Jeames imitated him:
"R. Hangeline, R. Lady mine,
Dost thou remember Jeames!"
We should do the trick quite differently now, more like this:
"Love spake to me and said:
'Oh, lips, be mute;
Let that one name be dead,
That memory flown and fled,
Untouched that lute!
Go forth,' said Love, 'with willow in thy hand,
And in thy hair
Dead blossoms wear,
Blown from the sunless land.
"'Go forth,' said Love; 'thou never more shalt see
Her shadow glimmer by the trysting tree;
But SHE is glad,
With roses crowned and clad,
Who hath forgotten thee!'
But I made answer: 'Love!
Tell me no more thereof,
For she has drunk of that same cup as I.
Yea, though her eyes be dry,
She garners there for me
Tears salter than the sea,
Even till the day she die.'
So gave I Love the lie."
I declare I nearly weep over these lines; for, though they are only
Bayly's sentiment hastily recast in a modern manner, there is
something so very affecting, mouldy, and unwholesome about them,
that they sound as if they had been "written up to" a sketch by a
disciple of Mr. Rossetti's.
In a mood much more manly and moral, Mr. Bayly wrote another poem to
the young lady:
"May thy lot in life be happy, undisturbed by thoughts of me,
The God who shelters innocence thy guard and guide will be.
Thy heart will lose the chilling sense of hopeless love at last,
And the sunshine of the future chase the shadows of the past.
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