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."

It is as easy as prose to sing in this manner. For example:

"In fact, we need not be concerned; 'at last' comes very soon, and our
Emilia quite forgets the memory of the moon, the moon that shone on
her and us, the woods that heard our vows, the moaning of the waters,
and the murmur of the boughs. She is happy with another, and by her
we're quite forgot; she never lets a thought of us bring shadow on her
lot; and if we meet at dinner she's too clever to repine, and mentions
us to Mr. Smith as 'An old flame of mine.' And shall I grieve that it
is thus? and would I have her weep, and lose her healthy appetite and
break her healthy sleep? Not so, she's not poetical, though ne'er
shall I forget the fairy of my fancy whom I once thought I had met.
The fairy of my fancy! It was fancy, most things are; her emotions
were not steadfast as the shining of a star; but, ah, I love her image
yet, as once it shone on me, and swayed me as the low moon sways the
surging of the sea."

Among other sports his anxious friends hurried the lovelorn Bayly to
Scotland, where he wrote much verse, and then to Dublin, which completed
his cure. "He seemed in the midst of the crowd the gayest of all, his
laughter rang merry and loud at banquet