The Poets.

The Lord of Burleigh.

In her ear he whispers gaily,

If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watched thee daily, And I think thou lovest me well." She replies, in accents fainter,

"There is none I love like thee." He is but a landscape-painter,

And a village maiden she. He to lips, that fondly falter,

Presses his without reproof; Leads her to the village altar,

And they leave her father's roof "I can make no marriage present; Little can I give my wife,

Love will make our cottage pleasant, And I love thee more than life." They by parks and lodges going

See the lordly castles stand : Summer woods, about them blowing, Made a murmur in the land. From deep thought himself he rouses, Says to her that loves him well, "Let us see these handsome houses Where the wealthy nobles dwell."

So she goes by him attended,
Hears him lovingly converse,
Sees whatever fair and splendid

Lay betwixt his home and her's;
Parks with oak and chestnut shady,

Parks and ordered gardens great, Ancient homes of lord and lady,

Built for pleasure and for state. All he shows her makes him dearer:

Evermore she seems to gaze

On that cottage growing nearer,

Where they twain will spend their days.

O but she will love him truly!

He shall have a cheerful home; She will order all things duly,

When beneath his roof they come. Thus her heart rejoices greatly,

Till a gateway she discerns With armorial bearings stately,

And beneath the gate she turns; Sees a mansion more majestic

Than all those she saw before:
Many a gallant gay domestic

Bows before him at the door.
And they speak in gentle murmur,
When they answer to his call,
While he treads with footstep firmer,
Leading on from hall to hall.
And, while now she wonders blindly,
Nor the meaning can divine,
Proudly turns he round and kindly,
All of this is mine and thine."

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TENNYSON.

Here he lives in state and bounty,
Lord of Burleigh, fair and free,
Not a lord in all the county

Is so great a lord as he.
All at once the colour flushes

Her sweet face from brow to chin: As it were with shame she blushes, And her spirit changed within Then her countenance all over

Pale again as death did prove;
But he clasped her like a lover,

And he cheered her soul with love.
So she strove against her weakness,
Though at times her spirits sank:
Shaped her heart with woman's meekness
To all duties of her rank:
And a gentle consort made he,

And her gentle mind was such
That she grew a noble lady,

And the people loved her much. But a trouble weighed upon her,

And perplexed her, night and morn, With the burthen of an honour

Unto which she was not born.
Faint she grew, and ever fainter,

As she murmured, "Oh, that he
Were once more that landscape-painter,
Which did win my heart from me!"
So she drooped and drooped before him,
Fading slowly from his side:
Three fair children first she bore him,
Then before her time she died.

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