Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear, Vir nullâ non donandus lauru.” Winthrop Mackworth Praed. CCCLXXIII. DIRGE FOR WOLFRAM. IF thou wilt ease thine heart Then sleep, dear, sleep; And not a sorrow Hang any tear on thine eyelashes; Lie still and deep, Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes The rim o' the sun to-morrow, In eastern sky. But wilt thou cure thine heart Of love and all its smart, Then die, dear, die; 'Tis deeper, sweeter, Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming With folded eye; And there alone, amid the beaming Of Love's stars, thou'lt meet her In eastern sky. Thomas Lovell Beddoes. CCCLXXIV THE OLD STOIC. RICHES I hold in light esteem, And if I pray, the only prayer Is "Leave the heart that now I bear, Yes, as my swift days near their goal, 'Tis all that I implore; In life and death, a chainless soul, With courage to endure.—Emily Brontë. CCCLXXV. THE SHANDON BELLS. WITH deep affection, And recollection, I often think of Those Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, In the days of childhood, Fling around my cradle Their magic spells. On this I ponder Where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, Sweet Cork, of thee; With thy bells of Shandon, Of the river Lee. I've heard bells chiming Tolling sublime in Cathedral shrine, While at a glib rate Brass tongues would vibrate But all their music Spoke naught like thine; For memory dwelling On each proud swelling Of the belfry knelling Its bold notes free, Made the bells of Shandon The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. I've heard bells tolling Their thunder rolling From the Vatican, And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets Of Notre Dame ; But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, Pealing solemnly ;— O! the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on |