 |
[Decoration]
ONE LOVELY NAME.
One lovely name adorns my song, And, dwelling in the heart, For ever falters at the tongue, And trembles to depart.
FORSAKEN.
Mother, I can not mind my wheel; My fingers ache, my lips are dry; Oh! if you felt the pain I feel! But oh, who ever felt as I! No longer could I doubt him true, All other men may use deceit; He always said my eyes were blue, And often swore my lips were sweet.
[Decoration]
FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON.
1821-1895.
A GARDEN LYRIC.
The flow of life is yet a rill That laughs, and leaps, and glistens; And still the woodland rings, and still The old Damoetas listens.
We have loiter'd and laugh'd in the flowery croft, We have met under wintry skies; Her voice is the dearest voice, and soft Is the light in her gentle eyes; It is bliss in the silent woods, among Gay crowds, or in any place To hear her voice, to gaze on her young Confiding face.
For ever may roses divinely blow, And wine-dark pansies charm By the prim box path where I felt the glow Of her dimpled, trusting arm, And the sweep of her silk as she turned and smiled A smile as pure as her pearls; The breeze was in love with the darling Child, As it moved her curls.
She showed me her ferns and woodbine-sprays, Foxglove and jasmine stars, A mist of blue in the beds, a blaze Of red in the celadon jars: And velvety bees in convolvulus bells, And roses of bountiful June— Oh, who would think their summer spells Could die so soon!
For a glad song came from the milking shed, On a wind of the summer south, And the green was golden above her head, And a sunbeam kiss'd her mouth; Sweet were the lips where that sunbeam dwelt; And the wings of Time were fleet As I gazed; and neither spoke, for we felt Life was so sweet!
And the odorous limes were dim above As we leant on a drooping bough; And the darkling air was a breath of love, And a witching thrush sang "Now!" For the sun dropt low, and the twilight grew As we listen'd and sigh'd, and leant; That day was the sweetest day—and we knew What the sweetness meant.
[Decoration]
THE CUCKOO.
We heard it calling, clear and low, That tender April morn; we stood And listened in the quiet wood, We heard it, ay, long years ago.
It came, and with a strange, sweet cry, A friend, but from a far-off land; We stood and listened, hand in hand, And heart to heart, my Love and I.
In dreamland then we found our joy, And so it seemed as 't were the Bird That Helen in old times had heard At noon beneath the oaks of Troy.
O time far off, and yet so near! It came to her in that hush'd grove, It warbled while the wooing throve, It sang the song she loved to hear.
And now I hear its voice again, And still its message is of peace, It sings of love that will not cease— For me it never sings in vain.
[Decoration]
GERTRUDE'S NECKLACE.
As Gertrude skipt from babe to girl, Her Necklace lengthen'd, pearl by pearl; Year after year it grew, and grew, For every birthday gave her two. Her neck is lovely,—soft and fair, And now her Necklace glimmers there.
So cradled, let it fall and rise, And all her graces symbolize. Perchance this pearl, without a speck, Once was as warm on Sappho's neck; Where are the happy, twilight pearls That braided Beatrice's curls?
Is Gerty loved? Is Gerty loth? Or, if she 's either, is she both? She 's fancy free, but sweeter far Than many plighted maidens are: Will Gerty smile us all away, And still be Gerty? Who can say?
But let her wear her Precious Toy, And I 'll rejoice to see her joy: Her bauble 's only one degree Less frail, less fugitive than we, For time, ere long, will snap the skein, And scatter all her Pearls again.
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
SAMUEL LOVER.
1797-1868.
THE ANGEL'S WHISPER.[C]
A baby was sleeping, Its mother was weeping, For the husband was far on the wild raging Sea; And the tempest was swelling Round the fisherman's dwelling; And she cried, "Dermot darling, oh come back to me!"
Her beads while she numbered, The baby still slumbered, And smiled in her face as she bended her knee; "O blest be that warning, My child thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee!
"And while they are keeping Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me! And say thou wouldst rather They 'd watch o'er thy father; For I know that the angels are whispering with thee!"
The dawn of the morning Saw Dermot returning, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see; And closely caressing Her child, with a blessing, Said, "I knew that the angels were whispering with thee!"
[Footnote C: A superstition of great beauty prevails in Ireland that when a child smiles in its sleep it is "talking with angels."]
WHAT WILL YOU DO, LOVE?
I.
"What will you do, love, when I am going With white sail flowing, The seas beyond— What will you do, love, when waves divide us, And friends may chide us For being fond?" "Tho' waves divide us—and friends be chiding, In faith abiding, I 'll still be true! And I 'll pray for thee on the stormy ocean, In deep devotion— That 's what I 'll do!"
II.
"What would you do, love, if distant tidings Thy fond confidings Should undermine?— And I abiding 'neath sultry skies, Should think other eyes Were as bright as thine?" "Oh, name it not:—tho' guilt and shame Were on thy name I 'd still be true: But that heart of thine—should another share it— I could not bear it! What would I do?"
III.
"What would you do, love, when home returning With hopes high burning, With wealth for you, If my bark, which bounded o'er foreign foam, Should be lost near home— Ah! what would you do?"— "So thou wert spared—I 'd bless the morrow, In want and sorrow, That left me you; And I 'd welcome thee from the wasting billow, This heart thy pillow— That 's what I 'd do!"
[Decoration]
CHARLES MACKAY.
1814-1889.
I LOVE MY LOVE.
I.
What is the meaning of the song That rings so clear and loud, Thou nightingale amid the copse— Thou lark above the cloud? What says the song, thou joyous thrush, Up in the walnut-tree? "I love my Love, because I know My Love loves me."
II.
What is the meaning of thy thought, O maiden fair and young? There is such pleasure in thine eyes, Such music on thy tongue; There is such glory on thy face— What can the meaning be? "I love my Love, because I know My Love loves me."
III.
O happy words! at Beauty's feet We sing them ere our prime; And when the early summers pass, And Care comes on with Time, Still be it ours, in Care's despite, To join the chorus free— "I love my Love, because I know My Love loves me."
O YE TEARS!
O ye tears! O ye tears! that have long refused to flow, Ye are welcome to my heart,—thawing, thawing, like the snow; I feel the hard clod soften, and the early snow-drop spring, And the healing fountains gush, and the wildernesses sing.
O ye tears! O ye tears! I am thankful that ye run; Though ye trickle in the darkness, ye shall glitter in the sun. The rainbow cannot shine if the rain refuse to fall, And the eyes that cannot weep are the saddest eyes of all.
O ye tears! O ye tears! till I felt you on my cheek, I was selfish in my sorrow, I was stubborn, I was weak. Ye have given me strength to conquer, and I stand erect and free, And know that I am human by the light of sympathy.
O ye tears! O ye tears! ye relieve me of my pain: The barren rock of pride has been stricken once again; Like the rock that Moses smote, amid Horeb's burning sand, It yields the flowing water to make gladness in the land.
There is light upon my path, there is sunshine in my heart, And the leaf and fruit of life shall not utterly depart. Ye restore to me the freshness and the bloom of long ago— O ye tears! happy tears! I am thankful that ye flow!
[Decoration]
FRANCIS MAHONEY.
1805-1866.
THE BELLS OF SHANDON.
Sabbata pango; Funera plango; Solemnia clango.
—Inscription on an old bell.
With deep affection And recollection I often think of Those Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, In the days of childhood, Fling round my cradle Their magic spells.
On this I ponder Where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, Sweet Cork, of thee,— With thy bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee.
I 've heard bells chiming Full many a clime in, Tolling sublime in Cathedral shrine, While at a glibe rate Brass tongues would vibrate; But all their music Spoke naught like thine.
For memory, dwelling On each proud swelling Of thy belfry, knelling Its bold notes free, Made the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee.
I 've heard bells tolling Old Adrian's Mole in, Their thunder rolling From the Vatican,— And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets Of Notre Dame;
But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, Pealing solemnly. Oh! the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee.
There 's a bell in Moscow; While on tower and kiosk O In St. Sophia The Turkman gets, And loud in air Calls men to prayer, From the tapering summit Of tall minarets.
Such empty phantom I freely grant them; But there 's an anthem More dear to me,— 'T is the bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee.
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
GERALD MASSEY.
1828.
SONG.
All glorious as the Rainbow's birth, She came in Spring-tide's golden hours; When Heaven went hand-in-hand with Earth, And May was crowned with buds and flowers! The mounting devil at my heart Clomb faintlier as my life did win The charmed heaven, she wrought apart, To wake its slumbering Angel in! With radiant mien she trod serene, And passed me smiling by! O! who that looked could chance but love? Not I, sweet soul, not I.
The dewy eyelids of the Dawn Ne'er oped such heaven as hers can show: It seemed her dear eyes might have shone As jewels in some starry brow. Her face flashed glory like a shrine, Or lily-bell with sunburst bright; Where came and went love-thoughts divine, As low winds walk the leaves in light: She wore her beauty with the grace Of Summer's star-clad sky; O! who that looked could help but love? Not I, sweet soul, not I.
Her budding breasts like fragrant fruit Of love were ripening to be pressed: Her voice, that shook my heart's red root, Yet might not break a babe's soft rest! More liquid than the running brooks, More vernal than the voice of Spring, When Nightingales are in their nooks, And all the leafy thickets ring. The love she coyly hid at heart Was shyly conscious in her eye; O! who that looked could help but love? Not I, sweet soul, not I.
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY.
1844-1881.
A LOVE SYMPHONY.
Along the garden ways just now I heard the flowers speak; The white rose told me of your brow, The red rose of your cheek; The lily of your bended head, The bindweed of your hair: Each looked its loveliest and said You were more fair.
I went into the wood anon, And heard the wild birds sing, How sweet you were; they warbled on, Piped, trilled the self-same thing. Thrush, blackbird, linnet, without pause, The burden did repeat, And still began again because You were more sweet.
And then I went down to the sea, And heard it murmuring too, Part of an ancient mystery, All made of me and you. How many a thousand years ago I loved, and you were sweet— Longer I could not stay, and so I fled back to your feet.
I MADE ANOTHER GARDEN.
I made another garden, yea, For my new love; I left the dead rose where it lay, And set the new above. Why did the 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 at 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.
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.
1825-1864.
THE LOST CHORD.
Seated one day at the Organ, I was weary and ill at ease, And my fingers wandered idly Over the noisy keys.
I do not know what I was playing, Or what I was dreaming then; But I struck one chord of music, Like the sound of a great Amen.
It flooded the crimson twilight Like the close of an Angel's Psalm, And it lay on my fevered spirit With a touch of infinite calm.
It quieted pain and sorrow, Like love overcoming strife; It seemed the harmonious echo From our discordant Life.
It linked all perplexed meanings Into one perfect peace, And trembled away into silence As if it were loth to cease.
I have sought, but I seek it vainly, That one lost chord divine, Which came from the soul of the Organ, And entered into mine.
It may be that Death's bright angel Will speak in that chord again,— It may be that only in Heaven I shall hear that grand Amen.
SENT TO HEAVEN.
I had a Message to send her, To her whom my soul loved best; But I had my task to finish, And she was gone home to rest.
To rest in the far bright heaven; Oh, so far away from here, It was vain to speak to my darling, For I knew she could not hear!
I had a message to send her, So tender, and true, and sweet, I longed for an Angel to bear it, And lay it down at her feet.
I placed it, one summer evening, On a Cloudlet's fleecy breast; But it faded in golden splendour, And died in the crimson west.
I gave it the Lark next morning, And I watched it soar and soar; But its pinions grew faint and weary, And it fluttered to earth once more.
To the heart of a Rose I told it; And the perfume, sweet and rare, Growing faint on the blue bright ether, Was lost in the balmy air.
I laid it upon a Censer, And I saw the incense rise; But its clouds of rolling silver Could not reach the far blue skies.
I cried, in my passionate longing:— "Has the earth no Angel-friend Who will carry my love the message That my heart desires to send?"
Then I heard a strain of music, So mighty, so pure, so clear, That my very sorrow was silent, And my heart stood still to hear.
And I felt, in my soul's deep yearning, At last the sure answer stir:— "The music will go up to Heaven, And carry my thought to her."
It rose in harmonious rushing Of mingled voices and strings, And I tenderly laid my message On the Music's outspread wings.
I heard it float farther and farther, In sound more perfect than speech; Farther than sight can follow, Farther than soul can reach.
And I know that at last my message Has passed through the golden gate: So my heart is no longer restless, And I am content to wait.
[Decoration]
B. W. PROCTER (BARRY CORNWALL).
1787-1874.
THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE.
SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.
How many Summers, love, Have I been thine? How many days, thou dove, Hast thou been mine? Time, like the winged wind When 't bends the flowers, Hath left no mark behind, To count the hours!
Some weight of thought, though loth, On thee he leaves; Some lines of care round both Perhaps he weaves; Some fears,—a soft regret For joys scarce known; Sweet looks we half forget;— All else is flown!
Ah! with what thankless heart I mourn and sing! Look, where our children start, Like sudden Spring! With tongues all sweet and low, Like a pleasant rhyme, They tell how much I owe To thee and Time!
[Decoration]
A PETITION TO TIME.
1831.
Touch us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream Gently,—as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream! Humble voyagers are We, Husband, wife, and children three— (One is lost,—an angel, fled To the azure overhead!)
Touch us gently, Time! We 've not proud nor soaring wings: Our ambition, our content Lies in simple things. Humble voyagers are We, O'er Life's dim unsounded sea, Seeking only some calm clime:— Touch us gently, gentle Time!
A BACCHANALIAN SONG.
SET TO MUSIC BY MR. H. PHILLIPS.
Sing!—Who sings To her who weareth a hundred rings? Ah, who is this lady fine? The VINE, boys, the VINE! The mother of mighty Wine. A roamer is she O'er wall and tree, And sometimes very good company.
Drink!—Who drinks To her who blusheth and never thinks? Ah, who is this maid of thine? The GRAPE, boys, the GRAPE! O, never let her escape Until she be turned to Wine! For better is she Than vine can be, And very, very good company!
Dream!—Who dreams Of the God that governs a thousand streams? Ah, who is this Spirit fine? 'T is WINE, boys, 't is WINE! God Bacchus, a friend of mine. O better is he Than grape or tree, And the best of all good company.
[Decoration]
SHE WAS NOT FAIR NOR FULL OF GRACE.
She was not fair, nor full of grace, Nor crowned with thought or aught beside; No wealth had she, of mind or face, To win our love, or raise our pride: No lover's thought her cheek did touch; No poet's dream was 'round her thrown; And yet we miss her—ah, too much, Now—she hath flown!
We miss her when the morning calls, As one that mingled in our mirth; We miss her when the evening falls,— A trifle wanted on the earth! Some fancy small or subtle thought Is checked ere to its blossom grown; Some chain is broken that we wrought, Now—she hath flown!
No solid good, nor hope defined, Is marred now she hath sunk in night; And yet the strong immortal Mind Is stopped in its triumphant flight! Stern friend, what power is in a tear, What strength in one poor thought alone, When all we know is—"She was here," And—"She hath flown!"
[Decoration]
THE SEA-KING.
SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.
Come sing, Come sing, of the great Sea-King, And the fame that now hangs o'er him, Who once did sweep o'er the vanquish'd deep, And drove the world before him! His deck was a throne, on the ocean lone, And the sea was his park of pleasure, Where he scattered in fear the human deer, And rested,—when he had leisure! Come,—shout and sing Of the great Sea-King, And ride in the track he rode in! He sits at the head Of the mighty dead, On the red right hand of Odin!
He sprang, from birth, like a God on earth, And soared on his victor pinions, And he traversed the sea, as the eagles flee, When they gaze on their blue dominions. His whole earth life was a conquering strife, And he lived till his beard grew hoary, And he died at last, by his blood-red mast, And now—he is lost in glory! So,—shout and sing, &c.
[Decoration]
A SERENADE.
SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.
Awake!—The starry midnight Hour Hangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight: In its own sweetness sleeps the flower; And the doves lie hushed in deep delight! Awake! Awake! Look forth, my love, for Love's sweet sake!
Awake!—Soft dews will soon arise From daisied mead, and thorny brake; Then, Sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes, And like the tender morning break! Awake! Awake! Dawn forth, my love, for Love's sweet sake!
Awake!—Within the musk-rose bower I watch, pale flower of love, for thee; Ah, come, and shew the starry Hour What wealth of love thou hid'st from me! Awake! Awake! Shew all thy love, for Love's sweet sake!
Awake!—Ne'er heed, though listening Night Steal music from thy silver voice: Uncloud thy beauty, rare and bright, And bid the world and me rejoice! Awake! Awake! She comes,—at last, for Love's sweet sake!
[Decoration]
KING DEATH.
SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.
King Death was a rare old fellow! He sate where no sun could shine; And he lifted his hand so yellow, And poured out his coal-black wine. Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!
There came to him many a Maiden, Whose eyes had forgot to shine; And Widows, with grief o'erladen, For a draught of his sleepy wine. Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!
The Scholar left all his learning; The Poet his fancied woes; And the Beauty her bloom returning, As the beads of the black wine rose. Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!
All came to the royal old fellow, Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine, As he gave them his hand so yellow, And pledged them in Death's black wine. Hurrah!—Hurrah! Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!
[Decoration]
SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL.
Sit down, sad soul, and count The moments flying: Come,—tell the sweet amount That 's lost by sighing! How many smiles?—a score? Then laugh, and count no more; For day is dying!
Lie down, sad soul, and sleep, And no more measure The flight of Time, nor weep The loss of leisure; But here, by this lone stream, Lie down with us, and dream Of starry treasure!
We dream: do thou the same: We love—for ever: We laugh; yet few we shame, The gentle, never. Stay, then, till Sorrow dies; Then—hope and happy skies Are thine for ever!
[Decoration]
A DRINKING SONG.
Drink, and fill the night with mirth! Let us have a mighty measure, Till we quite forget the earth, And soar into the world of pleasure. Drink, and let a health go round, ('T is the drinker's noble duty,) To the eyes that shine and wound, To the mouths that bud in beauty!
Here 's to Helen! Why, ah! why Doth she fly from my pursuing? Here 's to Marian, cold and shy! May she warm before thy wooing! Here 's to Janet! I 've been e'er, Boy and man, her staunch defender, Always sworn that she was fair, Always known that she was tender!
Fill the deep-mouthed glasses high! Let them with the champagne tremble, Like the loose wrack in the sky, When the four wild winds assemble! Here 's to all the love on earth, (Love, the young man's, wise man's treasure!) Drink, and fill your throats with mirth! Drink, and drown the world in pleasure!
[Decoration]
PEACE! WHAT DO TEARS AVAIL?
Peace! what can tears avail? She lies all dumb and pale, And from her eye, The spirit of lovely life is fading, And she must die! Why looks the lover wroth? the friend upbraiding? Reply, reply!
Hath she not dwelt too long 'Midst pain, and grief, and wrong? Then, why not die? Why suffer again her doom of sorrow, And hopeless lie? Why nurse the trembling dream until to-morrow? Reply, reply!
Death! Take her to thine arms, In all her stainless charms, And with her fly To heavenly haunts, where, clad in brightness, The Angels lie! Wilt bear her there, O Death! in all her whiteness? Reply,—reply!
[Decoration]
THE SEA.
SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.
The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions 'round; It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; Or like a cradled creature lies.
I 'm on the Sea! I 'm on the Sea! I am where I would ever be; With the blue above, and the blue below, And silence wheresoe'er I go; If a storm should come and awake the deep, What matter? I shall ride and sleep.
I love (oh! how I love) to ride On the fierce foaming bursting tide, When every mad wave drowns the moon, Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, And tells how goeth the world below, And why the south-west blasts do blow.
I never was on the dull tame shore, But I loved the great Sea more and more, And backwards flew to her billowy breast, Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest; And a mother she was, and is to me; For I was born on the open Sea!
The waves were white, and red the morn, In the noisy hour when I was born; And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; And never was heard such an outcry wild As welcomed to life the Ocean-child!
I 've lived since then, in calm and strife, Full fifty summers a sailor's life, With wealth to spend and a power to range, But never have sought, nor sighed for change; And Death, whenever he come to me, Shall come on the wild unbounded Sea!
[Decoration]
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.
1830-1895.
SONG.
When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress-tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget.
[Decoration]
SONG.
O roses for the flush of youth, And laurel for the perfect prime; But pluck an ivy branch for me Grown old before my time.
O violets for the grave of youth, And bay for those dead in their prime; Give me the withered leaves I chose Before in the old time.
[Decoration]
SONG.
Two doves upon the selfsame branch, Two lilies on a single stem, Two butterflies upon one flower:— O happy they who look on them.
Who look upon them hand in hand Flushed in the rosy summer light; Who look upon them hand in hand And never give a thought to night.
[Decoration]
THREE SEASONS.
"A cup for hope!" she said, In springtime ere the bloom was old: The crimson wine was poor and cold By her mouth's richer red.
"A cup for love!" how low, How soft the words; and all the while Her blush was rippling with a smile Like summer after snow.
"A cup for memory!" Cold cup that one must drain alone: While autumn winds are up and moan Across the barren sea.
Hope, memory, love: Hope for fair morn, and love for day, And memory for the evening gray And solitary dove.
[Decoration]
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.
1828-1882.
A LITTLE WHILE.
A little while a little love The hour yet bears for thee and me Who have not drawn the veil to see If still our heaven be lit above. Thou merely, at the day's last sigh, Hast felt thy soul prolong the tone; And I have heard the night-wind cry And deemed its speech mine own.
A little while a little love The scattering autumn hoards for us Whose bower is not yet ruinous Nor quite unleaved our songless grove. Only across the shaken boughs We hear the flood-tides seek the sea, And deep in both our hearts they rouse One wail for thee and me.
A little while a little love May yet be ours who have not said The word it makes our eyes afraid To know that each is thinking of. Not yet the end: be our lips dumb In smiles a little season yet: I 'll tell thee, when the end is come, How we may best forget.
[Decoration]
SUDDEN LIGHT.
I have been here before, But when or how I cannot tell: I know the grass beyond the door, The sweet keen smell, The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.
You have been mine before,— How long ago I may not know: But just when at that swallow's soar Your neck turned so, Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.
Has this been thus before? And shall not thus time's eddying flight Still with our lives our loves restore In death's despite, And day and night yield one delight once more?
THREE SHADOWS.
I looked and saw your eyes In the shadow of your hair, As a traveller sees the stream In the shadow of the wood; And I said, "My faint heart sighs, Ah me! to linger there, To drink deep and to dream In that sweet solitude."
I looked and saw your heart In the shadow of your eyes, As a seeker sees the gold In the shadow of the stream; And I said, "Ah, me! what art Should win the immortal prize, Whose want must make life cold And Heaven a hollow dream?"
I looked and saw your love In the shadow of your heart, As a diver sees the pearl In the shadow of the sea; And I murmured, not above My breath, but all apart,— "Ah! you can love, true girl, And is your love for me?"
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
WILLIAM BELL SCOTT.
1812-1890.
PARTING AND MEETING AGAIN.
Last time I parted from my Dear The linnet sang from the briar-bush, The throstle from the dell; The stream too carolled full and clear, It was the spring-time of the year, And both the linnet and the thrush I love them well Since last I parted from my Dear.
But when he came again to me The barley rustled high and low, Linnet and thrush were still; Yellowed the apple on the tree, 'T was autumn merry as it could be, What time the white ships come and go Under the hill; They brought him back again to me, Brought him safely o'er the sea.
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
JOSEPH SKIPSEY.
1832
A MERRY BEE.
A golden bee a-cometh O'er the mere, glassy mere, And a merry tale he hummeth In my ear.
How he seized and kist a blossom, From its tree, thorny tree, Plucked and placed in Annie's bosom, Hums the bee!
THE SONGSTRESS.
Back flies my soul to other years, When thou that charming lay repeatest, When smiles were only chased by tears, Yet sweeter far than smiles the sweetest.
Thy music ends, and where are they? Those golden times by memory cherished? O, Syren, sing no more that lay, Or sing till I like them have perished!
[Decoration]
THE VIOLET AND THE ROSE.
The Violet invited my kiss,— I kissed it and called it my bride; "Was ever one slighted like this?" Sighed the Rose as it stood by my side.
My heart ever open to grief, To comfort the fair one I turned; "Of fickle ones thou art the chief!" Frowned the Violet, and pouted and mourned.
Then, to end all disputes, I entwined The love-stricken blossoms in one; But that instant their beauty declined, And I wept for the deed I had done!
[Decoration]
J. ASHBY STERRY.
REGRETS.
I.
O for the look of those pure grey eyes— Seeming to plead and speak— The parted lips and the deep-drawn sighs, The blush on the kissen cheek!
II.
O for the tangle of soft brown hair, Lazily blown by the breeze; The fleeting hours unshadowed by care, Shaded by tremulous trees!
III.
O for the dream of those sunny days, With their bright unbroken spell, And the thrilling sweet untutored praise— From the lips once loved so well!
IV.
O for the feeling of days agone, The simple faith and the truth, The spring of time and life's rosy dawn— O for the love and the youth!
[Decoration]
DAISY'S DIMPLES.
I.
Little dimples so sweet and soft, Love the cheek of my love: The mark of Cupid's dainty hand, Before he wore a glove.
II.
Laughing dimples of tender love Smile on my darling's cheek; Sweet hallowed spots where kisses lurk, And play at hide and seek.
III.
Fain would I hide my kisses there At morning's rosy light, To come and seek them back again In silver hush of night.
A LOVER'S LULLABY.
I.
Mirror your sweet eyes in mine, love, See how they glitter and shine! Quick fly such moments divine, love, Link your lithe fingers in mine!
II.
Lay your soft cheek against mine, love, Pillow your head on my breast; While your brown locks I entwine, love, Pout your red lips when they 're prest!
III.
Mirror your fate, then, in mine, love; Sorrow and sighing resign: Life is too short to repine, love, Link your fair future in mine!
[Decoration]
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
1837.
A MATCH.
If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather, Blown fields or flowerful closes, Green pleasure or grey grief; If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf.
If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune, With double sound or single Delight our lips would mingle, With kisses glad as birds are That get sweet rain at noon; If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune.
If you were life, my darling, And I your love were death, We 'd shine and snow together Ere March made sweet the weather With daffodil and starling And hours of fruitful breath; If you were life, my darling, And I your love were death.
If you were thrall to sorrow, And I were page to joy, We 'd play for lives and seasons With loving looks and treasons And tears of night and morrow And laughs of maid and boy; If you were thrall to sorrow, And I were page to joy.
If you were April's lady, And I were lord in May, We 'd throw with leaves for hours And draw for days with flowers, Till day like night were shady And night were bright like day; If you were April's lady, And I were lord in May.
If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain, We 'd hunt down love together, Pluck out his flying-feather, And teach his feet a measure, And find his mouth a rein; If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain.
RONDEL.
Kissing her hair I sat against her feet, Wove and unwove it, wound and found it sweet; Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes, Deep as deep flowers and dreamy like dim skies; With her own tresses bound and found her fair, Kissing her hair.
Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me, Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea; What pain could get between my face and hers? What new sweet thing would love not relish worse? Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me there, Kissing her hair?
[Decoration]
SONG.
FROM "FELISE."
O lips that mine have grown into Like April's kissing May, O fervent eyelids letting through Those eyes the greenest of things blue, The bluest of things gray,
If you were I and I were you, How could I love you, say? How could the roseleaf love the rue, The day love nightfall and her dew, Though night may love the day?
[Decoration]
ALFRED TENNYSON.
1809-1892.
THE BUGLE SONG.
FROM "THE PRINCESS."
The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
[Decoration]
BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.
Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.
TEARS, IDLE TEARS.
FROM "THE PRINCESS."
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
[Decoration]
SWEET AND LOW.
FROM "THE PRINCESS."
Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.
TURN, FORTUNE, TURN THY WHEEL.
FROM "THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT."
Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud; Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, storm, and cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.
Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown; With that wild wheel we go not up or down; Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.
Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands; Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands; For man is man and master of his fate.
Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd; Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.
VIVIEN'S SONG.
FROM "MERLIN AND VIVIEN."
In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours, Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers: Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.
It is the little rift within the lute, That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.
The little rift within the lover's lute Or little pitted speck in garnered fruit, That rotting inward slowly moulders all.
It is not worth the keeping: let it go: But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no. And trust me not at all or all in all.
[Decoration]
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
1811-1863.
AT THE CHURCH GATE.
FROM "PENDENNIS."
Although I enter not, Yet round about the spot Ofttimes I hover: And near the sacred gate, With longing eyes I wait, Expectant of her.
The Minster bell tolls out Above the city's rout, And noise and humming: They 've hushed the Minster bell: The organ 'gins to swell: She 's coming, she 's coming!
My lady comes at last, Timid, and stepping fast, And hastening hither, With modest eyes downcast: She comes—she 's here—she 's past— May heaven go with her!
Kneel, undisturbed, fair saint! Pour out your praise or plaint Meekly and duly; I will not enter there, To sully your pure prayer With thoughts unruly.
But suffer me to pace Round the forbidden place, Lingering a minute; Like outcast spirits who wait And see through heaven's gate Angels within it.
THE MAHOGANY TREE.
Christmas is here; Winds whistle shrill, Icy and chill, Little care we: Little we fear Weather without Sheltered about The Mahogany Tree.
Once on the boughs Birds of rare plume Sang, in its bloom; Night-birds are we: Here we carouse, Singing like them, Perched round the stem Of the jolly old tree.
Here let us sport, Boys, as we sit; Laughter and wit Flashing so free. Life is but short— When we are gone, Let them sing on, Round the old tree.
Evenings we knew, Happy as this; Faces we miss, Pleasant to see. Kind hearts and true, Gentle and just, Peace to your dust! We sing round the tree.
Care, like a dun, Lurks at the gate: Let the dog wait; Happy we 'll be! Drink, every one; Pile up the coals, Fill the red bowls, Round the old tree.
Drain we the cup.— Friend, art afraid? Spirits are laid In the Red Sea. Mantle it up; Empty it yet; Let us forget, Round the old tree.
Sorrows, begone! Life and its ills, Duns and their bills, Bid we to flee. Come with the dawn, Blue-devil sprite, Leave us to-night, Round the old tree.
[Decoration]
GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY.
1828-1876.
DAYRISE AND SUNSET.
When Spring casts all her swallows forth Into the blue and lambent air, When lilacs toss their purple plumes And every cherry-tree grows fair,— Through fields with morning tints a-glow I take my rod and singing go.
Where lilies float on broad green leaves Below the ripples of the mill, When the white moth is hovering In the dim sky so hushed and still, I watch beneath the pollard ash The greedy trout leap up and splash.
Or down where golden water flowers Are wading in the shallow tide, While still the dusk is tinged with rose Like a brown cheek o'erflushed with pride— I throw the crafty fly and wait; Watching the big trout eye the bait.
It is the lover's twilight-time, And there 's a magic in the hour, But I forget the sweets of love And all love's tyranny and power, And with my feather-hidden steel Sigh but to fill my woven creel.
Then upward darkling through the copse I push my eager homeward way, Through glades of drowsy violets That never see the golden day. Yes! while the night comes soft and slow I take my rod and singing go.
THE THREE TROOPERS.
DURING THE PROTECTORATE.
Into the Devil tavern Three booted troopers strode, From spur to feather spotted and splashed With the mud of a winter road. In each of their cups they dropped a crust, And stared at the guests with a frown; Then drew their swords, and roared for a toast, "God send this Crum-well-down!"
A blue smoke rose from their pistol locks, Their sword blades were still wet; There were long red smears on their jerkins of buff, As the table they overset. Then into their cups they stirred the crusts, And cursed old London town; They waved their swords, and drank with a stamp, "God send this Crum-well-down!"
The 'prentice dropped his can of beer, The host turned pale as a clout; The ruby nose of the toping squires Grew white at the wild men's shout. Then into their cups they flung their crusts, And shewed their teeth with a frown; They flashed their swords as they gave the toast, "God send this Crum-well-down!"
The gambler dropped his dog's-ear'd cards, The waiting-women screamed, As the light of the fire, like stains of blood, On the wild men's sabres gleamed. Then into their cups they splashed their crusts, And cursed the fool of a town, And leapt on the table, and roared a toast, "God send this Crum-well-down!"
Till on a sudden fire-bells rang, And the troopers sprang to horse; The eldest muttered between his teeth, Hot curses—deep and coarse. In their stirrup cups they flung the crusts, And cried as they spurred through the town, With their keen swords drawn and their pistols cocked, "God send this Crum-well-down!"
Away they dashed through Temple Bar, Their red cloaks flowing free, Their scabbards clashed, each back-piece shone— None liked to touch the three. The silver cups that held the crusts They flung to the startled town, Shouting again, with a blaze of swords, "God send this Crum-well-down!"
[Decoration]
THE CUCKOO.
When a warm and scented steam Rises from the flowering earth; When the green leaves are all still, And the song birds cease their mirth; In the silence before rain Comes the cuckoo back again.
When the Spring is all but gone— Tearful April, laughing May— When a hush comes on the woods, And the sunbeams cease to play; In the silence before rain Comes the cuckoo back again.
[Decoration]
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Errors and Inconsistencies:
FROM "SYLVIA": Act IV. Scene I. [should be "Scene i"] I watched the long, long, shade, [all commas as printed] THE LONG WHITE SEAM. [final . missing or invisible] [Locker-Lampson] THE CUCKOO. [printed , for .]
THE END |
|
