Puslapio vaizdai
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Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,
The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore ;
And Mario can soothe with a tenor note
The souls in Purgatory.

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow: And who was not thrill'd in the strangest way,

As we heard him sing, while the gas burn'd low,

"Non ti scordar di me"?

The Emperor there, in his box of state, Look'd grave, as if he had just then seen The red flag wave from the city-gate

Where his eagles in bronze had been.

The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye. You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again,

For one moment, under the old blue sky, To the old glad life in Spain.

Well! there in our front-row box we sat, Together, my bride-betroth'd and I; My gaze was fix'd on my opera-hat,

And hers on the stage hard by.

And both were silent, and both were sad. Like a queen she lean'd on her full white

arm,

With that regal, indolent air she had; So confident of her charm!

I have not a doubt she was thinking then
Of her former lord, good soul that he was!
Who died the richest and roundest of men,
The Marquis of Carabas.

I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven,
Through a needle's eye he had not to pass.
I wish him well, for the jointure given
To my lady of Carabas.

Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love, As I had not been thinking of aught for years,

Till over my eyes there began to move
Something that felt like tears.

I thought of the dress that she wore last time, When we stood, 'neath the cypress-trees, together,

In that lost land, in that soft clime,

In the crimson evening weather;

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That voice rang out from the donjon tower,

Non ti scordar di me,

Non ti scordar di me!

THE CHESS-BOARD

My little love, do you remember,
Ere we were grown so sadly wise,
Those evenings in the bleak December,
Curtain'd warm from the snowy weather,
When you and I play'd chess together,
Checkmated by each other's eyes?
Ah, still I see your soft white hand
Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight!

Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand; The double Castles guard the wings; The Bishop, bent on distant things, Moves, sidling through the fight.

Our fingers touch; our glances meet, And falter; falls your golden hair Against my cheek; your bosom sweet Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen Rides slow her soldiery all between,

And checks me unaware.

Ah me! the little battle 's done,
Dispers'd is all its chivalry;

Full many a move, since then, have we
'Mid Life's perplexing checkers made,
And many a game with Fortune play'd, —
What is it we have won?

This, this at least- if this alone;
That never, never, never more,
As in those old still nights of yore

(Ere we were grown so sadly wise), Can you and I shut out the skies, Shut out the world, and wintry weather, And, eyes exchanging warmth with eyes, Play chess, as then we play'd, together!

TEMPORA ACTA

FROM "BABYLONIA "

O, FOR the times which were (if any
Time be heroic) heroic indeed!
When the men were few,
And the deeds to do

Were mighty, and many,

And each man in his hand held a noble deed.

Now the deeds are few,

And the men are many,

And each man has, at most, but a noble

need.

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Adam, who was upon the march that morn, Missing his bodyguard, turn'd back to see What they were doing; and there also he Saw the two frozen lambkins lying dead, But understood not. At the last he said, "Since the lambs cannot move, methinks 't were best

That I should carry them."

So on his breast He laid their little bodies, and again Set forward, follow'd o'er the frosty plain By his bewilder'd flocks. And in dismay They held their peace. That was a silent day.

At night he laid the dead lambs on the grass.

That night still colder than the other was, And when the morning broke there were

two more

Dead lambs to carry. Adam took the four, And in his arms he bore them, no great way, Till eventide. That was a sorrowful day.

But, ere the next, two other lambkins died, Frost-bitten in the dark. Then Adam tried To carry them, all six. But the poor sheep Said, "Nay, we thank thee, Adam. Let them sleep!

Thou canst not carry them. "'T is all in vain. We fear our lambkins will not wake again. And, if they wake, they could not walk

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So Adam left the lambs. And all the herd

Follow'd him sorrowing, and not a word
Was spoken.
Never until then had they
Their own forsaken. That was the worst
day.

Eve said to Adam, as they went along,
"Adam, last night the cold was bitter
strong.

Warm fleeces to keep out the freezing wind Have those six lambkins thou hast left behind;

But they will never need them any more. Go, fetch them here! and I will make, before

This day be done, stout garments for us both,

Lest we, too, wake no more." Said Adam, loth

To do her bidding, "Why dost thou sup

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