A WOMAN'S LAST WORD" is one of moral and intellectual self-surrender.
She has been contending with her husband, and been silenced by the
feeling, not that the truth is on his side, but that it was not worth
the pain of such a contention. What, she seems to ask herself, is the
value of truth, when it is false to her Divinity; or knowledge, when it
costs her her Eden? She begs him whom she worships as well as loves, to
mould her to himself; but she begs also the privilege of a few tears--a
last tribute, perhaps, to her sacrificed conscience, and her lost
liberty.

"A SERENADE AT THE VILLA" has a tinge of melancholy humour, which makes
it the more pathetic. A lover has been serenading the lady of his
affections through a sultry night, in which Earth seemed to turn
painfully in her sleep, and the silent darkness was unbroken, except by
an occasional flash of lightning, and a few drops of thundery rain. He
wishes his music may have told her that whenever life is dark or
difficult there will be one near to help and guide her: one whose
patience will never tire, and who will serve her best when there are
none to witness his devotion. But her villa looks very dark; its closed
windows are very obdurate. The gate ground its teeth as it let him pass.
And he fears she only said to herself, that if the silence of a thundery
night was oppressive, such noise was a worse infliction.

"ONE WAY OF LOVE." This lover has strewn the roses of a month's
gathering on his lady's path, only for the chance of her seeing them: as
he has conquered the difficulties of the lute, only for the chance of
her liking its sound; thrown his whole life into a love, which is hers
to accept or reject. She cares for none of these things. So the roses
may lie, the lute-string break. The lover can still say, "Blest is he
who wins her."

"RUDEL TO THE LADY OF TRIPOLI" is a pathetic declaration, in which the
lover compares himself to a sunflower, and proclaims it as his badge.
The French poet Rudel loves the "Lady of Tripoli;"[69] and she is dear
to him as is the sun to that foolish flower, which by constant
contemplation has grown into its very resemblance. And he bids a pilgrim
tell her that, as bees bask on the sunflower, men are attracted by his
song; but, as the sunflower looks ever towards the sun, so does he,
disregarding men's applause, look towards the East, and her.

"IN THREE DAYS" is a note of joyful expectation, and doubtless a pure
lyric,