And the one bird singing alone to his nest; I thought of our little quarrels and strife, And the letter that brought me back my ring; And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, Such a very little thing! 52 56 For I thought of her grave below the hill, Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over: And I thought..."were she only living still, How I could forgive her and love her!" 60 And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, And of how, after all, old things are best, That I smelt the smell of that jasmin-flower Which she used to wear in her breast. It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, 64 It made me creep, and it made me cold! Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet Where a mummy is half unrolled. And I turned and looked: she was sitting there, In a dim box over the stage; and drest In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair, And that jasmin in her breast! 68 72 I was here; and she was there; And the glittering horseshoe curved between! From my bride-betrothed, with her raven hair, And her sumptuous scornful mien, To my early love with her eyes downcast, To my early love from my future bride One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, 76 30 I traversed the passage; and down at her side I was sitting, a moment more. My thinking of her, or the music's strain, Or something which never will be exprest, Had brought her back from the grave again, With the jasmin in her breast. She is not dead, and she is not wed! But she loves me now, and she loved me then! And the very first word that her sweet lips said, My heart grew youthful again. The marchioness there, of Carabas, She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still; 84 88 92 And but for her-well, we 'll let that pass; She may marry whomever she will. But I will marry my own first love, 96 With her primrose face: for old things are best; And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in my lady's breast. The world is filled with folly and sin, say: 100 104 And I think, in the lives of most women and men. There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, If only the dead could find out when But O, the smell of that jasmin-flower! 1859. Non ti scordar di me, Non ti scordar di me! 108 113 The Earl of Lytton (Owen Meredith). THE COURTIN' GOD makes sech nights, all white an' still Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown 'Ith no one nigh to hender. A fireplace filled the room's one side, There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) 8 12 The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her! An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser. Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, An' in amongst 'em rusted 16 The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young Fetched back f'om Concord busted. 20 The very room, coz she was in, Ez the apples she was peelin'. 'T was kin' o' kingdom-come to look On sech a blessèd cretur, A dogrose blushin' to a brook 34 Ain't modester nor sweeter. 28 He was six foot o' man, A 1, Clear grit an' human natur'; None could n't quicker pitch a ton, He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, All is, he could n't love 'em. 32 36 But long o' her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple, The side she breshed felt full o' sun She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, 40 44 |