Beyond the night no withered roseShall mock the later bud that blows,Nor lily blossom e'er shall blight,But all shall gleam more pure and whiteThan starlight on the Arctic snows.Sigh not when daylight dimmer grows,And life a turbid river flows,For all is sweetness-all is lightBeyond the night.Oh, haste, sweet hour that no man knows;Uplift us from our cumbering woesWhere joy and peace shall crown the right,And perished hopes shall blossom bright-To aching hearts bring sweet reposeBeyond the night.
Beyond the night no withered roseShall mock the later bud that blows,Nor lily blossom e'er shall blight,But all shall gleam more pure and whiteThan starlight on the Arctic snows.
Sigh not when daylight dimmer grows,And life a turbid river flows,For all is sweetness-all is lightBeyond the night.
Oh, haste, sweet hour that no man knows;Uplift us from our cumbering woesWhere joy and peace shall crown the right,And perished hopes shall blossom bright-To aching hearts bring sweet reposeBeyond the night.
Samuel Minturn Peck.
Among my books-what rest is thereFrom wasting woes! what balm for care!If ills appal or clouds hang low,And drooping dim the fleeting show,I revel still in visions rare.At will I breathe the classic air,The wanderings of Ulysses share;Or see the plume of Bayard flowAmong my books.Whatever face the world may wear-If Lilian has no smile to spare,For others let her beauty blow,Such favours I can well forgo;Perchance forget the frowning fairAmong my books.
Among my books-what rest is thereFrom wasting woes! what balm for care!If ills appal or clouds hang low,And drooping dim the fleeting show,I revel still in visions rare.
At will I breathe the classic air,The wanderings of Ulysses share;Or see the plume of Bayard flowAmong my books.
Whatever face the world may wear-If Lilian has no smile to spare,For others let her beauty blow,Such favours I can well forgo;Perchance forget the frowning fairAmong my books.
Samuel Minturn Peck.
I go my gait, and if my wayIs cheered by song and roundelay,Or if I bear upon my road,Like Issachar, a double load,I sing and bear as best I may.But lo a rondeau! Can I say,While halting thus my toll to payBefore a stile nowa la mode,I go my gate?Ah truly; if for once I strayInto the treadmill,-'tis in play.I will not own its narrow code,It shall not be my cramped abode.Free of the fields, in open dayI go my gait!
I go my gait, and if my wayIs cheered by song and roundelay,Or if I bear upon my road,Like Issachar, a double load,I sing and bear as best I may.
But lo a rondeau! Can I say,While halting thus my toll to payBefore a stile nowa la mode,I go my gate?
Ah truly; if for once I strayInto the treadmill,-'tis in play.I will not own its narrow code,It shall not be my cramped abode.Free of the fields, in open dayI go my gait!
Emily Pfeiffer.
Laurels for song! And nobler bays,In old Olympian golden daysOf clamour thro' the clear-eyed morn,No bowed triumphant head hath borneVictorious in all Hellas' gaze!They watched his glowing axles grazeThe goal, and rent the heavens with praise;-Yet the supremer heads have wornLaurels for song.So thee, from no palaestra-playsA conqueror, to the gods we raise,Whose brows of all our singers bornThe sacred fillets chief adorn,-Who first of all our choice displaysLaurels for song.
Laurels for song! And nobler bays,In old Olympian golden daysOf clamour thro' the clear-eyed morn,No bowed triumphant head hath borneVictorious in all Hellas' gaze!
They watched his glowing axles grazeThe goal, and rent the heavens with praise;-Yet the supremer heads have wornLaurels for song.
So thee, from no palaestra-playsA conqueror, to the gods we raise,Whose brows of all our singers bornThe sacred fillets chief adorn,-Who first of all our choice displaysLaurels for song.
Charles G. D. Roberts.
Without one kiss she's gone away,And stol'n the brightness out of day;With scornful lips and haughty browShe's left me melancholy now,In spite of all that I could say.And so, to guess as best I mayWhat angered her, awhile I stayBeneath this blown acacia bough,Without one kiss;Yet all my wildered brain can payMy questioning, is but to prayPersuasion may my speech endow,And Love may never more allowMy injured sweet to sail awayWithout one kiss.
Without one kiss she's gone away,And stol'n the brightness out of day;With scornful lips and haughty browShe's left me melancholy now,In spite of all that I could say.
And so, to guess as best I mayWhat angered her, awhile I stayBeneath this blown acacia bough,Without one kiss;
Yet all my wildered brain can payMy questioning, is but to prayPersuasion may my speech endow,And Love may never more allowMy injured sweet to sail awayWithout one kiss.
Charles G. D. Roberts.
Love that holdeth firm in feeMany a lord of many a land,From thy thraldom few would flee;Wide the wondrous potencyOf thy heart-enchanting hand.Since on shining Cyprian sandDid thy mother, Venus, stand,Man and maid have worshipped thee,Love.They that scorn thy slaves to be,Oft before thy throne, unmanned,Grant thy great supremacy;Hear my prayer, O Monarch, andLet my lady smile on me,Love.
Love that holdeth firm in feeMany a lord of many a land,From thy thraldom few would flee;Wide the wondrous potencyOf thy heart-enchanting hand.
Since on shining Cyprian sandDid thy mother, Venus, stand,Man and maid have worshipped thee,Love.
They that scorn thy slaves to be,Oft before thy throne, unmanned,Grant thy great supremacy;Hear my prayer, O Monarch, andLet my lady smile on me,Love.
Clinton Scollard.
When Sirius shines, a fulgent fire,And locusts in a drowsy choirAt noon within the maples drone,And pines at nightfall make sad moanLike waves upon the rocks of Tyre,Then strike the softly sounding lyre,And let the soaring song rise higher,Or fall to minor monotone,When Sirius shines.But should the chiming voices tire,And thoughts of past and vain desireRefill the mind, as doves once flownReturn to cotes aforetime known,Then let the soul to heaven aspire,When Sirius shines.
When Sirius shines, a fulgent fire,And locusts in a drowsy choirAt noon within the maples drone,And pines at nightfall make sad moanLike waves upon the rocks of Tyre,
Then strike the softly sounding lyre,And let the soaring song rise higher,Or fall to minor monotone,When Sirius shines.
But should the chiming voices tire,And thoughts of past and vain desireRefill the mind, as doves once flownReturn to cotes aforetime known,Then let the soul to heaven aspire,When Sirius shines.
Clinton Scollard.
At peep of dawn the daffodilThat slumbers 'neath the grassy hillGreets smilingly, with lifted head,The rosy morn's oncoming tread,The thrush sings matins by the rill.The swallows from the ruined millGo coursing through the air, and fillThe sky with songs till then unsaidAt peep of dawn.No harbinger of day is still.With pipe new tuned and merry trill,The lark uprises from her bed'Mong grasses wet with dews unshed,And puts to shame the whip-poor-willAt peep of dawn.
At peep of dawn the daffodilThat slumbers 'neath the grassy hillGreets smilingly, with lifted head,The rosy morn's oncoming tread,The thrush sings matins by the rill.
The swallows from the ruined millGo coursing through the air, and fillThe sky with songs till then unsaidAt peep of dawn.
No harbinger of day is still.With pipe new tuned and merry trill,The lark uprises from her bed'Mong grasses wet with dews unshed,And puts to shame the whip-poor-willAt peep of dawn.
Clinton Scollard.
In greenwood glen, where greedy beesDrain fragrant flower-cups to the lees,When summer's shining lances smiteThe grain-fields gleaming golden bright,I hear Æolian melodies.The music bounds along the breezeIn ever-changing symphonies,And lulls my soul with calm delightIn Greenwood glen.Elusively it faints and flees,Retreats, returns,-but no one seesThe piper; for, as in affright,He skilfully eludes the sight;'Tis Pan who hides amid the trees,In Greenwood glen.
In greenwood glen, where greedy beesDrain fragrant flower-cups to the lees,When summer's shining lances smiteThe grain-fields gleaming golden bright,I hear Æolian melodies.
The music bounds along the breezeIn ever-changing symphonies,And lulls my soul with calm delightIn Greenwood glen.
Elusively it faints and flees,Retreats, returns,-but no one seesThe piper; for, as in affright,He skilfully eludes the sight;'Tis Pan who hides amid the trees,In Greenwood glen.
Clinton Scollard.
Her china cup is white and thin;A thousand times her heart has beenMade merry at its scalloped brink;And in the bottom, painted pink,A dragon greets her with a grin.The brim her kisses loves to win;The handle is a manikin,Who spies the foes that chip or chinkHer china cup.Muse, tell me if it be a sin:I watch her lift it past her chinUp to the scarlet lips and drinkThe Oolong draught, somehow I thinkI'd like to be the dragon inHer china cup.
Her china cup is white and thin;A thousand times her heart has beenMade merry at its scalloped brink;And in the bottom, painted pink,A dragon greets her with a grin.
The brim her kisses loves to win;The handle is a manikin,Who spies the foes that chip or chinkHer china cup.
Muse, tell me if it be a sin:I watch her lift it past her chinUp to the scarlet lips and drinkThe Oolong draught, somehow I thinkI'd like to be the dragon inHer china cup.
Frank Dempster Sherman.
Behind her fan of downy fluff,Sewed on soft saffron satin stuff,With peacock feathers, purple-eyed,Caught daintily on either side,The gay coquette displays a puff:Two blue eyes peep above the buff:Two pinky pouting lips ... enough!That cough means surely come and hideBehind her fan.The barque of Hope is trim and tough,So out I venture on the rough,Uncertain sea of girlish pride.A breeze! I tack against the tide,-Capture a kiss and catch a cuff,-Behind her fan.
Behind her fan of downy fluff,Sewed on soft saffron satin stuff,With peacock feathers, purple-eyed,Caught daintily on either side,The gay coquette displays a puff:Two blue eyes peep above the buff:Two pinky pouting lips ... enough!That cough means surely come and hideBehind her fan.
The barque of Hope is trim and tough,So out I venture on the rough,Uncertain sea of girlish pride.A breeze! I tack against the tide,-Capture a kiss and catch a cuff,-Behind her fan.
Frank Dempster Sherman.
(A. S. R.)
Fast in your heart, O rondeau rare,Rich with the wealth of love, I dare,Alas! to send, but not to sign,Nestles my name. The fetters fineKissed by her lips may break,—bewareDelight is dizzy with despair.Suppose she fain would answer,-there!How shall she find this name of mineFast in your heart?Enough if secrecy you swear:Red lips can't solve the subtile snareMy tricksy muse weaves with her line:And I am caught, vain Valentine!N.B.-Say,-should she ask you where?"Fast in your heart."
Fast in your heart, O rondeau rare,Rich with the wealth of love, I dare,Alas! to send, but not to sign,Nestles my name. The fetters fineKissed by her lips may break,—bewareDelight is dizzy with despair.Suppose she fain would answer,-there!How shall she find this name of mineFast in your heart?
Enough if secrecy you swear:Red lips can't solve the subtile snareMy tricksy muse weaves with her line:And I am caught, vain Valentine!N.B.-Say,-should she ask you where?"Fast in your heart."
Frank Dempster Sherman.
When twilight comes and nature stillsThe hum that haunts the dales and hills,Dim shadows deepen and combine,And Heaven with its crystal wineThe cups of thirsty roses fills.Blithe birds with music-burdened billsHush for a space their tender trills,And seek their homes in tree or vineWhen twilight comes.Soft melody the silence thrills,Played by the nymphs along the rills;And where the dew-kist grasses twine,The toads and crickets tatoo fineDrums to the fife of whip-poor-wills,When twilight comes.
When twilight comes and nature stillsThe hum that haunts the dales and hills,Dim shadows deepen and combine,And Heaven with its crystal wineThe cups of thirsty roses fills.
Blithe birds with music-burdened billsHush for a space their tender trills,And seek their homes in tree or vineWhen twilight comes.
Soft melody the silence thrills,Played by the nymphs along the rills;And where the dew-kist grasses twine,The toads and crickets tatoo fineDrums to the fife of whip-poor-wills,When twilight comes.
Frank Dempster Sherman.
Come, Pan, and pipe upon the reed,And make the mellow music bleed,As once it did in days of yore,Along the brook's leaf-tangled shore,Through sylvan shade and fragrant mead.On Hybla honey come and feed,—To tempt the Fauns in dance to leadThe Dryads on the mossy floor,—Come, Pan, and pipe!To-day the ghosts,—Gold, Gain, and Greed,The world pursues with savage speed:Forgotten is your magic lore.Oh, bring it back to us once more!For simple, rustic song we plead:Come, Pan, and pipe!
Come, Pan, and pipe upon the reed,And make the mellow music bleed,As once it did in days of yore,Along the brook's leaf-tangled shore,Through sylvan shade and fragrant mead.
On Hybla honey come and feed,—To tempt the Fauns in dance to leadThe Dryads on the mossy floor,—Come, Pan, and pipe!
To-day the ghosts,—Gold, Gain, and Greed,The world pursues with savage speed:Forgotten is your magic lore.Oh, bring it back to us once more!For simple, rustic song we plead:Come, Pan, and pipe!
Frank Dempster Sherman.
Her scuttle Hatt is wondrous wide,All furrie, too, on every side,Soe out she trippeth daintylie,To let ye Youth full well to seeHow fayre ye mayde is for ye Bryde.A lyttle puffed, may be, bye Pryde,She yett soe lovelye ys thatt I'dA Shyllynge gyve to tye, perdie,Her scuttle Hatt.Ye Coales unto ye Scuttle slide,Soe yn her Hatt wolde I, and hideTo steale some Kissestwo or three:But synce She never asketh me,Ye scornful Cynick doth derideHer scuttle Hatt!
Her scuttle Hatt is wondrous wide,All furrie, too, on every side,Soe out she trippeth daintylie,To let ye Youth full well to seeHow fayre ye mayde is for ye Bryde.
A lyttle puffed, may be, bye Pryde,She yett soe lovelye ys thatt I'dA Shyllynge gyve to tye, perdie,Her scuttle Hatt.
Ye Coales unto ye Scuttle slide,Soe yn her Hatt wolde I, and hideTo steale some Kissestwo or three:But synce She never asketh me,Ye scornful Cynick doth derideHer scuttle Hatt!
Frank Dempster Sherman.
Upon the Kerb, a maiden neat—Her hazel eyes are passing sweet—There stands and waits in dire distress:The muddy road is pitiless,And 'busses thunder down the street!A snowy skirt, all frills and pleat;Two tiny, well-shod, dainty feetPeep out, beneath her kilted dress,Upon the Kerb.She'll first advance and then retreat,Half-frightened by a hansom fleet.She looks around, I must confess,With marvellous coquettishness!-Then droops her eyes and looks discreet,Upon the Kerb!
Upon the Kerb, a maiden neat—Her hazel eyes are passing sweet—There stands and waits in dire distress:The muddy road is pitiless,And 'busses thunder down the street!
A snowy skirt, all frills and pleat;Two tiny, well-shod, dainty feetPeep out, beneath her kilted dress,Upon the Kerb.
She'll first advance and then retreat,Half-frightened by a hansom fleet.She looks around, I must confess,With marvellous coquettishness!-Then droops her eyes and looks discreet,Upon the Kerb!
J. Ashby Sterry.
On Dover Pier, brisk blew the wind,The Fates against me were combinedFor when I noticed standing there,Sweet Some-one with the sunny hair-To start I felt not much inclined.Too late! I cannot change my mind,The paddles move! I am resigned-I only know I would I wereOn Dover Pier.I wonder—will the Fates be kind?On my return, and shall I findThat grey-eyed damsel passing fair,So bonny, blithe, and debonair,The pretty girl I left behind?On Dover Pier?
On Dover Pier, brisk blew the wind,The Fates against me were combinedFor when I noticed standing there,Sweet Some-one with the sunny hair-To start I felt not much inclined.
Too late! I cannot change my mind,The paddles move! I am resigned-I only know I would I wereOn Dover Pier.
I wonder—will the Fates be kind?On my return, and shall I findThat grey-eyed damsel passing fair,So bonny, blithe, and debonair,The pretty girl I left behind?On Dover Pier?
J. Ashby Sterry.
'Mid Autumn Leaves, now thickly shed,We wander where our paths o'erspread,With yellow russet, red and sere:The country's looking dull and drear,The sky is gloomy overhead.The equinoctial gales we dread,The summer's gone, the sunshine's fled;We've rambled far enough this year-'Mid Autumn Leaves.Though fast our travel-time has sped,On London's flags we long to tread;The latest laugh and chaff to hear,To find the Club grown doubly dear;Its gas burns bright, its fire glows red-'Mid Autumn Leaves.
'Mid Autumn Leaves, now thickly shed,We wander where our paths o'erspread,With yellow russet, red and sere:The country's looking dull and drear,The sky is gloomy overhead.
The equinoctial gales we dread,The summer's gone, the sunshine's fled;We've rambled far enough this year-'Mid Autumn Leaves.
Though fast our travel-time has sped,On London's flags we long to tread;The latest laugh and chaff to hear,To find the Club grown doubly dear;Its gas burns bright, its fire glows red-'Mid Autumn Leaves.
J. Ashby Sterry.
In beechen shade the hours are sweet,By mist-veiled morn or noonday heat(And sweeter still when daylight dies)So soft the wandering streamlet sighsIn passage musical and fleet.Full drowsily the white lambs bleat,And tinkling bell-notes faintly beatThe languid air where Lacon liesIn beechen shade.And still, when day and even meet;Selene strays with golden feet,That gleam along the low blue skiesAnd paceth slow, with dreaming eyesThat seek the shepherds' dim retreat'Mid beechen shade.
In beechen shade the hours are sweet,By mist-veiled morn or noonday heat(And sweeter still when daylight dies)So soft the wandering streamlet sighsIn passage musical and fleet.
Full drowsily the white lambs bleat,And tinkling bell-notes faintly beatThe languid air where Lacon liesIn beechen shade.
And still, when day and even meet;Selene strays with golden feet,That gleam along the low blue skiesAnd paceth slow, with dreaming eyesThat seek the shepherds' dim retreat'Mid beechen shade.
Graham R. Tomson.
The Gates of Horn are dull of hue(If all our wise men tell us true).No songs, they say, nor perfumed airShall greet the wistful pilgrim there,No leaves are green, no skies are blue.Yet he who will may find a clue(Mid shadows steeped in opal dew)To seek, and see them passing fair,The Gates of Horn.The man that goes not wreathed with rue,Right lovely shapes his smile shall sue,With red rose-garlands in their hairAnd garments gay with gold and vair,Full fain to meet him trooping throughThe Gates of Horn.
The Gates of Horn are dull of hue(If all our wise men tell us true).No songs, they say, nor perfumed airShall greet the wistful pilgrim there,No leaves are green, no skies are blue.
Yet he who will may find a clue(Mid shadows steeped in opal dew)To seek, and see them passing fair,The Gates of Horn.
The man that goes not wreathed with rue,Right lovely shapes his smile shall sue,With red rose-garlands in their hairAnd garments gay with gold and vair,Full fain to meet him trooping throughThe Gates of Horn.
Graham R. Tomson.
If love be true-not bought at mart-Though night and darkness hide from view,What harshest of harsh things can partThe loved-one from the lover's heart,Or stay the dreams that flit thereto?If love be true dreams need no chartTo gain the goal to which they're due;For love will guide them with love's dart,If love be true.If love be true, if thou be true,Sweet love, as fair thou surely art,Night shall not hide your eyes of blueFrom my heart's eyes the long night through;Though in sweet sadness tears may start,If love be true.
If love be true-not bought at mart-Though night and darkness hide from view,What harshest of harsh things can partThe loved-one from the lover's heart,Or stay the dreams that flit thereto?If love be true dreams need no chartTo gain the goal to which they're due;For love will guide them with love's dart,If love be true.
If love be true, if thou be true,Sweet love, as fair thou surely art,Night shall not hide your eyes of blueFrom my heart's eyes the long night through;Though in sweet sadness tears may start,If love be true.
Samuel Waddington.
This pirate bold upon love's seaWill let no passing heart go free;No barque by those bright eyes espiedMay sail away o'er life's blue tideTill all its treasure yielded be.Her craft, theConquest, waits for thee,Where her swift rapine none may see;From shadowing coves on thee will glideThis pirate bold.Yet thou, if thou her power wouldst flee,Go, feign thyself love's refugee,And crave sweet shelter;-she'll derideThy piteous suit with scornful pride;And thou, thou shalt escape in gleeThis pirate bold.
This pirate bold upon love's seaWill let no passing heart go free;No barque by those bright eyes espiedMay sail away o'er life's blue tideTill all its treasure yielded be.
Her craft, theConquest, waits for thee,Where her swift rapine none may see;From shadowing coves on thee will glideThis pirate bold.
Yet thou, if thou her power wouldst flee,Go, feign thyself love's refugee,And crave sweet shelter;-she'll derideThy piteous suit with scornful pride;And thou, thou shalt escape in gleeThis pirate bold.
Samuel Waddington.
A Good man's love! Oh, prithee, stay,Before you turn such gift away,And write no unconsidered "No"To him who proves he loves you so,And humbly owns your regal sway.For hearts may change, the wise folk say,And as full oft the brightest rayFades in an hour, so too may goA Good man's love.Then pause awhile. This short delayMay gladden many an after-day.Search well your heart, and if it showTrue signs of love, bid pride bend low,And take this great gift while you may—A Good man's love!
A Good man's love! Oh, prithee, stay,Before you turn such gift away,And write no unconsidered "No"To him who proves he loves you so,And humbly owns your regal sway.
For hearts may change, the wise folk say,And as full oft the brightest rayFades in an hour, so too may goA Good man's love.
Then pause awhile. This short delayMay gladden many an after-day.Search well your heart, and if it showTrue signs of love, bid pride bend low,And take this great gift while you may—A Good man's love!
G. Weatherly.
My window birds, I love to strewWith punctual hands the crumb for you,Flying for comfort day by dayFrom frozen woodland and highway,And bringing Christmas bills now due!Fair creditors of every hueCrimson and yellow, brown and blue,Whate'er your thoughts, your coats are gay,My window birds.Your claims are neither small nor few,Dated, when May-flowers drank the dew,And on sweet pipes ye used to play,Scattering full many a golden lay;Now ye for wages mutely sue,My window birds.
My window birds, I love to strewWith punctual hands the crumb for you,Flying for comfort day by dayFrom frozen woodland and highway,And bringing Christmas bills now due!
Fair creditors of every hueCrimson and yellow, brown and blue,Whate'er your thoughts, your coats are gay,My window birds.
Your claims are neither small nor few,Dated, when May-flowers drank the dew,And on sweet pipes ye used to play,Scattering full many a golden lay;Now ye for wages mutely sue,My window birds.
Rev. Richard Wilton, M.A.
Silver and gold! The snowdrop whiteAnd yellow blossomed aconite,Waking from Winter's slumber cold,Their hoarded treasures now unfold,And scatter them to left and right.Ah, with how much more rare delightUpon my sense their colours smiteThan if my fingers were to holdSilver and gold.They bear the superscription brightOf the great King of love and might,Who stamped such beauty there of oldThat men might learn, as ages rolled,To trust in God, nor worship quiteSilver and gold.
Silver and gold! The snowdrop whiteAnd yellow blossomed aconite,Waking from Winter's slumber cold,Their hoarded treasures now unfold,And scatter them to left and right.
Ah, with how much more rare delightUpon my sense their colours smiteThan if my fingers were to holdSilver and gold.
They bear the superscription brightOf the great King of love and might,Who stamped such beauty there of oldThat men might learn, as ages rolled,To trust in God, nor worship quiteSilver and gold.
Rev. Richard Wilton, M.A.
"Cheer up, cheer up!" it seems to say,As lighting on some leafless spray,It shakes its dissyllabic song,And with small beak, but courage strong,Charges the East-wind all the day."Soon will the Swallow round you play,The Nightingale be on its way,Blue skies and gladness come ere long,Cheer up, cheer up!"Such happy voice be mine, I pray,Bleak hours to bless with sunny ray,A comfort life's rough path among;Be mine to lighten pain and wrong,Still letting fall a hopeful lay—Cheer up, cheer up!
"Cheer up, cheer up!" it seems to say,As lighting on some leafless spray,It shakes its dissyllabic song,And with small beak, but courage strong,Charges the East-wind all the day.
"Soon will the Swallow round you play,The Nightingale be on its way,Blue skies and gladness come ere long,Cheer up, cheer up!"
Such happy voice be mine, I pray,Bleak hours to bless with sunny ray,A comfort life's rough path among;Be mine to lighten pain and wrong,Still letting fall a hopeful lay—Cheer up, cheer up!
Rev. Richard Wilton, M.A.
When Summer dies, the leaves are falling fastIn fitful eddies on the chilly blast,And fields lie blank upon the bare hillsideWhere erst the poppy flaunted in its pride,And woodbine on the breeze its fragrance cast.And where the hawthorn scattered far and wideIts creamy petals in the sweet SpringtideRed berries hang, for birds a glad repastWhen summer dies.Gone are the cowslips and the daisies pied;The swallow to a warmer clime hath hied;The beech has shed its store of bitter mast,And days are drear and skies are overcast,But Love will warm our hearts whate'er betideWhen summer dies.
When Summer dies, the leaves are falling fastIn fitful eddies on the chilly blast,And fields lie blank upon the bare hillsideWhere erst the poppy flaunted in its pride,And woodbine on the breeze its fragrance cast.
And where the hawthorn scattered far and wideIts creamy petals in the sweet SpringtideRed berries hang, for birds a glad repastWhen summer dies.
Gone are the cowslips and the daisies pied;The swallow to a warmer clime hath hied;The beech has shed its store of bitter mast,And days are drear and skies are overcast,But Love will warm our hearts whate'er betideWhen summer dies.
Arthur G. Wright.
Across the pew, with complaisanceAnd eyes that with Love's sunshine dance,My little sweetheart smiles at me—She is the only saint I see;The sermon passes in a trance.The painted figures gaze askance,Down from their glassy vigilance,On this our tender heresyAcross the pew.Ah! little sweetheart, the romanceOf Life, with all its change and chance,Is but a sealëd book to thee—When opened, may its pages beAs fair and sweet as thy bright glanceAcross the pew!
Across the pew, with complaisanceAnd eyes that with Love's sunshine dance,My little sweetheart smiles at me—She is the only saint I see;The sermon passes in a trance.
The painted figures gaze askance,Down from their glassy vigilance,On this our tender heresyAcross the pew.
Ah! little sweetheart, the romanceOf Life, with all its change and chance,Is but a sealëd book to thee—When opened, may its pages beAs fair and sweet as thy bright glanceAcross the pew!
Arthur G. Wright.
Love, though I die, and dying laveMy soul in Lethe endlessly,Losing all else, I still would save—Love, though I die—Thy living presence, touch and sigh,All that the golden moments gaveTo vanished hours of ecstasy.Then make thou great and wide my grave,So wide we two therein may lie;For sense of thee my soul will crave,Love, though I die.
Love, though I die, and dying laveMy soul in Lethe endlessly,Losing all else, I still would save—Love, though I die—
Thy living presence, touch and sigh,All that the golden moments gaveTo vanished hours of ecstasy.
Then make thou great and wide my grave,So wide we two therein may lie;For sense of thee my soul will crave,Love, though I die.
My lips refuse to take farewell of bliss,Sweet Love! so sweet and false, I can but chooseTo leave thee, only parting word and kissMy lips refuse.Fancy wears livery of a thousand hues,So love in idleness may come to this!And I must bring the thought to common useThat ever—save in memory—I shall missThy short-lived tenderness-ever loseAll that has taught how dear a thing it isMy lips refuse.
My lips refuse to take farewell of bliss,Sweet Love! so sweet and false, I can but chooseTo leave thee, only parting word and kissMy lips refuse.
Fancy wears livery of a thousand hues,So love in idleness may come to this!And I must bring the thought to common use
That ever—save in memory—I shall missThy short-lived tenderness-ever loseAll that has taught how dear a thing it isMy lips refuse.
Other lips than yours intreatThose I vowed in vanished hours,Never Fate should force to greetOther lips than yours.Memory dulls, perchance, or soursWhat was once so keenly sweet,Being ours and only ours.All the life and heart and heat,All the soul that love outpours,Dies upon the lips that meetOther lips than yours.
Other lips than yours intreatThose I vowed in vanished hours,Never Fate should force to greetOther lips than yours.
Memory dulls, perchance, or soursWhat was once so keenly sweet,Being ours and only ours.
All the life and heart and heat,All the soul that love outpours,Dies upon the lips that meetOther lips than yours.
D. F. Blomfield.
Far-fetched and dear bought, as the proverb rehearses,Is good, or was held so, for ladies: but noughtIn a song can be good if the turn of the verse isFar-fetched and dear bought.As the turn of a wave should it sound, and the thoughtRing smooth, and as light as the spray that dispersesBe the gleam of the words for the garb thereof wrought.Let the soul in it shine through the sound as it piercesMen's hearts with possession of music unsought;For the bounties of song are no jealous god's mercies,Far-fetched and dear bought.
Far-fetched and dear bought, as the proverb rehearses,Is good, or was held so, for ladies: but noughtIn a song can be good if the turn of the verse isFar-fetched and dear bought.
As the turn of a wave should it sound, and the thoughtRing smooth, and as light as the spray that dispersesBe the gleam of the words for the garb thereof wrought.
Let the soul in it shine through the sound as it piercesMen's hearts with possession of music unsought;For the bounties of song are no jealous god's mercies,Far-fetched and dear bought.
Algernon Charles Swinburne.
(To Theodore Watts.)
The heavenly bay, ringed round with cliffs and moors,Storm-stained ravines, and crags that lawns inlay,Soothes as with love the rocks whose guard securesThe heavenly bay.O friend, shall time take even this away,This blessing given of beauty that endures,This glory shown us, not to pass but stay?Though sight be changed for memory, love ensuresWhat memory, changed by love to sight, would say—The word that seals for ever mine and yours,The heavenly bay.
The heavenly bay, ringed round with cliffs and moors,Storm-stained ravines, and crags that lawns inlay,Soothes as with love the rocks whose guard securesThe heavenly bay.
O friend, shall time take even this away,This blessing given of beauty that endures,This glory shown us, not to pass but stay?
Though sight be changed for memory, love ensuresWhat memory, changed by love to sight, would say—The word that seals for ever mine and yours,The heavenly bay.
My mother sea, my fortress, what new strand,What new delight of waters, may this be,The fairest found since time's first breezes fannedMy mother sea?Once more I give me body and soul to thee,Who hast my soul for ever: cliff and sandRecede, and heart to heart once more are we.My heart springs first and plunges, ere my handStrike out from shore: more close it brings to me,More near and dear than seems my fatherland,My mother sea.Across and along, as the bay's breadth opens, and o'er usWild autumn exults in the wind, swift rapture and strongImpels us, and broader the wide waves brighten before usAcross and along.The whole world's heart is uplifted, and knows not wrong;The whole world's life is a chant to the sea-tide's chorus;Are we not as waves of the water, as notes of the song?Like children unworn of the passions and toils that wore us,We breast for a season the breadth of the seas that throng,Rejoicing as they, to be borne as of old they bore usAcross and along.
My mother sea, my fortress, what new strand,What new delight of waters, may this be,The fairest found since time's first breezes fannedMy mother sea?
Once more I give me body and soul to thee,Who hast my soul for ever: cliff and sandRecede, and heart to heart once more are we.
My heart springs first and plunges, ere my handStrike out from shore: more close it brings to me,More near and dear than seems my fatherland,My mother sea.Across and along, as the bay's breadth opens, and o'er usWild autumn exults in the wind, swift rapture and strongImpels us, and broader the wide waves brighten before usAcross and along.
The whole world's heart is uplifted, and knows not wrong;The whole world's life is a chant to the sea-tide's chorus;Are we not as waves of the water, as notes of the song?
Like children unworn of the passions and toils that wore us,We breast for a season the breadth of the seas that throng,Rejoicing as they, to be borne as of old they bore usAcross and along.
Algernon Charles Swinburne.
A Roundel is wrought as a ring or a starbright sphere,With craft of delight and with cunning of sound unsought,That the heart of the hearer may smile if to pleasure his earA roundel is wrought.Its jewel of music is carven of all or of aught—Love, laughter, or mourning—remembrance of rapture or fear—That fancy may fashion to hang in the ear of thought.As a bird's quick song runs round, and the hearts in us hear—Pause answers to pause, and again the same strain caught,So moves the device whence, round as a pearl or tear,A roundel is wrought.
A Roundel is wrought as a ring or a starbright sphere,With craft of delight and with cunning of sound unsought,That the heart of the hearer may smile if to pleasure his earA roundel is wrought.
Its jewel of music is carven of all or of aught—Love, laughter, or mourning—remembrance of rapture or fear—That fancy may fashion to hang in the ear of thought.
As a bird's quick song runs round, and the hearts in us hear—Pause answers to pause, and again the same strain caught,So moves the device whence, round as a pearl or tear,A roundel is wrought.
Algernon Charles Swinburne.
Nothing so sweet in all the world there isThan this-to stand apart in Love's retreatAnd gaze at Love. There is as that, ywis,Nothing so sweet.Yet surely God hath placed before our feetSome sweeter sweetness and completer bliss,And something that shall prove more truly meet.Soothly I know not:-when the live lips kissThere is no more that our prayers shall entreat,Save only Death. Perhaps there is as thisNothing so sweet.
Nothing so sweet in all the world there isThan this-to stand apart in Love's retreatAnd gaze at Love. There is as that, ywis,Nothing so sweet.
Yet surely God hath placed before our feetSome sweeter sweetness and completer bliss,And something that shall prove more truly meet.
Soothly I know not:-when the live lips kissThere is no more that our prayers shall entreat,Save only Death. Perhaps there is as thisNothing so sweet.
Charles Sayle.
Meet me, love, where the woodbines growAnd where the wild rose smells most sweet;And the breezes, as they softliest blow,Meet;Passing along through the field of wheat,By the hedge where in spring the violets glow,And the blue-bells blossom around one's feet;Where latest lingers the drifted snow,And the fir-tree grows o'er our trysting-seat,Come-and your love, as long ago,Meet.
Meet me, love, where the woodbines growAnd where the wild rose smells most sweet;And the breezes, as they softliest blow,Meet;
Passing along through the field of wheat,By the hedge where in spring the violets glow,And the blue-bells blossom around one's feet;
Where latest lingers the drifted snow,And the fir-tree grows o'er our trysting-seat,Come-and your love, as long ago,Meet.
Charles Sayle.
If rest is sweet at shut of dayFor tired hands and tired feet,How sweet at last to rest for aye,If rest is sweet!We work or work not through the heat:Death bids us soon our labours layIn lands where night and twilight meet.When the last dawns are fallen on greyAnd all life's toils and ease complete,They know who work, not they who play,If rest is sweet.
If rest is sweet at shut of dayFor tired hands and tired feet,How sweet at last to rest for aye,If rest is sweet!
We work or work not through the heat:Death bids us soon our labours layIn lands where night and twilight meet.
When the last dawns are fallen on greyAnd all life's toils and ease complete,They know who work, not they who play,If rest is sweet.
Arthur Symons.
We know not yet what life shall be,What shore beyond earth's shore be set;What grief awaits us, or what glee,We know not yet.Still, somewhere in sweet converse met,Old friends, we say, beyond death's seaShall meet and greet us, nor forgetThose days of yore, those years when weWere loved and true,-but will death letOur eyes the longed-for vision see?We know not yet.
We know not yet what life shall be,What shore beyond earth's shore be set;What grief awaits us, or what glee,We know not yet.
Still, somewhere in sweet converse met,Old friends, we say, beyond death's seaShall meet and greet us, nor forget
Those days of yore, those years when weWere loved and true,-but will death letOur eyes the longed-for vision see?We know not yet.
Samuel Waddington.