THE ESSENCE OF SIN. BY HARTLEY COLERIDGE. [Son of Samuel Taylor Coleridge: born 1796; studied at Merton and Oriel Colleges, Oxford, but forfeited the Oriel fellowship by dissipation; wrote beautiful sonnets for the London Magazine; took pupils at Ambleside for a while, and lived there till his death in 1849.] IF I have sinned in act, I may repent; If I have erred in thought, I may disclaim Or being bad, yet murmurs at the curse That makes my hungry passion still keep Lent Where in all worlds that round the sun revolve, And shed their influence on this passive ball, VAIN VIRTUES. BY DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. [1828-1882; for biographical sketch, see Vol. 10, page 282.] WHAT is the sorriest thing that enters Hell? None of the sins, but this and that fair deed Together now, in snake-bound shuddering sheaves Night sucks them down, the tribute of the pit, LOST DAYS. BY DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. THE lost days of my life until to-day, Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet? God knows I know the faces I shall see, THE RED FISHERMAN; OR THE DEVIL'S DECOY. BY WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. [WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED, English writer of "vers de société,” was born July 26, 1802, in London. A boy of great early brilliancy, he was prominent in school journalism at Eton, and had a wonderful career at Trinity College, Cambridge. He won a fellowship, contributed much to Knight's Quarterly, became a private tutor, entered the law, took to politics, and was member of Parliament for most of the time from 1830 till his death in 1839. His collected "Poems" contain several pieces of permanent popularity.] - Romeo and Juliet. "O flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified! A starlight sky was o'er his head, A quiet breeze around; And the flowers a thrilling fragrance shed, It was not an hour, nor a scene, for aught Yet the holy man had a cloud of thought He gazed on the river that gurgled by, He clasped his gilded rosary, But he did not tell the beads; If he looked to the heaven, 'twas not to invoke The Spirit that dwelleth there; If he opened his lips, the words they spoke A pious priest might the Abbot seem, He had swayed the crosier well; But what was the theme of the Abbot's dream, The Abbot were loath to tell. Companionless, for a mile or more, And terraced lawns, whose bright arcades As a lover thinks of constancy, Or an advocate of truth. He did not mark how the skies in wrath He did not mark how the mossy path Grew damp beneath his tread; And nearer he came, and still more near, To a pool, in whose recess The water had slept for many a year, Unchanged and motionless; From the river stream it spread away The space of half a rood; The surface had the hue of clay And the scent of human blood; The trees and the herbs that round it grew And the birds that through the bushes flew Were the vulture and the owl; The water was as dark and rank As ever a company pumped, And the perch, that was netted and laid on the bank, Grew rotten while it jumped; And bold was the man who thither came At midnight, man or boy, For the place was cursed with an evil name, The Abbot was weary as abbot could be, Was it a song, or was it a moan? "Oho! Oho! Above- below Lightly and brightly they glide and go! And the lifeblood colder run: The startled priest struck both his thighs, Sunk in their deep and hollow sockets There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, As he took forth a bait from his iron box. Minnow or gentle, worm or fly It seemed not such to the Abbot's eye; Cold by this was the midnight air; But the Abbot's blood ran colder, When he saw a gasping knight lie there, With a gash beneath his clotted hair, And a hump upon his shoulder. And the loyal churchman strove in vain For he who writhed in mortal pain Was camped that night on Bosworth plain The cruel Duke of Glo'ster! There was turning of keys and creaking of locks, As he took forth a bait from his iron box. It was a haunch of princely size, Filling with fragrance earth and skies. |