Part 100

THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS

King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the court. The nobles filled the benches, and the ladies in their pride, And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed: And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another, Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air; Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there."

De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous lively dame, With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the same; She thought, "The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be; He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me; King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine; I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be mine."

She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled; He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild; The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained his place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face. "By Heaven," said Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat; "No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that."

Leigh Hunt [1784-1859]

TO WOMAN

Woman! experience might have told me That all must love thee who behold thee; Surely experience might have taught Thy firmest promises are naught; But, placed in all thy charms before me, All I forget, but to adore thee. Oh, Memory! thou choicest blessing, When joined with hope, when still possessing; But how much cursed by every lover, When hope is fled, and passion's over! Woman, that fair and fond deceiver, How prompt are striplings to believe her! How throbs the pulse when first we view The eye that rolls in glossy blue, Or sparkles black, or mildly throws A beam from under hazel brows! How quick we credit every oath, And hear her plight the willing troth! Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye, When, lo! she changes in a day. This record will forever stand, "Woman, thy vows are traced in sand."

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

LOVE'S SPITE

You take a town you cannot keep; And, forced in turn to fly, O'er ruins you have made shall leap Your deadliest enemy! Her love is yours - and be it so - But can you keep it? No, no, no!

Upon her brow we gazed with awe, And loved, and wished to love, in vain But when the snow begins to thaw We shun with scorn the miry plain. Women with grace may yield: but she Appeared some Virgin Deity.

Bright was her soul as Dian's crest Whitening on Vesta's fane its sheen: Cold looked she as the waveless breast Of some stone Dian at thirteen. Men loved: but hope they deemed to be A sweet Impossibility!

Aubrey Thomas De Vere [1814-1902]

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Of me you shall not win renown: You thought to break a country heart For pastime, ere you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled I saw the snare, and I retired: The daughter of a hundred earls, You are not one to be desired.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I know you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for mine, Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that dotes on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find, For, were you queen of all that is, I could not stoop to such a mind. You sought to prove how I could love, And my disdain is my reply. The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you than I.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You put strange memories in my head. Not thrice your branching limes have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead. O, your sweet eyes, your low replies! A great enchantress you may be; But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind, She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed I heard one bitter word That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere,

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, There stands a specter in your hall; The guilt of blood is at your door; You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fixed a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent, The gardener Adam and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere; You pine among your halls and towers: The languid light of your proud eyes Is wearied of the rolling hours. In glowing health, with boundless wealth, But sickening of a vague disease, You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these.

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, If time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate, Nor any poor about your lands? O, teach the orphan-boy to read, Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, Pray Heaven for a human heart, And let the foolish yeoman go.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

SHADOWS

They seemed, to those who saw them meet, The casual friends of every day, Her smile was undisturbed and sweet, His courtesy was free and gay.

But yet if one the other's name In some unguarded moment heard, The heart you thought so calm and tame Would struggle like a captured bird: