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And you, great sculptor—so, you gave A score of years to Art, her slave, And that's your Venus, whence we turn To yonder girl that fords the burn! You acquiesce, and shall I repine? What, man of music, you grown gray With notes and nothing else to say, Is this your sole praise from a friend, "Greatly his opera's strains intend, But in music we know how fashions end!" I gave my youth: but we ride, in fine.
Who knows what's fit for us? Had fate Proposed bliss here should sublimate My being—had I signed the bond— Still one must lead some life beyond, Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. This foot once planted on the goal, This glory-garland round my soul, Could I descry such? Try and test! I sink back shuddering from the quest. Earth being so good, would heaven seem best? Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride.
And yet—she has not spoke so long! What if heaven be that, fair and strong At life's best, with our eyes upturned Whither life's flower is first discerned, We, fixed so, ever should so abide? What if we still ride on, we two, With life forever old yet new, Changed not in kind but in degree, The instant made eternity,— And heaven just prove that I and she Ride, ride together, forever ride?
Robert Browning [1812-1889]
YOUTH AND ART
It once might have been, once only: We lodged in a street together, You, a sparrow on the housetop lonely, I, a lone she-bird of his feather.
Your trade was with sticks and clay, You thumbed, thrust, patted, and polished, Then laughed, "They will see some day Smith made, and Gibson demolished."
My business was song, song, song; I chirped, cheeped, trilled, and twittered, "Kate Brown's on the boards ere long, And Grisi's existence embittered!"
I earned no more by a warble Than you by a sketch in plaster; You wanted a piece of marble, I needed a music-master.
We studied hard in our styles, Chipped each at a crust like Hindoos, For air, looked out on the tiles, For fun, watched each other's windows.
You lounged, like a boy of the South, Cap and blouse—nay, a bit of beard too; Or you got it, rubbing your mouth With fingers the clay adhered to.
And I—soon managed to find Weak points in the flower-fence facing, Was forced to put up a blind, And be safe in my corset-lacing.
No harm! It was not my fault If you never turned your eye's tail up, As I shook upon E in alt., Or ran the chromatic scale up:
For spring bade the sparrows pair, And the boys and girls gave guesses, And stalls in our street looked rare With bulrush and water-cresses.
Why did not you pinch a flower In a pellet of clay and fling it? Why did not I put a power Of thanks in a look, or sing it?
I did look; sharp as a lynx (And yet the memory rankles), When models arrived, some minx Tripped up-stairs, she and her ankles.
But I think I gave you as good! "That foreign fellow,—who can know How she pays, in a playful mood, For his tuning her that piano?"
Could you say so, and never say, "Suppose we join hands and fortunes, And I fetch her from over the way, Her, piano, and long tunes and short tunes"?
No, no: you would not be rash, Nor I rasher and something over: You've to settle yet Gibson's hash, And Grisi yet lives in clover.
But you meet the Prince at the Board, I'm queen myself at bals-pare, I've married a rich old lord, And you're dubbed knight and an R. A.
Each life unfulfilled, you see; It hangs still, patchy and scrappy: We have not sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted, despaired,—been happy.
And nobody calls you a dunce, And people suppose me clever: This could but have happened once, And we missed it, lost it forever.
Robert Browning [1812-1889]
TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA
I wonder do you feel to-day As I have felt since, hand in hand, We sat down on the grass, to stray In spirit better through the land, This morn of Rome and May?
For me, I touched a thought, I know, Has tantalized me many times, (Like turns of thread the spiders throw Mocking across our path) for rhymes To catch at and let go.
Help me to hold it! First it left The yellowing fennel, run to seed There, branching from the brickwork's cleft, Some old tomb's ruin: yonder weed Took up the floating weft,
Where one small orange cup amassed Five beetles,—blind and green they grope Among the honey-meal: and last, Everywhere on the grassy slope I traced it. Hold it fast!
The champaign with its endless fleece Of feathery grasses everywhere! Silence and passion, joy and peace, And everlasting wash of air— Rome's ghost since her decease.
Such life here, through such lengths of hours, Such miracles performed in play, Such primal naked forms of flowers, Such letting Nature have her way While Heaven looks from its towers!
How say you? Let us, O my dove, Let us be unashamed of soul, As earth lies bare to heaven above! How is it under our control To love or not to love?
I would that you were all to me, You that are just so much, no more. Nor yours, nor mine—nor slave nor free! Where does the fault lie? What the core Of the wound, since wound must be?
I would I could adopt your will, See with your eyes, and set my heart Beating by yours, and drink my fill At your soul's springs,—your part, my part In life, for good and ill.
No. I yearn upward, touch you close, Then stand away. I kiss your cheek, Catch your soul's warmth,—I pluck the rose And love it more than tongue can speak— Then the good minute goes.
Already how am I so far Out of that minute? Must I go Still like the thistle-ball, no bar, Onward, whenever light winds blow, Fixed by no friendly star?
Just when I seemed about to learn! Where is the thread now? Off again! The old trick! Only I discern— Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn.
Robert Browning [1812-1889]
ONE WAY OF LOVE
All June I bound the rose in sheaves. Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves And strew them where Pauline may pass. She will not turn aside? Alas! Let them lie. Suppose they die? The chance was they might take her eye.
How many a month I strove to suit These stubborn fingers to the lute! To-day I venture all I know. She will not hear my music? So! Break the string; fold music's wing: Suppose Pauline had bade me sing!
My whole life long I learned to love. This hour my utmost art I prove And speak my passion—heaven or hell? She will not give me heaven? 'Tis well! Lose who may—I still can say, Those who win heaven, blest are they!
Robert Browning [1812-1889]
"NEVER THE TIME AND THE PLACE"
Never the time and the place And the loved one all together! This path—how soft to pace! This May—what magic weather! Where is the loved one's face? In a dream that loved one's face meets mine, But the house is narrow, the place is bleak Where, outside, rain and wind combine With a furtive ear, if I strive to speak, With a hostile eye at my flushing cheek, With a malice that marks each word, each sign! O enemy sly and serpentine, Uncoil thee from the waking man! Do I hold the Past Thus firm and fast Yet doubt if the Future hold I can? This path so soft to pace shall lead Through the magic of May to herself indeed! Or narrow if needs the house must be, Outside are the storms and strangers: we— Oh, close, safe, warm sleep I and she, —I and she!
Robert Browning [1812-1889]
SONG From "The Saint's Tragedy"
Oh! that we two were Maying Down the stream of the soft spring breeze; Like children with violets playing In the shade of the whispering trees.
Oh! that we two sat dreaming On the sward of some sheep-trimmed down, Watching the white mist steaming Over river and mead and town.
Oh! that we two lay sleeping In our nest in the churchyard sod, With our limbs at rest on the quiet earth's breast, And our souls at home with God!
Charles Kingsley [1819-1875]
FOR HE HAD GREAT POSSESSIONS
Ah! marvel not if when I come to die And follow Death the way my fancies went Year after fading year, the last mad sky Finds me impenitent; For though my heart went doubting through the night, With many a backward glance at heaven's face, Yet found I many treasures of delight Within this pleasant place.
I shall not grieve because the girls were fair And kinder than the world, nor shall I weep Because with crying lips and clinging hair They stole away my sleep. For lacking this I might not yet have known How high the heart could climb, or waking seen The mountains bare their silver breasts of stone From their chaste robes of green.
Though it were all a sin, within the mirth And pain of life I found a song above Our songs, in her who scattered on the earth Her glad largesse of love; And though she held some dream that was not ours In some far place that was not for our feet, Where blew across the gladder, madder flowers A wind more bitter-sweet.
Ah! who shall hearten when the music stops, For joy of silence? While they dreamed above She showed me love upon the mountain tops And in the valleys, love. And while the wise found heaven with their charts And lore of souls, she made an earth for me More sweet than all, and from our beating hearts She called the pulsing sea.
So marvel not if in the days when death Shall make my body mine, I do not cry For hours and treasure lost, but with my breath Praise my mortality. For lo! this place is fair, and losing all That I have won and dreamed beneath her kiss, I would not see the light of morning fall On any world but this.
Richard Middleton [1882-1911]
WINDLE-STRAWS
She kissed me on the forehead, She spoke not any word, The silence flowed between us, And I nor spoke nor stirred.
So hopeless for my sake it was, So full of ruth, so sweet, My whole heart rose and blessed her, —Then died before her feet.
Edward Dowden [1843-1913]
JESSIE
When Jessie comes with her soft breast, And yields the golden keys, Then is it as if God caressed Twin babes upon His knees— Twin babes that, each to other pressed, Just feel the Father's arms, wherewith they both are blessed,
But when I think if we must part, And all this personal dream be fled— O then my heart! O then my useless heart! Would God that thou wert dead— A clod insensible to joys and ills— A stone remote in some bleak gully of the hills!
Thomas Edward Brown [1830-1897]
THE CHESS-BOARD
My little love, do you remember, Ere we were grown so sadly wise, Those evenings in the bleak December, Curtained warm from the snowy weather, When you and I played chess together, Checkmated by each other's eyes?
Ah! still I see your soft white hand Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight; Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand; The double Castles guard the wings; The Bishop, bent on distant things, Moves, sliding, through the fight.
Our fingers touch; our glances meet, And falter; falls your golden hair Against my cheek; your bosom sweet Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen Rides slow, her soldiery all between, And checks me unaware.
Ah me! the little battle's done: Dispersed is all its chivalry. Full many a move, since then, have we 'Mid Life's perplexing chequers made, And many a game with Fortune played;— What is it we have won? This, this at least,—if this alone:
That never, never, never more, As in those old still nights of yore (Ere we were grown so sadly wise), Can you and I shut out the skies, Shut out the world and wintry weather, And, eyes exchanging warmth with eyes, Play chess, as then we played together!
Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton [1831-1891]
AUX ITALIENS
At Paris it was, at the Opera there;— And she looked like a queen in a book that night, With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, And the brooch on her breast, so bright.
Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; And Mario can soothe with a tenor note The souls in Purgatory.
The moon on the tower slept soft as snow: And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, "Non ti scordar di me"?
The Emperor there, in his box of state, Looked grave, as if he had just then seen The red flag wave from the city-gate Where his eagles in bronze had been.
The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye. You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again, For one moment, under the old blue sky, To the old glad life in Spain.
Well! there in our front-row box we sat, Together, my bride-betrothed and I; My gaze was fixed on my opera-hat, And hers on the stage hard by.
And both were silent, and both were sad. Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm, With that regal, indolent air she had; So confident of her charm!
I have not a doubt she was thinking then Of her former lord, good soul that he was! Who died the richest and roundest of men, The Marquis of Carabas.
I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, Through a needle's eye he had not to pass. I wish him well, for the jointure given To my lady of Carabas.
Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love, As I had not been thinking of aught for years, Till over my eyes there began to move Something that felt like tears.
I thought of the dress that she wore last time, When we stood, 'neath the cypress-trees, together, In that lost land, in that soft clime, In the crimson evening weather;
Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot), And her warm white neck in its golden chain, And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot, And falling loose again;
And the jasmine-flower in her fair young breast, (O the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine-flower!) And the one bird singing alone to his nest, And the one star over the tower.
I thought of our little quarrels and strife, And the letter that brought me back my ring. And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, Such a very little thing!
For I thought of her grave below the hill, Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over; And I thought... "were she only living still, How I could forgive her, and love her!"
And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, And of how, after all, old things were best, That I smelt the smell of that jasmine-flower Which she used to wear in her breast.
It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, It made me creep, and it made me cold! Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet Where a mummy is half unrolled.
And I turned, and looked. She was sitting there In a dim box, over the stage; and dressed In that muslin dress with that full soft hair, And that jasmine in her breast!
I was here; and she was there; And the glittering horseshoe curved between:— From my bride-betrothed, with her raven hair, And her sumptuous scornful mien,
To my early love, with her eyes downcast, And over her primrose face the shade (In short from the Future back to the Past). There was but a step to be made.
To my early love from my future bride One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, I traversed the passage; and down at her side I was sitting, a moment more.
My thinking of her, or the music's strain, Or something which never will be expressed, Had brought her back from the grave again, With the jasmine in her breast.
She is not dead, and she is not wed! But she loves me now, and she loved me then! And the very first word that her sweet lips said, My heart grew youthful again.
The Marchioness there, of Carabas, She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still, And but for her... well, we'll let that pass, She may marry whomever she will.
But I will marry my own first love, With her primrose face: for old things are best, And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in my lady's breast.
The world is filled with folly and sin, And Love must cling where it can, I say: For Beauty is easy enough to win; But one isn't loved every day.
And I think, in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, If only the dead could find out when To come back, and be forgiven.
But O the smell of that jasmine-flower! And O that music! and O the way That voice rang out from the donjon tower, Non ti scordar di me, Non ti scordar di me!
Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton [1831-1891]
SONG
I saw the day's white rapture Die in the sunset's flame, But all her shining beauty Lives like a deathless name.
Our lamps of joy are wasted, Gone is Love's hallowed light; But you and I remember Through every starlit night.
Charles Hanson Towne [1877-
THE LONELY ROAD
I think thou waitest, Love, beyond the Gate— Eager, with wind-stirred ripples in thy hair; I have not found thee, and the hour is late, And harsh the weight I bear.
Far have I sought, and flung my wealth of years Like a young traveler, gay at careless inns— See how the wine-stain whitens 'neath the tears My burden wins!
And wilt thou know me, Love, with bended back, Or wilt thou scorn me, in so drear a guise? I have a wealth of sorrows in my pack, One lonely prize—
Thy dream—and dross of sin.... O, dim the fields— I may not find thee in so dark a land— Yet I await what hope the turning yields And beg with empty hand.
Kenneth Rand [1891-
EVENSONG
Beauty calls and gives no warning, Shadows rise and wander on the day. In the twilight, in the quiet evening, We shall rise and smile and go away. Over the flaming leaves Freezes the sky. It is the season grieves, Not you, not I. All our spring-times, all our summers, We have kept the longing warm within. Now we leave the after-comers To attain the dreams we did not win. Oh, we have wakened, Sweet, and had our birth, And that's the end of earth; And we have toiled and smiled and kept the light, And that's the end of night.
Ridgely Torrence [1875-
THE NYMPH'S SONG TO HYLAS From "The Life and Death of Jason"
I know a little garden-close Set thick with lily and red rose, Where I would wander if I might From dewy dawn to dewy night, And have one with me wandering.
And though within it no birds sing, And though no pillared house is there, And though the apple boughs are bare Of fruit and blossom, would to God, Her feet upon the green grass trod, And I beheld them as before!
There comes a murmur from the shore, And in the close two fair streams are, Drawn from the purple hills afar, Drawn down unto the restless sea; Dark hills whose heath-bloom feeds no bee, Dark shore no ship has ever seen, Tormented by the billows green, Whose murmur comes unceasingly Unto the place for which I cry.
For which I cry both day and night, For which I let slip all delight, Whereby I grow both deaf and blind, Careless to win, unskilled to find, And quick to lose what all men seek.
Yet tottering as I am, and weak, Still have I left a little breath To seek within the jaws of death An entrance to that happy place; To seek the unforgotten face Once seen, once kissed, once reft from me Anigh the murmuring of the sea.
William Morris [1834-1896]
NO AND YES
If I could choose my paradise, And please myself with choice of bliss, Then I would have your soft blue eyes And rosy little mouth to kiss! Your lips, as smooth and tender, child, As rose-leaves in a coppice wild.
If fate bade choose some sweet unrest, To weave my troubled life a snare, Then I would say "her maiden breast And golden ripple of her hair"; And weep amid those tresses, child, Contented to be thus beguiled.
Thomas Ashe [1836-1889]
LOVE IN DREAMS
Love hath his poppy-wreath, Not Night alone. I laid my head beneath Love's lilied throne: Then to my sleep he brought This anodyne— The flower of many a thought And fancy fine: A form, a face, no more; Fairer than truth; A dream from death's pale shore; The soul of youth: A dream so dear, so deep, All dreams above, That still I pray to sleep— Bring Love back, Love!
John Addington Symonds [1840-1893]
"A LITTLE WHILE I FAIN WOULD LINGER YET"
A little while (my life is almost set!) I fain would pause along the downward way, Musing an hour in this sad sunset-ray, While, Sweet! our eyes with tender tears are wet: A little hour I fain would linger yet.
A little while I fain would linger yet, All for love's sake, for love that cannot tire; Though fervid youth be dead, with youth's desire, And hope has faded to a vague regret, A little while I fain would linger yet.
A little while I fain would linger here: Behold! who knows what strange, mysterious bars 'Twixt souls that love may rise in other stars? Nor can love deem the face of death is fair: A little while I still would linger here.
A little while I yearn to hold thee fast, Hand locked in hand, and loyal heart to heart; (O pitying Christ! those woeful words, "We part!") So, ere the darkness fall, the light be past, A little while I fain would hold thee fast.
A little while, when light and twilight meet,— Behind, our broken years; before, the deep Weird wonder of the last unfathomed sleep,— A little while I still would clasp thee, Sweet, A little while, when night and twilight meet.
A little while I fain would linger here; Behold! who knows what soul-dividing bars Earth's faithful loves may part in other stars? Nor can love deem the face of death is fair: A little while I still would linger here.
Paul Hamilton Hayne [1830-1886]
SONG
I made another garden, yea, For my new Love: I left the dead rose where it lay And set the new above. Why did my Summer not begin? Why did my heart not haste? My old Love came and walked therein, And laid the garden waste.
She entered with her weary smile, Just as of old; She looked around a little while And shivered with the cold: Her passing touch was death to all, Her passing look a blight; She made the white rose-petals fall, And turned the red rose white.
Her pale robe clinging to the grass Seemed like a snake That bit the grass and ground, alas! And a sad trail did make. She went up slowly to the gate, And there, just as of yore, She turned back at the last to wait And say farewell once more.
Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844-1881]
SONG
Has summer come without the rose, Or left the bird behind? Is the blue changed above thee, O world! or am I blind? Will you change every flower that grows, Or only change this spot, Where she who said, I love thee, Now says, I love thee not?
The skies seemed true above thee, The rose true on the tree; The bird seemed true the summer through, But all proved false to me. World! is there one good thing in you, Life, love, or death—or what? Since lips that sang, I love thee, Have said, I love thee not?
I think the sun's kiss will scarce fall Into one flower's gold cup; I think the bird will miss me, And give the summer up. O sweet place! desolate in tall Wild grass, have you forgot How her lips loved to kiss me, Now that they kiss me not?
Be false or fair above me, Come back with any face, Summer!—do I care what you do? You cannot change one place— The grass, the leaves, the earth, the dew, The grave I make the spot— Here, where she used to love me, Here, where she loves me not.
Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844-1881]
AFTER
A little time for laughter, A little time to sing, A little time to kiss and cling, And no more kissing after.
A little while for scheming Love's unperfected schemes; A little time for golden dreams, Then no more any dreaming.
A little while 'twas given To me to have thy love; Now, like a ghost, alone I move About a ruined heaven.
A little time for speaking Things sweet to say and hear; A time to seek, and find thee near, Then no more any seeking.
A little time for saying Words the heart breaks to say; A short sharp time wherein to pray, Then no more need of praying;
But long, long years to weep in, And comprehend the whole Great grief that desolates the soul, And eternity to sleep in.
Philip Bourke Marston [1850-1887]
AFTER SUMMER
We'll not weep for summer over,— No, not we: Strew above his head the clover,— Let him be!
Other eyes may weep his dying, Shed their tears There upon him, where he's lying With his peers.
Unto some of them he proffered Gifts most sweet; For our hearts a grave he offered,— Was this meet?
All our fond hopes, praying, perished In his wrath,— All the lovely dreams we cherished Strewed his path.
Shall we in our tombs, I wonder, Far apart, Sundered wide as seas can sunder Heart from heart,
Dream at all of all the sorrows That were ours,— Bitter nights, more bitter morrows; Poison-flowers
Summer gathered, as in madness, Saying, "See, These are yours, in place of gladness,— Gifts from me"?
Nay, the rest that will be ours Is supreme,— And below the poppy flowers Steals no dream.
Philip Bourke Marston [1850-1887]
ROCOCO
Take hand and part with laughter; Touch lips and part with tears; Once more and no more after, Whatever comes with years. We twain shall not remeasure The ways that left us twain; Nor crush the lees of pleasure From sanguine grapes of pain.
We twain once well in sunder, What will the mad gods do For hate with me, I wonder, Or what for love with you? Forget them till November, And dream there's April yet, Forget that I remember, And dream that I forget.
Time found our tired love sleeping, And kissed away his breath; But what should we do weeping, Though light love sleep to death? We have drained his lips at leisure, Till there's not left to drain A single sob of pleasure, A single pulse of pain.
Dream that the lips once breathless Might quicken if they would; Say that the soul is deathless; Dream that the gods are good; Say March may wed September, And time divorce regret; But not that you remember, And not that I forget.
We have heard from hidden places What love scarce lives and hears: We have seen on fervent faces The pallor of strange tears: We have trod the wine-vat's treasure, Whence, ripe to steam and stain, Foams round the feet of pleasure The blood-red must of pain.
Remembrance may recover And time bring back to time The name of your first lover, The ring of my first rhyme: But rose-leaves of December The frosts of June shall fret, The day that you remember, The day that I forget.
The snake that hides and hisses In heaven we twain have known; The grief of cruel kisses, The joy whose mouth makes moan; The pulses' pause and measure, Where in one furtive vein Throbs through the heart of pleasure The purpler blood of pain.
We have done with tears and treasons And love for treason's sake; Room for the swift new seasons, The years that burn and break, Dismantle and dismember Men's days and dreams, Juliette; For love may not remember, But time will not forget.
Life treads down love in flying, Time withers him at root; Bring all dead things and dying, Reaped sheaf and ruined fruit, Where, crushed by three days' pressure Our three days' love lies slain; And earlier leaf of pleasure, And latter flower of pain.
Breathe close upon the ashes, It may be flame will leap; Unclose the soft close lashes, Lift up the lids and weep. Light love's extinguished ember, Let one tear leave it wet For one that you remember And ten that you forget.
Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]
RONDEL
These many years since we began to be, What have the Gods done with us? what with me, What with my love? They have shown me fates and fears, Harsh springs, and fountains bitterer than the sea, Grief a fixed star, and joy a vane that veers, These many years.
With her, my Love,—with her have they done well? But who shall answer for her? who shall tell Sweet things or sad, such things as no man hears? May no tears fall, if no tears ever fell, From eyes more dear to me than starriest spheres, These many years!
But if tears ever touched, for any grief, Those eyelids folded like a white-rose leaf, Deep double shells where through the eye-flower peers, Let them weep once more only, sweet and brief, Brief tears and bright, for one who gave her tears These many years!
Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]
THE OBLATION
Ask nothing more of me, sweet; All I can give you I give. Heart of my heart, were it more, More would be laid at your feet: Love that should help you to live, Song that should spur you to soar.
All things were nothing to give Once to have sense of you more, Touch you and taste of you, sweet, Think you and breathe you and live, Swept of your wings as they soar, Trodden by chance of your feet.
I that have love and no more Give you but love of you, sweet: He that hath more, let him give; He that hath wings, let him soar; Mine is the heart at your feet Here, that must love you to live.
Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]
THE SONG OF THE BOWER From "The House of Life"
Say, is it day, is it dusk in thy bower, Thou whom I long for, who longest for me? Oh! be it light, be it night, 'tis Love's hour, Love's that is fettered as Love's that is free. Free Love has leaped to that innermost chamber, Oh! the last time, and the hundred before: Fettered Love, motionless, can but remember, Yet something that sighs from him passes the door.
Nay, but my heart when it flies to thy bower, What does it find there that knows it again? There it must droop like a shower-beaten flower, Red at the rent core and dark with the rain. Ah! yet what shelter is still shed above it,— What waters still image its leaves torn apart? Thy soul is the shade that clings round it to love it, And tears are its mirror deep down in thy heart.
What were my prize, could I enter thy bower, This day, to-morrow, at eve or at morn? Large lovely arms and a neck like a tower, Bosom then heaving that now lies forlorn. Kindled with love-breath, (the sun's kiss is colder!) Thy sweetness all near me, so distant to-day; My hand round thy neck and thy hand on my shoulder, My mouth to thy mouth as the world melts away.
What is it keeps me afar from thy bower,— My spirit, my body, so fain to be there? Waters engulfing or fires that devour?— Earth heaped against me or death in the air? Nay, but in day-dreams, for terror, for pity, The trees wave their heads with an omen to tell; Nay, but in night-dreams, throughout the dark city, The hours, clashed together, lose count in the bell.
Shall I not one day remember thy bower, One day when all days are one day to me?— Thinking, "I stirred not, and yet had the power," Yearning, "Ah God, if again it might be!" Peace, peace! such a small lamp illumes, on this highway, So dimly so few steps in front of my feet,— Yet shows me that her way is parted from my way.... Out of sight, beyond light, at what goal may we meet?
Dante Gabriel Rossetti [1828-1882]
SONG
We break the glass, whose sacred wine To some beloved health we drain, Lest future pledges, less divine, Should e'er the hallowed toy profane; And thus I broke a heart that poured Its tide of feelings out for thee, In draughts, by after-times deplored, Yet dear to memory.
But still the old, impassioned ways And habits of my mind remain, And still unhappy light displays Thine image chambered in my brain, And still it looks as when the hours Went by like flights of singing birds, Or that soft chain of spoken flowers And airy gems,—thy words.
Edward Coote Pinkney [1802-1828]
MAUD MULLER
Maud Muller on a summer's day Raked the meadow sweet with hay.
Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health.
Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree.
But when she glanced to the far-off town, White from its hill-slope looking down,
The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast,—
A wish that she hardly dared to own, For something better than she had known.
The Judge rode slowly down the lane, Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.
He drew his bridle in the shade Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,
And asked a draught from the spring that flowed Through the meadow across the road.
She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, And filled for him her small tin cup,
And blushed as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.
"Thanks!" said the Judge; "a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed."
He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, Of the singing birds and the humming bees;
Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.
And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, And her graceful ankles bare and brown;
And listened, while a pleased surprise Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.
At last, like one who for delay Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.
Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah me! That I the Judge's bride might be!
"He would dress me up in silks so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine.
"My father should wear a broadcloth coat; My brother should sail a painted boat.
"I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, And the baby should have a new toy each day.
"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door."
The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Muller standing still.
"A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.
"And her modest answer and graceful air Show her wise and good as she is fair.
"Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay;
"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,
"But low of cattle and song of birds, And health and quiet and loving words."
But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold, And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.
So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, And Maud was left in the field alone.
But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, When he hummed in court an old love-tune;
And the young girl mused beside the well Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.
He wedded a wife of richest dower, Who lived for fashion, as he for power.
Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, He watched a picture come and go;
And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent surprise.
Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, He longed for the wayside well instead;
And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.
And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, "Ah, that I were free again!
"Free as when I rode that day, Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay."
She wedded a man unlearned and poor, And many children played round her door.
But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, Left their traces on heart and brain.
And oft, when the summer sun shone hot On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,
And she heard the little spring brook fall Over the roadside, through the wall,
In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein;
And, gazing down with timid grace, She felt his pleased eyes read her face.
Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls;
The weary wheel to a spinet turned, The tallow candle an astral burned,
And for him who sat by the chimney lug, Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,
A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty and love was law.
Then she took up her burden of life again, Saying only, "It might have been."
Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, For rich repiner and household drudge!
God pity them both! and pity us all, Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.
For all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: "It might have been!"
Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes;
And, in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away!
John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892]
LA GRISETTE
Ah, Clemence! when I saw thee last Trip down the Rue de Seine, And turning, when thy form had passed, I said, "We meet again,— I dreamed not in that idle glance Thy latest image came, And only left to memory's trance A shadow and a name.
The few strange words my lips had taught Thy timid voice to speak, Their gentler signs, which often brought Fresh roses to thy cheek, The trailing of thy long loose hair Bent o'er my couch of pain, All, all returned, more sweet, more fair; Oh, had we met again!
I walked where saint and virgin keep The vigil lights of Heaven, I knew that thou hadst woes to weep, And sins to be forgiven; I watched where Genevieve was laid, I knelt by Mary's shrine, Beside me low, soft voices prayed; Alas! but where was thine?
And when the morning sun was bright, When wind and wave were calm, And flamed, in thousand-tinted light, The rose of Notre Dame, I wandered through the haunts of men, From Boulevard to Quai, Till, frowning o'er Saint Etienne, The Pantheon's shadow lay.
In vain, in vain; we meet no more, Nor dream what fates befall; And long upon the stranger's shore My voice on thee may call, When years have clothed the line in moss That tells thy name and days, And withered, on thy simple cross, The wreaths of Pere-la-Chaise!
Oliver Wendell Holmes [1809-1894]
THE DARK MAN
Rose o' the World, she came to my bed And changed the dreams of my heart and head; For joy of mine she left grief of hers, And garlanded me with a crown of furze.
Rose o' the World, they go out and in, And watch me dream and my mother spin; And they pity the tears on my sleeping face While my soul's away in a fairy place.
Rose o' the World, they have words galore, And wide's the swing of my mother's door: And soft they speak of my darkened eyes— But what do they know, who are all so wise?
Rose o' the World, the pain you give Is worth all days that a man may live— Worth all shy prayers that the colleens say On the night that darkens the wedding-day.
Rose o' the World, what man would wed When he might dream of your face instead? Might go to the grave with the blessed pain Of hungering after your face again?
Rose o' the World, they may talk their fill, For dreams are good, and my life stands still While their lives' red ashes the gossips stir; But my fiddle knows—and I talk to her.
Nora Hopper [1871-1906]
EURYDICE
He came to call me back from death To the bright world above. I hear him yet with trembling breath Low calling, "O sweet love! Come back! The earth is just as fair; The flowers, the open skies are there; Come back to life and love!"
Oh! all my heart went out to him, And the sweet air above. With happy tears my eyes were dim; I called him, "O sweet love! I come, for thou art all to me. Go forth, and I will follow thee, Right back to life and love!
I followed through the cavern black; I saw the blue above. Some terror turned me to look back: I heard him wail, "O love! What hast thou done! What hast thou done!" And then I saw no more the sun, And lost were life and love.
Francis William Bourdillon [1852-1921]
A WOMAN'S THOUGHT
I am a woman—therefore I may not Call to him, cry to him, Fly to him, Bid him delay not!
Then when he comes to me, I must sit quiet: Still as a stone— All silent and cold. If my heart riot— Crush and defy it! Should I grow bold, Say one dear thing to him, All my life fling to him, Cling to him— What to atone Is enough for my sinning! This were the cost to me, This were my winning— That he were lost to me.
Not as a lover At last if he part from me, Tearing my heart from me, Hurt beyond cure,— Calm and demure Then must I hold me, In myself fold me, Lest he discover; Showing no sign to him By look of mine to him What he has been to me— How my heart turns to him, Follows him, yearns to him, Prays him to love me.
Pity me, lean to me, Thou God above me!
Richard Watson Gilder [1844-1900]
LAUS VENERIS A Picture By Burne-Jones
Pallid with too much longing, White with passion and prayer, Goddess of love and beauty, She sits in the picture there,—
Sits with her dark eyes seeking Something more subtle still Than the old delights of loving Her measureless days to fill.
She has loved and been loved so often In her long, immortal years, That she tires of the worn-out rapture, Sickens of hopes and fears.
No joys or sorrows move her, Done with her ancient pride; For her head she found too heavy The crown she has cast aside.
Clothed in her scarlet splendor, Bright with her glory of hair Sad that she is not mortal,— Eternally sad and fair,
Longing for joys she knows not, Athirst with a vain desire, There she sits in the picture, Daughter of foam and fire.
Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908]
ADONAIS
Shall we meet no more, my love, at the binding of the sheaves, In the happy harvest-fields, as the sun sinks low, When the orchard paths are dim with the drift of fallen leaves, And the reapers sing together, in the mellow, misty eves: O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow!
Love met us in the orchard, ere the corn had gathered plume,— O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Sweet as summer days that die when the months are in the bloom, And the peaks are ripe with sunset, like the tassels of the broom, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.
Sweet as summer days that die, leafing sweeter each to each,— O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! All the heart was full of feeling: love had ripened into speech, Like the sap that turns to nectar in the velvet of the peach, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.
Sweet as summer days that die at the ripening of the corn,— O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Sweet as lovers' fickle oaths, sworn to faithless maids forsworn, When the musty orchard breathes like a mellow drinking-horn, Over happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.
Love left us at the dying of the mellow autumn eves,— O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! When the skies are ripe and fading, like the colors of the leaves, And the reapers kiss and part, at the binding of the sheaves, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.
Then the reapers gather home, from the gray and misty meres;— O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Then the reapers gather home, and they bear upon their spears, One whose face is like the moon, fallen gray among the spheres, With the daylight's curse upon it, as the sun sinks low.
Faint as far-off bugles blowing, soft and low the reapers sung;— O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Sweet as summer in the blood, when the heart is ripe and young, Love is sweetest in the dying, like the sheaves he lies among, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.
William Wallace Harney [1831-1912]
FACE TO FACE
If my face could only promise that its color would remain; If my heart were only certain it would hide the moment's pain; I would meet you and would greet you in the old familiar tone, And naught should ever show you the wrong that you have done.
If my trembling hand were steady, if my smiles had not all fled; If my eyes spoke not so plainly of the tears they often shed; I would meet you and would greet you at the old trysting place, And perchance you'd deem me happy if you met me face to face.
If the melody of Springtime awoke no wild refrain, If the Autumn's gold burthen awoke no living pain, I would meet you and would greet you, as years ago we met, Before our hearts were shipwrecked on the ocean of regret.
If my woman's soul were stronger, if my heart were not so true, I should long have ceased remembering the love I had for you; But I dare not meet or greet you, in the old familiar way, Until we meet in Heaven, where all tears have passed away.
Frances Cochrane [18—
ASHORE
Out I came from the dancing-place, The night-wind met me face to face,—
A wind off the harbor, cold and keen, "I know," it whistled, "where thou hast been."
A faint voice fell from the stars above— "Thou? whom we lighted to shrines of Love!"
I found when I reached my lonely room A faint sweet scent in the unlit gloom.
And this was the worst of all to bear, For some one had left white lilac there.
The flower you loved, in times that were.
Laurence Hope [1865-1904]
KHRISTNA AND HIS FLUTE
Be still, my heart, and listen, For sweet and yet acute I hear the wistful music Of Khristna and his flute. Across the cool, blue evenings, Throughout the burning days, Persuasive and beguiling, He plays and plays and plays.
Ah, none may hear such music Resistant to its charms, The household work grows weary, And cold the husband's arms. I must arise and follow, To seek, in vain pursuit, The blueness and the distance, The sweetness of that flute!
In linked and liquid sequence, The plaintive notes dissolve Divinely tender secrets That none but he can solve. O Khristna, I am coming, I can no more delay. "My heart has flown to join thee," How shall my footsteps stay?
Beloved, such thoughts have peril; The wish is in my mind That I had fired the jungle, And left no leaf behind,— Burnt all bamboos to ashes, And made their music mute,— To save thee from the magic Of Khristna and his flute.
Laurence Hope [1865-1904]
IMPENITENTIA ULTIMA
Before my light goes out forever, if God should give me choice of graces, I would not reck of length of days, nor crave for things to be; But cry: "One day of the great lost days, one face of all the faces, Grant me to see and touch once more and nothing more to see!
"For, Lord, I was free of all Thy flowers, but I chose the world's sad roses, And that is why my feet are torn and mine eyes are blind with sweat, But at Thy terrible judgment seat, when this my tired life closes, I am ready to reap whereof I sowed, and pay my righteous debt.
"But once, before the sand is run and the silver thread is broken, Give me a grace and cast aside the veil of dolorous years, Grant me one hour of all mine hours, and let me see for a token Her pure and pitiful eyes shine out, and bathe her feet with tears."
Her pitiful hands should calm and her hair stream down and blind me, Out of the sight of night, and out of the reach of fear, And her eyes should be my light whilst the sun went out behind me, And the viols in her voice be the last sound in mine ear.
Before the ruining waters fall and my life be carried under, And Thine anger cleave me through, as a child cuts down a flower, I will praise Thee, Lord, in hell, while my limbs are racked asunder, For the last sad sight of her face and the little grace of an hour.
Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]
NON SUM QUALIS ERAM BONAE SUB REGNO CYNARAE
Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine; And I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head. I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat, Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay; Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, When I awoke and found the dawn was gray: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind, Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng, Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, all the time, because the dance was long: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I cried for madder music and for stronger wine, But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire, Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine; And I am desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]
QUID NON SPEREMUS, AMANTES?
Why is there in the least touch of her hands More grace than other women's lips bestow, If love is but a slave to fleshly bands Of flesh to flesh, wherever love may go?
Why choose vain grief and heavy-hearted hours For her lost voice, and dear remembered hair, If love may cull his honey from all flowers, And girls grow thick as violets, everywhere?
Nay! She is gone, and all things fall apart; Or she is cold, and vainly have we prayed; And broken is the summer's splendid heart, And hope within a deep, dark grave is laid.
As man aspires and falls, yet a soul springs Out of his agony of flesh at last, So love that flesh enthralls, shall rise on wings Soul-centered, when the rule of flesh is past.
Then, most High Love, or wreathed with myrtle sprays, Or crownless and forlorn, nor less a star, Thee may I serve and follow all my days, Whose thorns are sweet as never roses are!
Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]
"SO SWEET LOVE SEEMED"
So sweet love seemed that April morn, When first we kissed beside the thorn, So strangely sweet, it was not strange We thought that love could never change.
But I can tell—let truth be told— That love will change in growing old; Though day by day is naught to see, So delicate his motions be.
And in the end 'twill come to pass Quite to forget what once he was, Nor even in fancy to recall The pleasure that was all in all.
His little spring, that sweet we found, So deep in summer floods is drowned, I wonder, bathed in joy complete, How love so young could be so sweet.
Robert Bridges [1844-1930]
AN OLD TUNE After Gerard De Nerval
There is an air for which I would disown Mozart's, Rossini's, Weber's melodies,— A sweet sad air that languishes and sighs, And keeps its secret charm for me alone.
Whene'er I hear that music vague and old, Two hundred years are mist that rolls away; The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I behold A green land golden in the dying day.
An old red castle, strong with stony towers, And windows gay with many-colored glass; Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers, That bathe the castle basement as they pass.
In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair, A lady looks forth from her window high; It may be that I knew and found her fair, In some forgotten life, long time gone by.
Andrew Lang [1844-1912]
REFUGE
Set your face to the sea, fond lover,— Cold in darkness the sea-winds blow! Waves and clouds and the night will cover All your passion and all your woe: Sobbing waves, and the death within them, Sweet as the lips that once you pressed— Pray that your hopeless heart may win them! Pray that your weary life may rest!
Set your face to the stars, fond lover,— Calm, and silent, and bright, and true!— They will pity you, they will hover Softly over the deep for you. Winds of heaven will sigh your dirges, Tears of heaven for you be spent, And sweet for you will the murmuring surges Pour the wail of their low lament.
Set your face to the lonely spaces, Vast and gaunt, of the midnight sky! There, with the drifting cloud, your place is, There with the griefs that cannot die. Love is a mocking fiend's derision, Peace a phantom, and faith a snare! Make the hope of your heart a vision— Look to heaven, and find it there!
William Winter [1836-
MIDSUMMER
After the May time and after the June time Rare with blossoms and perfume sweet, Cometh the round world's royal noon time, The red midsummer of blazing heat, When the sun, like an eye that never closes, Bends on the earth its fervid gaze, And the winds are still, and the crimson roses Droop and wither and die in its rays.
Unto my heart has come this season, O, my lady, my worshiped one, When, over the stars of Pride and Reason, Sails Love's cloudless, noonday sun. Like a great red ball in my bosom burning With fires that nothing can quench or tame, It glows till my heart itself seems turning Into a liquid lake of flame.
The hopes half shy and the sighs all tender, The dreams and fears of an earlier day, Under the noontide's royal splendor, Droop like roses, and wither away. From the hills of Doubt no winds are blowing, From the isles of Pain no breeze is sent,— Only the sun in a white heat glowing Over an ocean of great content.
Sink, O my soul, in this golden glory! Die, O my heart, in thy rapture-swoon! For the Autumn must come with its mournful story. And Love's midsummer will fade too soon.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox [1850-1919]
ASHES OF ROSES
Soft on the sunset sky Bright daylight closes, Leaving when light doth die, Pale hues that mingling lie— Ashes of roses.
When love's warm sun is set, Love's brightness closes; Eyes with hot tears are wet, In hearts there linger yet Ashes of roses.
Elaine Goodale Eastman [1863-
SYMPATHY
The color gladdens all your heart; You call it Heaven, dear, but I— Now Hope and I are far apart— Call it the sky.
I know that Nature's tears have wet The world with sympathy; but you, Who know not any sorrow yet, Call it the dew.
Althea Gyles [? ]
THE LOOK
Strephon kissed me in the spring, Robin in the fall, But Colin only looked at me And never kissed at all.
Strephon's kiss was lost in jest, Robin's lost in play, But the kiss in Colin's eyes Haunts me night and day.
Sara Teasdale [1884-1933]
"WHEN MY BELOVED SLEEPING LIES"
When my beloved sleeping lies I cannot look at him for tears, Such mournful peace is on his eyes.
A look of lonely death he wears, And graven very calm and deep Lie all the sorrows of old years.
He is so passionless in sleep, With all his strength relaxed to rest; I cannot see him and not weep.
For weakness life has not confessed And shadowed scars of old mistakes, I take his head upon my breast, And hold my dearest till he wakes.
Irene Rutherford McLeod [1891-
LOVE AND LIFE
"Give me a fillet, Love," quoth I, "To bind my Sweeting's heart to me, So ne'er a chance of earth or sky Shall part us ruthlessly: A fillet, Love, but not to chafe My Sweeting's soul, to cause her pain; But just to bind her close and safe Through snow and blossom and sun and rain: A fillet, boy!" Love said, "Here's joy."
"Give me a fetter, Life," quoth I, "To bind to mine my Sweeting's heart, So Death himself must fail to pry With Time the two apart: A fetter, Life, that each shall wear, Whose precious bondage each shall know. I prithee, Life, no more forbear— Why dost thou wait and falter so? Haste, Life—be brief!" Said Life:—"Here's grief."
Julie Mathilde Lippman [1864-
LOVE'S PRISONER
Sweet love has twined his fingers in my hair, And laid his hand across my wondering eyes. I cannot move save in the narrow space Of his strong arms' embrace, Nor see but only in my own heart where His image lies. How can I tell, Emprisoned so well, If in the outer world be sunset or sunrise? Sweet Love has laid his hand across my eyes.
Sweet Love has loosed his fingers from my hair, His lifted hand has left my eyelids wet. I cannot move save to pursue his fleet And unreturning feet, Nor see but in my ruined heart, and there His face lies yet. How should I know, Distraught and blinded so, If in the outer world be sunrise or sunset? Sweet Love has freed my eyes, but they are wet.
Mariana Griswold Van Rensselaer [1851-1934]
ROSIES
There's a rosie-show in Derry, An' a rosie-show in Down; An' 'tis like there's wan, I'm thinkin', 'll be held in Randalstown; But if I had the choosin' Av a rosie-prize the day, 'Twould be a pink wee rosie Like he plucked whin rakin' hay: Yon pink wee rosie in my hair— He fixed it troth—an' kissed it there! White gulls wor wheelin' roun' the sky Down by—down by.
Ay, there's rosies sure in Derry, An' there's famous wans in Down; Och there's rosies all a-hawkin' Through the heart av London town! But if I had the liftin' Or the buyin' av a few, I'd choose jist pink wee rosies That's all drenchin' wid the dew— Yon pink wee rosies wid the tears! Och wet, wet tears!—ay, troth, 'tis years Since we kep' rakin' in the hay Thon day—thon day!
Agnes I. Hanrahan [18
AT THE COMEDY
Last night, in snowy gown and glove, I saw you watch the play Where each mock hero won his love In the old unlifelike way.
(And, oh, were life their little scene Where love so smoothly ran, How different, Dear, this world had been Since this old world began!)
For you, who saw them gayly win Both hand and heart away, Knew well where dwelt the mockery in That foolish little play.
("If love were all—if love were all," The viols sobbed and cried, "Then love were best whate'er befall!" Low, low, the flutes replied.)
And you, last night, did you forget, So far from me, so near? For watching there your eyes were wet With just an idle tear!
(And down the great dark curtain fell Upon their foolish play: But you and I knew—Oh, too well!— Life went another way!)
Arthur Stringer [1874-
"SOMETIME IT MAY BE"
Sometime it may be you and I In that deserted yard shall lie Where memories fade away; Caring no more for our old dreams, Busy with new and alien themes, The saints and sages say.
But let our graves be side by side, So passers-by at even-tide May pause a moment's space: "Ah, they were lovers who lie here! Else why these low graves laid so near, In this forgotten place?"
Arthur Colton [1868-
"I HEARD A SOLDIER"
I heard a soldier sing some trifle Out in the sun-dried veldt alone: He lay and cleaned his grimy rifle Idly, behind a stone.
"If after death, love, comes a waking, And in their camp so dark and still The men of dust hear bugles, breaking Their halt upon the hill.
"To me the slow and silver pealing That then the last high trumpet pours Shall softer than the dawn come stealing, For, with its call, comes yours!"
What grief of love had he to stifle, Basking so idly by his stone, That grimy soldier with his rifle Out in the veldt, alone?
Herbert Trench [1865-1923]
THE LAST MEMORY
When I am old, and think of the old days, And warm my hands before a little blaze, Having forgotten love, hope, fear, desire, I shall see, smiling out of the pale fire, One face, mysterious and exquisite; And I shall gaze, and ponder over it, Wondering, was it Leonardo wrought That stealthy ardency, where passionate thought Burns inward, a revealing flame, and glows To the last ecstasy, which is repose? Was it Bronzino, those Borghese eyes? And, musing thus among my memories, O unforgotten! you will come to seem, As pictures do, remembered, some old dream. And I shall think of you as something strange, And beautiful, and full of helpless change, Which I beheld and carried in my heart; But you, I loved, will have become a part Of the eternal mystery, and love Like a dim pain; and I shall bend above My little fire, and shiver, being cold, When you are no more young, and I am old.
Arthur Symons [1865-
"DOWN BY THE SALLEY GARDENS"
Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet; She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet. She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree; But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree. In a field by the river my love and I did stand, And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand. She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs; But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.
William Butler Yeats [1865-
ASHES OF LIFE
Love has gone and left me, and the days are all alike. Eat I must, and sleep I will—and would that night were here! But ah, to lie awake and hear the slow hours strike! Would that it were day again, with twilight near!
Love has gone and left me, and I don't know what to do; This or that or what you will is all the same to me; But all the things that I begin I leave before I'm through— There's little use in anything as far as I can see.
Love has gone and left me, and the neighbors knock and borrow, And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse. And to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow There's this little street and this little house.
Edna St. Vincent Millay [1892-
A FAREWELL
Thou wilt not look on me? Ah, well! the world is wide; The rivers still are rolling free, Song and the sword abide; And who sets forth to sail the sea Shall follow with the tide.
Thrall of my darkling day, I vassalage fulfil: Seeking the myrtle and the bay, (They thrive when hearts are chill!) The straitness of the narrowing way, The house where all is still.
Alice Brown [1857-
THE PARTED LOVERS
SONG From "Twelfth Night"
O mistress mine, where are you roaming? O, stay and hear; your true Love's coming, That can sing both high and low: Trip no further, pretty Sweeting; Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know.
What is love? 'tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter; What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty: Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure.
William Shakespeare [1564-1616]
"GO, LOVELY ROSE"
Go, lovely Rose— Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired.
Then die—that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee; How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
Edmund Waller [1606-1687]
TO THE ROSE: A SONG
Go, happy Rose, and, interwove With other flowers, bind my love. Tell her, too, she must not be Longer flowing, longer free, That so oft fettered me.
Say, if she's fretful, I have bands Of pearl and gold to bind her hands; Tell her, if she struggle still, I have myrtle rods at will For to tame, though not to kill.
Take thou my blessing thus, and go And tell her this,—but do not so!— Lest a handsome anger fly Like a lightning from her eye, And burn thee up, as well as I!
Robert Herrick [1591-1674]
MEMORY From "Britannia's Pastorals"
Marina's gone, and now sit I, As Philomela (on a thorn, Turned out of nature's livery), Mirthless, alone, and all forlorn: Only she sings not, while my sorrows can Breathe forth such notes as fit a dying swan.
So shuts the marigold her leaves At the departure of the sun; So from the honeysuckle sheaves The bee goes when the day is done; So sits the turtle when she is but one, And so all woe, as I since she is gone.
To some few birds, kind Nature hath Made all the summer as one day: Which once enjoyed, cold winter's wrath As night, they sleeping pass away. Those happy creatures are, that know not yet The pain to be deprived or to forget.
I oft have heard men say there be Some that with confidence profess The helpful Art of Memory: But could they teach Forgetfulness, I'd learn; and try what further art could do To make me love her and forget her too.
Sad melancholy, that persuades Men from themselves, to think they be Headless, or other bodies' shades, Hath long and bootless dwelt with me; For could I think she some idea were, I still might love, forget, and have her here.
But such she is not: nor would I, For twice as many torments more, As her bereaved company Hath brought to those I felt before, For then no future time might hap to know That she deserved; or I did love her so.
Ye hours, then, but as minutes be! (Though so I shall be sooner old) Till I those lovely graces see, Which, but in her, can none behold; Then be an age! that we may never try More grief in parting, but grow old and die.
William Browne [1591-1643?]
TO LUCASTA, GOING TO THE WARS
Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such As thou too shalt adore; I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not Honor more.
Richard Lovelace [1618-1658]
TO LUCASTA, GOING BEYOND THE SEAS
If to be absent were to be Away from thee; Or that when I am gone You or I were alone; Then, my Lucasta, might I crave Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave.
But I'll not sigh one blast or gale To swell my sail, Or pay a tear to 'suage The foaming blue god's rage; For whether he will let me pass Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.
Though seas and land be twixt us both, Our faith and troth, Like separated souls, All time and space controls: Above the highest sphere we meet Unseen, unknown; and greet as Angels greet.
So then we do anticipate Our after-fate, And are alive in the skies, If thus our lips and eyes Can speak like spirits unconfined In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind.
Richard Lovelace [1618-1658]
SONG TO A FAIR YOUNG LADY, GOING OUT OF THE TOWN IN THE SPRING
Ask not the cause why sullen Spring So long delays her flowers to bear; Why warbling birds forget to sing, And winter storms invert the year: Chloris is gone; and fate provides To make it Spring where she resides.
Chloris is gone, the cruel fair; She cast not back a pitying eye: But left her lover in despair To sigh, to languish, and to die: Ah! how can those fair eyes endure To give the wounds they will not cure?
Great God of Love, why hast thou made A face that can all hearts command, That all religions can invade, And change the laws of every land? Where thou hadst placed such power before, Thou shouldst have made her mercy more.
When Chloris to the temple comes, Adoring crowds before her fall; She can restore the dead from tombs And every life but mine recall, I only am by Love designed To be the victim for mankind.
John Dryden [1631-1700]
SONG Written At Sea, In The First Dutch War (1665), The Night Before An Engagement
To all you ladies now at land We men at sea indite; But first would have you understand How hard it is to write: The Muses now, and Neptune too, We must implore to write to you— With a fa, la, la, la, la.
For though the Muses should prove kind, And fill our empty brain, Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind To wave the azure main, Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, Roll up and down our ships at sea— With a fa, la, la, la, la.
Then if we write not by each post, Think not we are unkind; Nor yet conclude our ships are lost By Dutchmen or by wind: Our tears we'll send a speedier way, The tide shall bring them twice a day— With a fa, la, la, la, la.
The King with wonder and surprise Will swear the seas grow bold, Because the tides will higher rise Than e'er they did of old: But let him know it is our tears Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs— With a fa, la, la, la, la.
Should foggy Opdam chance to know Our sad and dismal story, The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, And quit their fort at Goree: For what resistance can they find From men who've left their hearts behind?— With a fa, la, la, la, la.
Let wind and weather do its worst, Be you to us but kind; Let Dutchmen vapor, Spaniards curse, No sorrow we shall find: 'Tis then no matter how things go, Or who's our friend, or who's our foe— With a fa, la, la, la, la.
To pass our tedious hours away We throw a merry main, Or else at serious ombre play: But why should we in vain Each other's ruin thus pursue? We were undone when we left you— With a fa, la, la, la, la.
But now our fears tempestuous grow And cast our hopes away; Whilst you, regardless of our woe, Sit careless at a play: Perhaps permit some happier man To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan— With a fa, la, la, la, la.
When any mournful tune you hear, That dies in every note As if it sighed with each man's care For being so remote, Think then how often love we've made To you, when all those tunes were played— With a fa, la, la, la, la.
In justice you cannot refuse To think of our distress, When we for hopes of honor lose Our certain happiness: All those designs are but to prove Ourselves more worthy of your love— With a fa, la, la, la, la.
And now we've told you all our loves, And likewise all our fears, In hopes this declaration moves Some pity for our tears: Let's hear of no inconstancy— We have too much of that at sea— With a fa, la, la, la, la.
Charles Sackville [1638-1706]
SONG
In vain you tell your parting lover, You wish fair winds may waft him over. Alas! what winds can happy prove That bear me far from what I love? Alas! what dangers on the main Can equal those that I sustain From slighted vows, and cold disdain?
Be gentle, and in pity choose To wish the wildest tempests loose: That, thrown again upon the coast, Where first my shipwrecked heart was lost, I may once more repeat my pain; Once more in dying notes complain Of slighted vows and cold disdain.
Matthew Prior [1664-1721]
BLACK-EYED SUSAN
All in the Downs the fleet was moored, The streamers waving in the wind, When black-eyed Susan came aboard; "O! where shall I my true-love find? Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true If my sweet William sails among the crew."
William, who high upon the yard Rocked with the billow to and fro, Soon as her well-known voice he heard He sighed, and cast his eyes below: The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, And, quick as lightning, on the deck he stands.
So the sweet lark, high poised in air, Shuts close his pinions to his breast If chance his mate's shrill call he hear, And drops at once into her nest:— The noblest captain in the British fleet Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet.
"O Susan, Susan, lovely dear, My vows shall ever true remain; Let me kiss off that falling tear; We only part to meet again. Change as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee.
"Believe not what the landmen say Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind: They'll tell thee, sailors, when away, In every port a mistress find: Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, For Thou art present wheresoe'er I go.
"If to far India's coast we sail, Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright, Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, Thy skin is ivory so white. Thus every beauteous object that I view Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.
"Though battle call me from thy arms Let not my pretty Susan mourn; Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms, William shall to his Dear return. Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye."
The boatswain gave the dreadful word, The sails their swelling bosom spread, No longer must she stay aboard; They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land; "Adieu!" she cries; and waved her lily hand.
John Gay [1685-1732]
IRISH MOLLY O
Oh! who is that poor foreigner that lately came to town, And like a ghost that cannot rest still wanders up and down? A poor, unhappy Scottish youth;—if more you wish to know. His heart is breaking all for love of Irish Molly O!
She's modest, mild, and beautiful, the fairest I have known— The primrose of Ireland—all blooming here alone— The primrose of Ireland, for wheresoe'er I go, The only one entices me is Irish Molly O!
When Molly's father heard of it, a solemn oath he swore, That if she'd wed a foreigner he'd never see her more. He sent for young MacDonald and he plainly told him so— "I'll never give to such as you my Irish Molly O!"
MacDonald heard the heavy news, and grievously did say— "Farewell, my lovely Molly, since I'm banished far away, A poor forlorn pilgrim I must wander to and fro, And all for the sake of my Irish Molly O!
"There is a rose in Ireland, I thought it would be mine: But now that she is lost to me, I must for ever pine, Till death shall come to comfort me, for to the grave I'll go, And all for the sake of my Irish Molly O!
"And now that I am dying, this one request I crave, To place a marble tombstone above my humble grave! And on the stone these simple words I'd have engraven so— "'MacDonald lost his life for love of Irish Molly O!'"
Unknown
SONG
At setting day and rising morn, Wi' soul that still shall love thee, I'll ask o' Heaven thy safe return, Wi' a' that can improve thee. I'll visit aft the birken bush Where first thou kindly tauld me Sweet tales o' love, and hid my blush, Whilst round thou didst infauld me.
To a' our haunts I will repair, By greenwood, shaw, or fountain, Or where the summer day I'd share Wi' thee upon yon mountain: There will I tell the trees an' flooers, From thoughts unfeigned an' tender; By vows you're mine, by love is yours A heart that cannot wander.
Allan Ramsay [1686-1758]
LOCHABER NO MORE
Farewell to Lochaber, an' farewell my Jean, Where heartsome wi' thee I hae mony day been; For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more! We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more! These tears that I shed, they are a' for my dear, An' no for the dangers attending on weir, Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, Maybe to return to Lochaber no more.
Though hurricanes rise, an' rise every wind, They'll ne'er mak' a tempest like that in my mind; Though loudest o' thunders on louder waves roar, That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained; By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained; An' beauty an' love's the reward o' the brave, An' I must deserve it before I can crave.
Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse; Since honor commands me, how can I refuse? Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee, An' without thy favor I'd better not be, I gae, then, my lass, to win honor an' fame, An' if I should luck to come gloriously hame, I'll bring a heart to thee wi' love running o'er, An' then I'll leave thee an' Lochaber no more.
Allan Ramsay [1686-1758]
WILLIE AND HELEN
"Wharefore sou'd ye talk o' love, Unless it be to pain us? Wharefore sou'd ye talk o' love Whan ye say the sea maun twain us?"
"It's no because my love is light, Nor for your angry deddy; It's a' to buy ye pearlins bright, An' to busk ye like a leddy."
"O Willy, I can caird an' spin, Sae ne'er can want for cleedin'; An' gin I hae my Willy's heart, I hae a' the pearls I'm heedin'.
"Will it be time to praise this cheek Whan years an' tears hae blenched it? Will it be time to talk o' love Whan cauld an' care hae quenched it?"
He's laid ae han' about her waist— The ither's held to heaven; An' his luik was like the luik o' man Wha's heart in twa is riven.
Hew Ainslie [1792-1878]
ABSENCE
With leaden foot Time creeps along While Delia is away: With her, nor plaintive was the song, Nor tedious was the day.
Ah, envious Power! reverse my doom; Now double thy career, Strain every nerve, stretch every plume, And rest them when she's here!
Richard Jago [1715-1781]
"MY MOTHER BIDS ME BIND MY HAIR"
My mother bids me bind my hair With bands of rosy hue; Tie up my sleeves with ribbons rare, And lace my bodice blue!
"For why," she cries, "sit still and weep, While others dance and play?" Alas! I scarce can go, or creep, While Lubin is away!
'Tis sad to think the days are gone When those we love were near! I sit upon this mossy stone, And sigh when none can hear:
And while I spin my flaxen thread, And sing my simple lay, The village seems asleep, or dead, Now Lubin is away!
Anne Hunter [1742-1821]
"BLOW HIGH! BLOW LOW!"
Blow high, blow low! let tempest tear The mainmast by the board! My heart (with thoughts of thee, my dear! And love well stored) Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear, The roaring wind, the raging sea, In hopes, on shore, To be once more Safe moored with thee.
Aloft, while mountain-high we go, The whistling winds that scud along, And the surge roaring from below, Shall my signal be To think on thee. And this shall be my Song, Blow high, blow low! let tempest tear....
And on that night (when all the crew The memory of their former lives, O'er flowing cans of flip renew, And drink their sweethearts and their wives), I'll heave a sigh, And think of thee. And, as the ship toils through the sea, The burden of my Song shall be, Blow high, blow low! let tempest tear....
Charles Dibdin [1745-1814]
THE SILLER CROUN
"And ye sall walk in silk attire, And siller ha'e to spare, Gin ye'll consent to be his bride, Nor think o' Donald mair."
Oh, wha wad buy a silken goun Wi' a puir broken heart? Or what's to me a siller croun, Gin' frae my luve I part?
The mind wha's every wish is pure Far dearer is to me; And ere I'm forced to break my faith, I'll lay me doun and dee.
For I ha'e pledged my virgin troth Brave Donald's fate to share; And he has gi'en to me his heart, Wi' a' its virtues rare.
His gentle manners wan my heart, He gratefu' took the gift; Could I but think to tak' it back, It wad be waur than theft.
For langest life can ne'er repay The love he bears to me; And ere I'm forced to break my troth I'll lay me doun and dee.
Susanna Blamire [1747-1794]
"MY NANNIE'S AWA'"
Now in her green mantle blithe Nature arrays, An' listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw; But to me it's delightless—my Nannie's awa'.
The snaw-drap an' primrose our woodlands adorn, An' violets bathe in the weet o' the morn; They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, They mind me o' Nannie—an' Nannie's awa'.
Thou laverock that springs frae the dews of the lawn, The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn, An' thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa', Give over for pity—my Nannie's awa'.
Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow an' gray, An' soothe me wi' tidings o' Nature's decay; The dark, dreary winter, an' wild-driving snaw Alane can delight me—now Nannie's awa'.
Robert Burns [1759-1796]
"AE FOND KISS"
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him While the star of Hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me, Dark despair around benights me.
I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy; Naething could resist my Nancy; But to see her was to love her, Love but her, and love for ever.
Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met, or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted.
Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!
Robert Burns [1759-1796]
"THE DAY RETURNS"
The day returns, my bosom burns, The blissful day we twa did meet; Though winter wild in tempest toiled, Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet. Than a' the pride that loads the tide, And crosses o'er the sultry line,— Than kingly robes, and crowns and globes, Heaven gave me more,—it made thee mine.
While day and night can bring delight. Or Nature aught of pleasure give,— While joys above my mind can move, For thee, and thee alone, I live. When that grim foe of life below Comes in between to make us part, The iron hand that breaks our band, It breaks my bliss,—it breaks my heart.
Robert Burns [1759-1796]
MY BONNIE MARY
Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, And fill it in a silver tassie, That I may drink, before I go, A service to my bonnie lassie. The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry, The ship rides by the Berwick-law, And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.
The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are ranked ready; The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody; But it's no the roar o' sea or shore Wad mak me langer wish to tarry; Nor shout o' war that's heard afar— It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary!
Robert Burns [1759-1796]
A RED, RED ROSE
O, my luve's like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June; O, my luve's like the melodie That's sweetly played in tune.
As fair thou art, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun; I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare-thee-weel, my only luve! And fare-thee-weel a while! And I will come again, my luve, Though it were ten thousand mile.
Robert Burns [1759-1796]
I LOVE MY JEAN
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw I dearly like the west, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best: There's wild woods grow, and rivers row, And monie a hill between; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair: I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air: There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, There's not a bonnie bird that sings But minds me o' my Jean.
O blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft Amang the leafy trees; Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale Bring hame the laden bees; And bring the lassie back to me That's aye sae neat and clean; Ae smile o' her wad banish care, Sae charming is my Jean.
What sighs and vows amang the knowes Hae passed atween us twa! How fond to meet, how wae to part That night she gaed awa! The Powers aboon can only ken To whom the heart is seen, That nane can be sae dear to me As my sweet lovely Jean!
The first two stanzas by Robert Burns [1759-1796] The last two by John Hamilton [1761-1814]
THE ROVER'S ADIEU From "Rokeby"
"A weary lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, And press the rue for wine. A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green— No more of me ye knew, My Love! No more of me ye knew.
"This morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain; But she shall bloom in winter snow Ere we two meet again." —He turned his charger as he spake Upon the river shore, He gave the bridle-reins a shake, Said "Adieu for evermore, My Love! And adieu for evermore."
Walter Scott [1771-1832]
"LOUDOUN'S BONNIE WOODS AND BRAES"
"Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes, I maun lea' them a', lassie; Wha can thole when Britain's faes Wad gi'e Britons law, lassie? Wha wad shun the field o' danger? Wha frae fame wad live a stranger? Now when freedom bids avenge her, Wha wad shun her ca', lassie? Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes Hae seen our happy bridal days, And gentle Hope shall soothe thy waes When I am far awa', lassie."
"Hark! the swelling bugle sings, Yielding joy to thee, laddie, But the dolefu' bugle brings Waefu' thoughts to me, laddie. Lanely I maun climb the mountain, Lanely stray beside the fountain, Still the weary moments countin', Far frae love and thee, laddie. O'er the gory fields of war, When Vengeance drives his crimson car, Thou'lt maybe fa', frae me afar, And nane to close thy e'e, laddie."
"O! resume thy wonted smile! O! suppress thy fears, lassie! Glorious honor crowns the toil That the soldier shares, lassie; Heaven will shield thy faithful lover Till the vengeful strife is over; Then we'll meet nae mair to sever; Till the day we dee, lassie. 'Midst our bonnie woods and braes We'll spend our peaceful, happy days, As blithe's yon lightsome lamb that plays On Loudoun's flowery lea, lassie."
Robert Tannahill [1774-1810]
"FARE THEE WELL"
Fare thee well and if for ever, Still for ever, fare thee well: Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
Would that breast were bared before thee Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o'er thee Which thou ne'er canst know again:
Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Every inmost thought could show! Then thou wouldst at last discover 'Twas not well to spurn it so.
Though the world for this commend thee,— Though it smile upon the blow, Even its praises must offend thee, Founded on another's woe:
Though my many faults defaced me, Could no other arm be found Than the one which once embraced me, To inflict a cureless wound?
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not; Love may sink by slow decay, But by sudden wrench, believe not Hearts can thus be torn away:
Still thine own its life retaineth;— Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth Is—that we no more may meet.
These are words of deeper sorrow Than the wail above the dead; Both shall live, but every morrow Wake us from a widowed bed.
And when thou wouldst solace gather, When our child's first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!" Though his care she must forego?
When her little hands shall press thee, When her lip to thine is pressed, Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Think of him thy love had blessed!
Should her lineaments resemble Those thou nevermore may'st see, Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults perchance thou knowest, All my madness none can know; All my hopes, where'er thou goest, Whither, yet with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken; Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee,—by thee forsaken, Even my soul forsakes me now:
But 'tis done,—all words are idle,— Words from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridle Force their way without the will.
Fare thee well!—thus disunited, Torn from every nearer tie, Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted, More than this I scarce can die.
George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]
"MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART"
Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh, give me back my heart! Or, since that has left my breast, Keep it now, and take the rest! Hear my vow before I go, Zoe mou, sas agapo. (My life, I love you.)
By those tresses unconfined, Wooed by each Aegean wind; By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge; By those wild eyes like the roe, Zoe mou, sas agapo. (My life, I love you.)
By that lip I long to taste; By that zone-encircled waist; By all the token-flowers that tell What words can never speak so well; By love's alternate joy and woe, Zoe mou, sas agapo. (My life, I love you.)
Maid of Athens! I am gone: Think of me, sweet! when alone. Though I fly to Istambol, Athens holds my heart and soul: Can I cease to love thee? No! Zoe mou, sas agapo. (My life, I love you.)
George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]
"WHEN WE TWO PARTED"
When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted, To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this!
The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my brow; It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame: I hear thy name spoken And share in its shame.
They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me— Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee Who knew thee too well: Long, long shall I rue thee Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met: In silence I grieve That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee?— With silence and tears.
George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]
"GO, FORGET ME"
Go, forget me! Why should sorrow O'er that brow a shadow fling? Go, forget me,—and to-morrow Brightly smile and sweetly sing. Smile—though I shall not be near thee. Sing—though I shall never hear thee. May thy soul with pleasure shine, Lasting as the gloom of mine.
Like the sun, thy presence glowing Clothes the meanest things in light; And when thou, like him, art going, Loveliest objects fade in night. All things looked so bright about thee, That they nothing seem without thee; By that pure and lucid mind Earthly things are too refined.
Go, thou vision, wildly gleaming, Softly on my soul that fell; Go, for me no longer beaming— Hope and Beauty, fare ye well! Go, and all that once delighted Take—and leave me, all benighted, Glory's burning, generous swell, Fancy, and the poet's shell.
Charles Wolfe [1791-1823]
LAST NIGHT
I sat with one I love last night, She sang to me an olden strain; In former times it woke delight, Last night—but pain.
Last night we saw the stars arise, But clouds soon dimmed the ether blue: And when we sought each other's eyes Tears dimmed them too!
We paced along our favorite walk, But paced in silence broken-hearted: Of old we used to smile and talk; Last night—we parted.
George Darley [1795-1846]
ADIEU
Let time and chance combine, combine, Let time and chance combine; The fairest love from heaven above, That love of yours was mine, My dear, That love of yours was mine.
The past is fled and gone, and gone, The past is fled and gone; If naught but pain to me remain, I'll fare in memory on, My dear, I'll fare in memory on.
The saddest tears must fall, must fall, The saddest tears must fall; In weal or woe, in this world below, I love you ever and all, My dear, I love you ever and all.
A long road full of pain, of pain, A long road full of pain; One soul, one heart, sworn ne'er to part,— We ne'er can meet again, My dear, We ne'er can meet again.
Hard fate will not allow, allow, Hard fate will not allow; We blessed were as the angels are,— Adieu forever now, My dear, Adieu forever now.
Thomas Carlyle [1795-1881]
JEANIE MORRISON
I've wandered east, I've wandered west, Through mony a weary way; But never, never can forget The luve o' life's young day! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en, May weel be black gin Yule; But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule.
O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows owre my path, And blind my een wi' tears: They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears; And sair and sick I pine, As Memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne.
'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part; Sweet time, sad time!—twa bairns at schule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, To leir ilk ither lear; And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, Remembered evermair.
I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, What our wee heads could think! When baith bent doun owre ae braid page, Wi' ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee.
Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the schule-weans, laughin', said, We cleek'd thegither hame? And mind ye o' the Saturdays (The schule then skail't at noon), When we ran aff to speel the braes— The broomy braes o' June?
My head rins round and round about, My heart flows like a sea, As, ane by ane, the thochts rush back O' schule-time and o' thee. Oh, mornin' life! Oh, mornin' luve! Oh, lichtsome days and lang, When hinnied hopes around our hearts, Like simmer blossoms, sprang!
Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left The deavin' dinsome toun, To wander by the green burnside, And hear its waters croon? The simmer leaves hung owre our heads, The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wud The throssil whusslit sweet.
The throssil whusslit in the wud, The burn sung to the trees, And we, with Nature's heart in tune, Concerted harmonies; And on the knowe abune the burn For hours thegither sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' very gladness grat.
Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trinkled doun your cheek, Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak! That was a time, a blessed time, When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled—unsung!
I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts As ye hae been to me? Oh! tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine; Oh! say gin e'er your heart grows great Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?
I've wandered east, I've wandered west, I've borne a weary lot; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart, Still travels on its way; And channels deeper as it rins The luve o' life's young day.
O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sindered young, I've never seen your face, nor heard The music o' your tongue; But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I dee, Did I but ken your heart still dreamed O' bygane days and me!
William Motherwell [1797-1835]
THE SEA-LANDS
Would I were on the sea-lands, Where winds know how to sting; And in the rocks at midnight The lost long murmurs sing.
Would I were with my first love To hear the rush and roar Of spume below the doorstep And winds upon the door.
My first love was a fair girl With ways forever new; And hair a sunlight yellow, And eyes a morning blue.
The roses, have they tarried Or are they dun and frayed? If we had stayed together, Would love, indeed, have stayed?
Ah, years are filled with learning, And days are leaves of change! And I have met so many I knew... and found them strange.
But on the sea-lands tumbled By winds that sting and blind, The nights we watched, so silent, Come back, come back to mind...
I mind about my first love, And hear the rush and roar Of spume below the doorstep And winds upon the door.
Orrick Johns [1887-
FAIR INES
O saw ye not fair Ines? She's gone into the West, To dazzle when the sun is down, And rob the world of rest: She took our daylight with her, The smiles that we love best, With morning blushes on her cheek, And pearls upon her breast.
O turn again, fair Ines, Before the fall of night, For fear the Moon should shine alone, And stars unrivaled bright; And blessed will the lover be That walks beneath their light, And breathes the love against thy cheek I dare not even write!
Would I had been, fair Ines, That gallant cavalier, Who rode so gaily by thy side, And whispered thee so near! Were there no bonny dames at home, Or no true lovers here, That he should cross the seas to win The dearest of the dear?
I saw thee, lovely Ines, Descend along the shore, With bands of noble gentlemen, And banners waved before; And gentle youth and maidens gay, And snowy plumes they wore: It would have been a beauteous dream,— If it had been no more!
Alas, alas! fair Ines, She went away with song, With Music waiting on her steps, And shoutings of the throng; But some were sad, and felt no mirth, But only Music's wrong, In sounds that sang Farewell, farewell, To her you've loved so long.
Farewell, farewell, fair Ines! That vessel never bore So fair a lady on its deck, Nor danced so light before,— Alas for pleasure on the sea, And sorrow on the shore! The smile that blessed one lover's heart Has broken many more!
Thomas Hood [1799-1845]
A VALEDICTION
God be with thee, my beloved,—God be with thee! Else alone thou goest forth, Thy face unto the north, Moor and pleasance all around thee and beneath thee Looking equal in one snow; While I, who try to reach thee, Vainly follow, vainly follow With the farewell and the hollo, And cannot reach thee so. Alas, I can but teach thee! God be with thee, my beloved,—God be with thee!
Can I teach thee, my beloved,—can I teach thee? If I said, "Go left or right," The counsel would be light, The wisdom, poor of all that could enrich thee; My right would show like left; My raising would depress thee, My choice of light would blind thee, Of way—would leave behind thee, Of end—would leave bereft. Alas, I can but bless thee! May God teach thee, my beloved,—may God teach thee!
Can I bless thee, my beloved,—can I bless thee? What blessing word can I From mine own tears keep dry? What flowers grow in my field wherewith to dress thee? My good reverts to ill; My calmnesses would move thee, My softnesses would prick thee, My bindings up would break thee, My crownings curse and kill. Alas, I can but love thee! May God bless thee, my beloved,—may God bless thee!
Can I love thee, my beloved,—can I love thee? And is this like love, to stand With no help in my hand, When strong as death I fain would watch above thee? My love-kiss can deny No tear that falls beneath it; Mine oath of love can swear thee From no ill that comes near thee, And thou diest while I breathe it, And I—I can but die! May God love thee, my beloved,—may God love thee!
Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]
FAREWELL
Thou goest; to what distant place Wilt thou thy sunlight carry? I stay with cold and clouded face: How long am I to tarry? Where'er thou goest, morn will be; Thou leavest night and gloom to me.
The night and gloom I can but take; I do not grudge thy splendor: Bid souls of eager men awake; Be kind and bright and tender. Give day to other worlds; for me It must suffice to dream of thee.
John Addington Symonds [1840-1893]
"I DO NOT LOVE THEE"
I do not love thee!—no! I do not love thee! And yet when thou art absent I am sad; And envy even the bright blue sky above thee, Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.
I do not love thee!—yet, I know not why, Whate'er thou dost seems still well done, to me: And often in my solitude I sigh That those I do love are not more like thee! |
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