. Tales from ten poets. he, too, wept for very languorand self-pity, and, with what strength he had,he fixed his eyes on her, and whispered,— If you be what I think you, only some sweetdream, would you could fulfil yourself and bethat Ida whom I knew! I ask you , if you be a dream, Sweet Dream, be per-fect. I shall die to-night. Stoop down, then,and seem to kiss me once before I die. He could say no more, but lay like one ina trance. She turned and paused, and thenstooped down and touched his lips with Prince gave a passionate cry, and caughther in his arms. He felt that h
. Tales from ten poets. he, too, wept for very languorand self-pity, and, with what strength he had,he fixed his eyes on her, and whispered,— If you be what I think you, only some sweetdream, would you could fulfil yourself and bethat Ida whom I knew! I ask you , if you be a dream, Sweet Dream, be per-fect. I shall die to-night. Stoop down, then,and seem to kiss me once before I die. He could say no more, but lay like one ina trance. She turned and paused, and thenstooped down and touched his lips with Prince gave a passionate cry, and caughther in his arms. He felt that his spirit hadunited with Idas in that one brief kiss. Thenhe fell back, and she rose from his embraceglowing all over with noble shame. Her falserself had slipped fiom her like a discarded robe,and left what remained the lovelier for whathad passed away. She rose, now, and glidedforth without a single glance behind her, andthe Prince sank back and slept unbrokenly, withhappy dreams of love and the life that was \\X:\?:c^vA iAVi&v. DANTE GABRIEL KOSSETTI. ROSE MARY. DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTl. I.—O k 13 ROSE MARY. I. Come hither, Mary mine. Leave the garden-close now, and sit by me. The sun is sinking, andthe stars are beginning to twinkle. Come, youshall read them once more in the beryl-stone. Saying this, the aged dame, Eose Marysmother, unbound her girdle and drew forthfrom the folds of her robe a sphere of trans-parent stone, shot through with shadows andtouched with hovering rainbow tints. It was, intruth, a miniature world, reflecting in its glassydepths whatever of the great world about camewithin the circle of its radiance. But to onepure enough to see it showed more than this,for it held in its glowing circumference theunknown as well as the known; the wholefuture, as well as the passing hour. For a thousand years, so went the tale, thisglobe of beryl had lain in the ocean with atreasure wrecked from a Thessalian bark. Ithad cost a human life to bring it back to
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