SAILORS' SONG.

[From Death's Jest Book, Act i.]

To sea, to sea! The calm is o'er;
The wanton water leaps in sport,
And rattles down the pebbly shore;
The dolphin wheels, the sea-cows snort,
And unseen mermaids' pearly song
Comes bubbling up, the weeds among.
Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar:
To sea, to sea! the calm is o'er.

To sea, to sea! our wide-winged bark
Shall billowy cleave its sunny way,
And with its shadow, fleet and dark,
Break the caved Tritons' azure day,

Like mighty eagle soaring light
O'er antelopes on Alpine height.

The anchor heaves, the ship swings free,
The sails swell full. To sea, to sea!

HESPERUS' SONG.

[From The Bride's Tragedy, Act 1.]

Poor old pilgrim Misery,

Beneath the silent moon he sate,
A-listening to the screech-owl's cry,
And the cold wind's goblin prate;
Beside him lay his staff of yew
With withered willow twined,
His scant grey hair all wet with dew,
His cheeks with grief ybrined;
And his cry it was ever, alack !
Alack, and woe is me!

Anon a wanton imp astray

His piteous moaning hears,

And from his bosom steals away
His rosary of tears:

With his plunder fled that urchin elf,
And hid it in your eyes,

Then tell me back the stolen pelf,
Give up the lawless prize;

Or your cry shall be ever, alack!
Alack, and woe is me!

SONG OF THE STYGIAN NAIADES.

Proserpine may pull her flowers,
Wet with dew or wet with tears,
Red with anger, pale with fears,
Is it any fault of ours,
If Pluto be an amorous king,

And comes home nightly, laden,
Underneath his broad bat-wing,
With a gentle, mortal maiden?
Is it so, Wind, is it so?
All that you and I do know
Is, that we saw fly and fix

'Mongst the reeds and flowers of Styx; Yesterday,

Where the Furies made their hay

For a bed of tiger-cubs,

A great fly of Beelzebub's,

The bee of hearts, whom mortals name

Cupid, Love, and Fie for shame.

Proserpine may weep in rage,
But, ere you and I have done
Kissing, bathing in the sun,
What I have in yonder cage,

Bird or serpent, wild or tame,
She shall guess, and ask in vain;
But, if Pluto does 't again,

It shall sing out loud his shame.

What hast caught then? What hast caught?
Nothing but a poet's thought,

Which so light did fall and fix

'Mongst the reeds and flowers of Styx,
Yesterday,

Where the Furies made their hay

For a bed of tiger-cubs,

A great fly of Beelzebub's,

The bee of hearts, whom mortals name

Cupid, Love, and Fie for shame.

WOLFRAM'S SONG.

[From Death's Jest Book, Act v.]

Old Adam, the carrion crow,

The old crow of Cairo ;

He sat in the shower, and let it flow
Under his tail and over his crest;
And through every feather

Leaked the wet weather;

And the bough swung under his nest;
For his beak it was heavy with marrow.
Is that the wind dying? O no;

It's only two devils, that blow
Through a murderer's bones, to and fro,
In the ghosts' moonshine.

Ho! Eva, my grey carrion wife,

When we have supped on kings' marrow, Where shall we drink and make merry our life? Our nest it is Queen Cleopatra's skull, 'Tis cloven and cracked, And battered and hacked,

But with tears of blue eyes it is full:
Let us drink then, my raven of Cairo.
Is that the wind dying? O no;
It is only two devils, that blow
Through a murderer's bones, to and fro,
In the ghosts' moonshine,

FROM DREAM-PEDLARY.'

If there were dreams to sell
What would you buy?

Some cost a passing bell;

Some a light sigh,

That shakes from Life's fresh crown

Only a rose-leaf down.

If there were dreams to sell,

Merry and sad to tell,

And the crier rang the bell,
What would you buy?

A cottage lone and still,
With bowers nigh,

Shadowy, my woes to still,
Until I die.

Such pearl from Life's fresh crown

Fain would I shake me down.

Were dreams to have at will,
This would best heal my ill,

This would I buy.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

[BORN 1809: died 1861. Published Prometheus Bound and other poems, 1835; the Seraphim and other poems, 1838; Romaunt of the Page, 1839; two volumes of Poems, 1844; married Robert Browning, 1846; published Casa Guidi Windows, 1848; Aurora Leigh, 1856; Poems before Congress. 1860. The Last Poems were published posthumously in 1862, with a dedication to 'grateful Florence,' in allusion to the inscription on the tablet which after her death the city of Florence had put up in her honour.]

Elizabeth Barrett began verse-making at a very early age. Besides the unacknowledged Essay on Mind, an attempt in the style of l'ope, which was written when she was a mere girl, she translated Prometheus Bound before she was twenty. Writing to her friend Mr. Horne, under the date of Oct. 5, 1843, she says:

'Most of my events and nearly all my intense pleasures have passed in my thoughts. I wrote verses--as I daresay many have done who never wrote any poems - very early; at eight years old and earlier. But, what is less common, the early fancy turned into a will, and remained with me, and from that day to this poetry has been a distinct object with me-an object to read, think, and live for. And I could make you laugh, although you could not make the public laugh, by the narrative of nascent odes, epics, and didactics crying aloud on obsolete Muses from childish lips.' Her life seems to have been a happy one till she was growing into womanhood. Then two things happened, at no great distance of time from one another, which altered and saddened it. Of the impression she made upon all who saw her before her great trial and sorrow came upon her let her old and tried friend Miss Mitford speak :—

'My first acquaintance with Elizabeth Barrett commenced about fifteen years ago. She was certainly one of the most interesting persons that I had ever seen. Everybody who then saw her said the same; so that it is not merely the impression of my partiality or my enthusiasm. Of a slight, delicate figure, with a shower of dark curls falling on either side of a most expressive face, large tender eyes richly fringed by dark eyelashes, a smil! like a sunbeam, and such a look of youthfulness, that I had some difficulty