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Dewy with tear drops the bright day is fading
Turning away a face sorrowing fair; Holy tranquility's stillness is shading
The sound of the waterfall under the weir.
White mists are rising o'er nature reposing ;
One-only one vigil star-
Distant-ah! true heart, how far !
High in the zenith night's planet is beaming,
And where the waters flow deep;
Washed by the wavelets asleep.
Joy's mirrored reflection still glows-
As they lave happy thoughts in repose.
I wake before the day and watch
The opal dawnings rise ;
And think of Nena's eyes.
Lost in the deep dim forest where
The plaintive cushat cries,
On Nena's dark brown eyes.
I linger by the stilly lake
Till pale the moonbeam lies;
Are Nena's dark brown eyes.
The curtain's folds are closed at last,
The lamp, extinguished, dies :
Dear Nena's dark brown eyes.
A little ivory face, of hue between
Ah those mournful, mournful waves !
Plashing on the lonely shore,
My lorn bosom evermore;
With gelid waves
Love a lover's wrongs doth wreak,
For vain woman's mocking wile;
Never! but to hear, forlorn,
Those mournful waves
Cruel when we should be kind !
Coldness killed my passion flower:
Tighter round my heart each hour;
As I sorrowing sit and gloar,
By the foam-vexed shingled shore,
Sounds a wail of “Nevermore,"
Moaning always Nevermore."
Bring a palette-box and pencil for a sketch in water
colours :Take some greyish blue to put in for those gates of
ancient make, Such as Matsys might have wrought at, ere with canvas Indian red and Roman ochre, with a tinge of pale ver
maul and muller. He unvulcanized his smithy for a beauteous maiden's
milion, For the moulded piers of red brick reared when reigned
our great Queen Bess; And a crimson-lake stain here is, like a dash of old
roussillon, Just one bright part kept unfaded in Times's weather
Through the writhed fantastic grille-work, faintly show
each Doric column, And the dentil cornice over, running down the left
hand side Of our picture, looking partly like a classic temple
solemn, With a modern clock tower over and a vane in gilded
All along those Doric bases runs a pathway much neg
lected, Leading on through yew tree archways to a pinery at
And a dial sun directed, that will tell you if inspected, It has never marked an hour that serenely has not
Indian yellow, blue, and carmine ; for the white streaked
tulips growing On the dexter side, where daffodils look like gamboge
old maids ; And the margins all unshorn are, in the want of care
bestowing, And the gillie-flowers are rain-drenched, and their
golden umber fades. On the walls that meet the gate piers, changing leaves
the ivy freckle,
And a white thorn throws its shadow on the pathway
where we stand; And, two glorious oaks embracing, spangling sunbeams
sparkling speckle, Where the foliage fails in shutting out the light on
Now a splash of smalt or cobalt for the sky that backs
the griffin, Looking much exasperated and remarkably unwell; Mourning for his brother, missing! but as I must go to
tiffin, With dark green and brown we'll fill up ere they ring
that tocsin bell.
So the aquarelle is finished, and cui bono? was the time,
in Reproducing such a picture, worth the subject some
may ask, Yes, this scribbling, and this rhyming, and the grateful
thoughts that chime in Are all votive to a loving face well worth a harder task.
On her silken tresses,
On her forehead too;
On each dazzling shoulder,
Where the opal dress Folds towards her girdle,–
Leave a pure caress.