbed the belfry tower, Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he: Men say it was a stolen tyde The Lord that sent it, He knows all ; The message that the bells let fall: By millions crouched on the old sea wall. I sat and spun within the doore, My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes; Lay sinking in the barren skies; Floweth, floweth, From the meads where melick groweth "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Hollow, hollow; |