A pot of gold! O mistress fair,With eyes of brown that pass compare,Ere I on bended knee expressThe love which you already guess,I fain would ask a small affair.Hast thou, my dear, an ample shareOf this world's goods? Wilt thy papa[9]Disgorge, to gild our blessedness,A pot of gold?Some swains for mental graces care;Some fall a prey to golden hair;I am not blind, I will confess,To intellect or comeliness;Still let these go beside,ma chère,A pot of gold.
A pot of gold! O mistress fair,With eyes of brown that pass compare,Ere I on bended knee expressThe love which you already guess,I fain would ask a small affair.
Hast thou, my dear, an ample shareOf this world's goods? Wilt thy papa[9]Disgorge, to gild our blessedness,A pot of gold?
Some swains for mental graces care;Some fall a prey to golden hair;I am not blind, I will confess,To intellect or comeliness;Still let these go beside,ma chère,A pot of gold.
A pedigree! Ah, lovely jade!Whose tresses mock the raven's shade,Before I free this aching breast,I want to set my mind at rest;'Tis best to call a spade a spade.What was thy father ere he madeHis fortune? Was he smeared with trade,Or does he boast an ancient crest—A pedigree?Brains and bright eyes are overweighed,For wits grow dull and beauties fade;And riches, though a welcome guest,Oft jar the matrimonial nest;I kiss her lips who holds displayedA pedigree.
A pedigree! Ah, lovely jade!Whose tresses mock the raven's shade,Before I free this aching breast,I want to set my mind at rest;'Tis best to call a spade a spade.
What was thy father ere he madeHis fortune? Was he smeared with trade,Or does he boast an ancient crest—A pedigree?
Brains and bright eyes are overweighed,For wits grow dull and beauties fade;And riches, though a welcome guest,Oft jar the matrimonial nest;I kiss her lips who holds displayedA pedigree.
A pretty face! O maid divine,Whose vowels flow as soft as wine,Before I say upon the rackThe words I never can take back,A moment meet my glance with thine.Say, art thou fair? Is the inclineOf that sweet nose an aquiline?Hast thou, despite unkind attack,A pretty face?Some sigh for wisdom; Three, not nine,The Graces were. I won't repineFor want of pedigree, or lackOf gold to banish Care the black,If I can call forever mineA pretty face.
A pretty face! O maid divine,Whose vowels flow as soft as wine,Before I say upon the rackThe words I never can take back,A moment meet my glance with thine.
Say, art thou fair? Is the inclineOf that sweet nose an aquiline?Hast thou, despite unkind attack,A pretty face?
Some sigh for wisdom; Three, not nine,The Graces were. I won't repineFor want of pedigree, or lackOf gold to banish Care the black,If I can call forever mineA pretty face.
Robert Grant.
[9]Pronouncedpapaire.
[9]Pronouncedpapaire.
Could she have guessed my coward care?I knew her foot upon the stair,Her figure chained my inmost eye;I only looked a lover's lie,—I feigned indifference, felt despair.My very blood leaped up, awareOf her free step and morning air;She raised her head, she caught my eye—Could she have guessed?I faced her with a chilly stare,With words so common and so bare!Her whispering skirts, as she went by,Swept every sense—a thrilling sigh!Ah, would her heart have heard my prayerCould she have guessed?
Could she have guessed my coward care?I knew her foot upon the stair,Her figure chained my inmost eye;I only looked a lover's lie,—I feigned indifference, felt despair.
My very blood leaped up, awareOf her free step and morning air;She raised her head, she caught my eye—Could she have guessed?
I faced her with a chilly stare,With words so common and so bare!Her whispering skirts, as she went by,Swept every sense—a thrilling sigh!Ah, would her heart have heard my prayerCould she have guessed?
Elaine Goodale.
When first we met the nether world was white,And on the steel-blue ice before her bowerI skated in the sunrise for an hour,Till all the grey horizon, gulphed in light,Was red against the bare boughs black as night;Then suddenly her sweet face, like a flowerEnclosed in sables from the frost's dim power,Shone at her casement, and flashed burning brightWhen first we met!My skating being done, I loitered home,And sought that day to lose her face again;But love was weaving in his golden loomMy story up with hers, and all in vainI strove to loose the threads he spun amainWhen first we met!
When first we met the nether world was white,And on the steel-blue ice before her bowerI skated in the sunrise for an hour,Till all the grey horizon, gulphed in light,Was red against the bare boughs black as night;Then suddenly her sweet face, like a flowerEnclosed in sables from the frost's dim power,Shone at her casement, and flashed burning brightWhen first we met!
My skating being done, I loitered home,And sought that day to lose her face again;But love was weaving in his golden loomMy story up with hers, and all in vainI strove to loose the threads he spun amainWhen first we met!
Edmund Gosse.
When flower-time comes and all the woods are gay,When linnets chirrup and the soft winds blow,Adown the winding river I will row,And watch the merry maidens tossing hay,And troops of children shouting in their play,And with my thin oars flout the fallen snowOf heavy hawthorn blossom as I go:And shall I see my love at fall of dayWhen flower-time comes?Ah, yes! for by the border of the streamShe binds red roses to a trim alcove,And I shall fade into her summer-dreamOf musing upon love,—nay, even seemTo be myself the very god of love,When flower-time comes!
When flower-time comes and all the woods are gay,When linnets chirrup and the soft winds blow,Adown the winding river I will row,And watch the merry maidens tossing hay,And troops of children shouting in their play,And with my thin oars flout the fallen snowOf heavy hawthorn blossom as I go:And shall I see my love at fall of dayWhen flower-time comes?
Ah, yes! for by the border of the streamShe binds red roses to a trim alcove,And I shall fade into her summer-dreamOf musing upon love,—nay, even seemTo be myself the very god of love,When flower-time comes!
Edmund Gosse.
Oh! flame of grass, shot upward from the earth,Keen with a thousand quivering sunlit fires,Green with the sap of satisfied desiresAnd sweet fulfilment of your pale sad birth,Behold! I clasp you as a lover might,Roll on you, bathing in the noonday sun,And, if it might be, I would fain be oneWith all your odour, mystery, and light,Oh flame of grass!For here, to chasten my untimely gloom,My lady took my hand and spoke my name;The sun was on her gold hair like a flame;The bright wind smote her forehead like perfume;The daisies darkened at her feet; she came,As spring comes, scattering incense on your bloomOh flame of grass!
Oh! flame of grass, shot upward from the earth,Keen with a thousand quivering sunlit fires,Green with the sap of satisfied desiresAnd sweet fulfilment of your pale sad birth,Behold! I clasp you as a lover might,Roll on you, bathing in the noonday sun,And, if it might be, I would fain be oneWith all your odour, mystery, and light,Oh flame of grass!
For here, to chasten my untimely gloom,My lady took my hand and spoke my name;The sun was on her gold hair like a flame;The bright wind smote her forehead like perfume;The daisies darkened at her feet; she came,As spring comes, scattering incense on your bloomOh flame of grass!
Edmund Gosse.
Hot hands that yearn to touch her flower-like face,With fingers spread, I set you like a weirTo stem this ice-cold stream in its career,—And chill your pulses there a little space;Brown hands, what right have you to claim the graceTo touch her head so infinitely dear?Learn courteously to wait and to revere,Lest haply ye be found in sorry case,Hot hands that yearn!But if ye pluck her flowers at my behest,And bring her crystal water from the well,And bend a bough for shade when she will rest,And if she find you fain and teachable,That flower-like face, perchance, ah! who can tell?In your embrace may some sweet day be found,Hot hands that yearn!
Hot hands that yearn to touch her flower-like face,With fingers spread, I set you like a weirTo stem this ice-cold stream in its career,—And chill your pulses there a little space;Brown hands, what right have you to claim the graceTo touch her head so infinitely dear?Learn courteously to wait and to revere,Lest haply ye be found in sorry case,Hot hands that yearn!
But if ye pluck her flowers at my behest,And bring her crystal water from the well,And bend a bough for shade when she will rest,And if she find you fain and teachable,That flower-like face, perchance, ah! who can tell?In your embrace may some sweet day be found,Hot hands that yearn!
Edmund Gosse.
Among the flowers of summer-time she stood,And underneath the films and blossoms shoneHer face, like some pomegranate strangely grownTo ripe magnificence in solitude;The wanton winds, deft whisperers, had strewedHer shoulders with her shining hair outblown,And dyed her robe with many a changing toneOf silvery green, and all the hues that broodAmong the flowers;She raised her arm up for her dove to knowThat he might perch him on her lovely head;Then I, unseen, and rising on tip-toe,Bowed over the rose-barrier, and lo,Touched not her arm, but kissed her lips insteadAmong the flowers!
Among the flowers of summer-time she stood,And underneath the films and blossoms shoneHer face, like some pomegranate strangely grownTo ripe magnificence in solitude;The wanton winds, deft whisperers, had strewedHer shoulders with her shining hair outblown,And dyed her robe with many a changing toneOf silvery green, and all the hues that broodAmong the flowers;
She raised her arm up for her dove to knowThat he might perch him on her lovely head;Then I, unseen, and rising on tip-toe,Bowed over the rose-barrier, and lo,Touched not her arm, but kissed her lips insteadAmong the flowers!
Edmund Gosse.
Beside the stream and in the alder-shade,Love sat with us one dreamy afternoon,When nightingales and roses made up June,And saw the red light and the amber fadeUnder the canopy the willows made,And watched the rising of the hollow moon,And listened to the water's gentle tune,And was as silent as she was, sweet maid,Beside the stream;Till with "Farewell!" he vanished from our sight,And in the moonlight down the glade afarHis light wings glimmered like a falling star;Then ah! she took the left path, I the right,And now no more we sit by noon or nightBeside the stream!
Beside the stream and in the alder-shade,Love sat with us one dreamy afternoon,When nightingales and roses made up June,And saw the red light and the amber fadeUnder the canopy the willows made,And watched the rising of the hollow moon,And listened to the water's gentle tune,And was as silent as she was, sweet maid,Beside the stream;
Till with "Farewell!" he vanished from our sight,And in the moonlight down the glade afarHis light wings glimmered like a falling star;Then ah! she took the left path, I the right,And now no more we sit by noon or nightBeside the stream!
Edmund Gosse.
If Love should faint, and half declineBelow the fit meridian sign,And shorn of all his golden dress,His royal state and loveliness,Be no more worth a heart like thine,Let not thy nobler passion pine,But with a charity divine,Let Memory ply her soft addressIf Love should faint;And oh! this laggard heart of mine,Like some halt pilgrim stirred with wine,Shall ache in pity's dear distress,Until the balm of thy caressTo work the finished cure combine,If Love should faint.
If Love should faint, and half declineBelow the fit meridian sign,And shorn of all his golden dress,His royal state and loveliness,Be no more worth a heart like thine,Let not thy nobler passion pine,But with a charity divine,Let Memory ply her soft addressIf Love should faint;
And oh! this laggard heart of mine,Like some halt pilgrim stirred with wine,Shall ache in pity's dear distress,Until the balm of thy caressTo work the finished cure combine,If Love should faint.
Edmund Gosse.
My love to me is always kind:She neither storms, nor is she pined;She does not plead with tears or sighs,But gentle words and soft replies—Dear earnests of the thought behind.They say the little god is blind,They do not count him quite too wise;Yet he, somehow, could bring and bindMy love to me.And sweetest nut hath sourest rind?It may be so; but she I prizeIs even lovelier in mine eyesThan good and gracious to my mind.I bless the fortune that consignedMy love to me.
My love to me is always kind:She neither storms, nor is she pined;She does not plead with tears or sighs,But gentle words and soft replies—Dear earnests of the thought behind.
They say the little god is blind,They do not count him quite too wise;Yet he, somehow, could bring and bindMy love to me.
And sweetest nut hath sourest rind?It may be so; but she I prizeIs even lovelier in mine eyesThan good and gracious to my mind.I bless the fortune that consignedMy love to me.
W. E. Henley.
With strawberries we filled a tray,And then we drove away, awayAlong the links beside the sea,Where wave and wind were light and free,And August felt as fresh as May.And where the springy turf was gayWith thyme and balm and many a sprayOf wild roses, you tempted meWith strawberries!A shadowy sail, silent and grey,Stole like a ghost across the bay;But none could hear me ask my fee,And none could know what came to be.Can sweetheartsalltheir thirst allayWith strawberries?
With strawberries we filled a tray,And then we drove away, awayAlong the links beside the sea,Where wave and wind were light and free,And August felt as fresh as May.
And where the springy turf was gayWith thyme and balm and many a sprayOf wild roses, you tempted meWith strawberries!
A shadowy sail, silent and grey,Stole like a ghost across the bay;But none could hear me ask my fee,And none could know what came to be.Can sweetheartsalltheir thirst allayWith strawberries?
W. E. Henley.
A flirted fan of blade and goldIs wondrous winsome to behold:It seems an armoured shard to bearThe Emperor-Scarab—strange and rare,Metallic, lustrous, jewel-cold.Fawning and fluttering fold on foldAnd scale on scale, its charm unrolled,Lures, dazzles, slays. It thrills the air,A flirted fan!Ah me, that night ... I cannot scold—Ich grolle nicht!My grief untoldShall still remain, but I will swearSome Spanish grace, dissembled there,Stood by her stall, she so controlledA flirted fan.
A flirted fan of blade and goldIs wondrous winsome to behold:It seems an armoured shard to bearThe Emperor-Scarab—strange and rare,Metallic, lustrous, jewel-cold.Fawning and fluttering fold on foldAnd scale on scale, its charm unrolled,Lures, dazzles, slays. It thrills the air,A flirted fan!Ah me, that night ... I cannot scold—Ich grolle nicht!My grief untoldShall still remain, but I will swearSome Spanish grace, dissembled there,Stood by her stall, she so controlledA flirted fan.
W. E. Henley.
In Rotten Row a cigaretteI sat and smoked, with no regretFor all the tumult that had been.The distances were still and green,And streaked with shadows cool and wet.Two sweethearts on a bench were set,Two birds among the boughs were met;So love and song were heard and seenIn Rotten Row.A horse or two there was to fretThe soundless sand; but work and debt,Fair flowers and falling leaves between,While clocks are chiming clear and keen,A man may very well forgetIn Rotten Row.
In Rotten Row a cigaretteI sat and smoked, with no regretFor all the tumult that had been.The distances were still and green,And streaked with shadows cool and wet.
Two sweethearts on a bench were set,Two birds among the boughs were met;So love and song were heard and seenIn Rotten Row.A horse or two there was to fretThe soundless sand; but work and debt,Fair flowers and falling leaves between,While clocks are chiming clear and keen,A man may very well forgetIn Rotten Row.
W. E. Henley.
The leaves are sere, and on the groundThey rustle with an eerie sound,A sound half-whisper and half-sigh—The plaint of sweet things fain to die,Poor things for which no ruth is found.With summer once the land was crowned;But now that autumn scatters roundDecay, and summer fancies die,The leaves are sere.Once, too, my thought within the boundOf summer frolicked, like a houndIn meadows jocund with July.And now I sit and wonder why,With all my waste of plack and pound,The leaves are sere!
The leaves are sere, and on the groundThey rustle with an eerie sound,A sound half-whisper and half-sigh—The plaint of sweet things fain to die,Poor things for which no ruth is found.
With summer once the land was crowned;But now that autumn scatters roundDecay, and summer fancies die,The leaves are sere.
Once, too, my thought within the boundOf summer frolicked, like a houndIn meadows jocund with July.And now I sit and wonder why,With all my waste of plack and pound,The leaves are sere!
W. E. Henley.
Go, happy Fan, in all the landThe happiest ... seek my lady's hand,And, swinging at her winsome waist,Forget for aye, so greatly graced,The House of Odours in the Strand.Ivory, with lilac silk outspanned,With ruffling black sedately grand,With bloom of eglantine o'ertraced,Go, happy Fan.Her kindly heart will understand,Her gentle eyes will grow more blandAt sight of you. Away in haste,Dear New Year's gift! Such perfect tasteAs yours her praisesmaycommand ...Go, happy Fan!
Go, happy Fan, in all the landThe happiest ... seek my lady's hand,And, swinging at her winsome waist,Forget for aye, so greatly graced,The House of Odours in the Strand.
Ivory, with lilac silk outspanned,With ruffling black sedately grand,With bloom of eglantine o'ertraced,Go, happy Fan.
Her kindly heart will understand,Her gentle eyes will grow more blandAt sight of you. Away in haste,Dear New Year's gift! Such perfect tasteAs yours her praisesmaycommand ...Go, happy Fan!
W. E. Henley.
If I were king, my pipe should be premier.The skies of time and chance are seldom clear,We would inform them all with bland blue weather.Delight alone would need to shed a tear,For dream and deed should war no more together.Art should aspire, yet ugliness be dear;Beauty, the shaft, should speed with wit for feather;And love, sweet love, should never fall to sere,If I were king.But politics should find no harbour near;The Philistine should fear to slip his tether;Tobacco should be duty free, and beer;In fact, in room of this, the age of leather,An age of gold all radiant should appear,If I were king.
If I were king, my pipe should be premier.The skies of time and chance are seldom clear,We would inform them all with bland blue weather.Delight alone would need to shed a tear,For dream and deed should war no more together.
Art should aspire, yet ugliness be dear;Beauty, the shaft, should speed with wit for feather;And love, sweet love, should never fall to sere,If I were king.
But politics should find no harbour near;The Philistine should fear to slip his tether;Tobacco should be duty free, and beer;In fact, in room of this, the age of leather,An age of gold all radiant should appear,If I were king.
W. E. Henley.
The gods are dead? Perhaps they are! Who knows?Living at least in Lempriere undeleted,The wise, the fair, the awful, the jocose,Are one and all, I like to think, retreatedIn some still land of lilacs and the rose.Once high they sat, and high o'er earthly showsWith sacrificial dance and song were greeted.Once ... long ago: but now the story goes,The gods are dead.It must be true. The world a world of prose,Full-crammed with facts, in science swathed and sheeted,Nods in a stertorous after-dinner doze.Plangent and sad, in every wind that blowsWho will may hear the sorry words repeated—The gods are dead.
The gods are dead? Perhaps they are! Who knows?Living at least in Lempriere undeleted,The wise, the fair, the awful, the jocose,Are one and all, I like to think, retreatedIn some still land of lilacs and the rose.
Once high they sat, and high o'er earthly showsWith sacrificial dance and song were greeted.Once ... long ago: but now the story goes,The gods are dead.
It must be true. The world a world of prose,Full-crammed with facts, in science swathed and sheeted,Nods in a stertorous after-dinner doze.Plangent and sad, in every wind that blowsWho will may hear the sorry words repeated—The gods are dead.
W. E. Henley.
Her little feet!... Beneath us ranged the sea,She sat, from sun and wind umbrella-shaded,One shoe above the other danglingly,And lo! a Something exquisitely graded,Brown rings and white, distracting—to the knee!The band was loud. A wild waltz melodyFlowed rhythmic forth. The nobodies paraded.And thro' my dream went pulsing fast and free:Her little feet.Till she made room for some one. It was He!A port-wine-flavoured He, a He who traded,Rich, rosy, round, obese to a degree!A sense of injury overmastered me.Quite bulbously his ample boots upbraidedHer little feet.
Her little feet!... Beneath us ranged the sea,She sat, from sun and wind umbrella-shaded,One shoe above the other danglingly,And lo! a Something exquisitely graded,Brown rings and white, distracting—to the knee!
The band was loud. A wild waltz melodyFlowed rhythmic forth. The nobodies paraded.And thro' my dream went pulsing fast and free:Her little feet.
Till she made room for some one. It was He!A port-wine-flavoured He, a He who traded,Rich, rosy, round, obese to a degree!A sense of injury overmastered me.Quite bulbously his ample boots upbraidedHer little feet.
W. E. Henley.
When you are old, and I am passed away—Passed, and your face, your golden face, is grey—I think, whate'er the end, this dream of mine,Comforting you, a friendly star will shineDown the dim slope where still you stumble and stray.So may it be; that so dead Yesterday,No sad-eyed ghost, but generous and gay,May serve your memories like almighty wine,When you are old.Dear Heart, it shall be so. Under the swayOf death the past's enormous disarrayLies hushed and dark. Yet though there come no sign,Live on well pleased! Immortal and divine,Love shall still tend you, as God's angels may,When you are old.
When you are old, and I am passed away—Passed, and your face, your golden face, is grey—I think, whate'er the end, this dream of mine,Comforting you, a friendly star will shineDown the dim slope where still you stumble and stray.
So may it be; that so dead Yesterday,No sad-eyed ghost, but generous and gay,May serve your memories like almighty wine,When you are old.
Dear Heart, it shall be so. Under the swayOf death the past's enormous disarrayLies hushed and dark. Yet though there come no sign,Live on well pleased! Immortal and divine,Love shall still tend you, as God's angels may,When you are old.
W. E. Henley.
These are my books-a Burton old,A Lamb arrayed against the coldIn polished dress of red and blue,A rare old Elzevir or two,And Johnson clothed in green and gold.A Pope in gilded calf I sold,To buy a Sterne of worth untold,To cry, as bibliomaniacs do,"These are my books!"What though a Fate unkind hath doledBut favours few to me, yet boldMy little wealth abroad I strew,To purchase acquisitions new,And say by love of them controlled,These are my books.
These are my books-a Burton old,A Lamb arrayed against the coldIn polished dress of red and blue,A rare old Elzevir or two,And Johnson clothed in green and gold.
A Pope in gilded calf I sold,To buy a Sterne of worth untold,To cry, as bibliomaniacs do,"These are my books!"
What though a Fate unkind hath doledBut favours few to me, yet boldMy little wealth abroad I strew,To purchase acquisitions new,And say by love of them controlled,These are my books.
Nathan M. Levy.
Most sweet of all the flowers memorialThat autumn tends beneath his wasted trees,Where wearily the unremembering breezeWhirls the brown leaves against the blackening wallMore sweet than those that summer fed so tallAnd glad with soft wind blowing overseas;Through all incalculable distancesOf many shades that swerve and sands that crawl,Most sweet of all!When comes the fulness of the time to meAs yours is full to-day, O flower of mine?Touched by her hand who evermore shall be,While the slow planets circle for a sign,Till periods flag and constellations fall,Most sweet of all!
Most sweet of all the flowers memorialThat autumn tends beneath his wasted trees,Where wearily the unremembering breezeWhirls the brown leaves against the blackening wallMore sweet than those that summer fed so tallAnd glad with soft wind blowing overseas;Through all incalculable distancesOf many shades that swerve and sands that crawl,Most sweet of all!
When comes the fulness of the time to meAs yours is full to-day, O flower of mine?Touched by her hand who evermore shall be,While the slow planets circle for a sign,Till periods flag and constellations fall,Most sweet of all!
"Love in Idleness."
In country lanes the robins sing,Clear-throated, joyous, swift of wing,From misty dawn to dewy eve(Though cares of nesting vex and grieve)Their little heart-bells ring and ring.And when the roses say to Spring:"Your reign is o'er" when breezes bringThe scent of spray that lovers weaveIn country lanes,The redbreast still is heard to flingHis music forth; and he will clingTo Autumn till the winds bereaveHer yellowing trees, nor will he leaveTill Winter finds him shiveringIn country lanes.
In country lanes the robins sing,Clear-throated, joyous, swift of wing,From misty dawn to dewy eve(Though cares of nesting vex and grieve)Their little heart-bells ring and ring.
And when the roses say to Spring:"Your reign is o'er" when breezes bringThe scent of spray that lovers weaveIn country lanes,
The redbreast still is heard to flingHis music forth; and he will clingTo Autumn till the winds bereaveHer yellowing trees, nor will he leaveTill Winter finds him shiveringIn country lanes.
C. H. Lüders.
To Q. H. F. the idle bandOf poetasters oft has plannedTributes of praise—and penned them, too—For love of verse that keeps its hueThough dead its language and its land.True, Pegasus has ever fannedThe ether at a bard's command,But ah! how eagerly he flewTo Q. H. F.Not oversweet or overgrandYour poems, Horace, hence your standFirm in the hearts of men: and fewHave gained a place so clearly due,Since Death with unrelenting hand,Took you, H. F.
To Q. H. F. the idle bandOf poetasters oft has plannedTributes of praise—and penned them, too—For love of verse that keeps its hueThough dead its language and its land.
True, Pegasus has ever fannedThe ether at a bard's command,But ah! how eagerly he flewTo Q. H. F.
Not oversweet or overgrandYour poems, Horace, hence your standFirm in the hearts of men: and fewHave gained a place so clearly due,Since Death with unrelenting hand,Took you, H. F.
C. H. Lüders.
In London town men love and hate,And find Death tragic soon or late,Just in the old unreasoning way,As if they breathed the warmer dayIn Athens when the gods were great.Mine is the town by Thames's spate,And so it chanced I found my fate,One of my fates, that is to say—In London town.The whole world comes to those who wait;Mine came and went with one year's date.Pity it made so short a stay!The sweetest face, the sweetest swayThat ever Love did consecrateIn London town.
In London town men love and hate,And find Death tragic soon or late,Just in the old unreasoning way,As if they breathed the warmer dayIn Athens when the gods were great.
Mine is the town by Thames's spate,And so it chanced I found my fate,One of my fates, that is to say—In London town.
The whole world comes to those who wait;Mine came and went with one year's date.Pity it made so short a stay!The sweetest face, the sweetest swayThat ever Love did consecrateIn London town.
Justin Huntly McCarthy.
O happy sleep! that bear'st upon thy breastThe blood-red poppy of enchanting rest,Draw near me through the stillness of this placeAnd let thy low breath move across my face,As faint winds move above a poplar's crest.The broad seas darken slowly in the west;The wheeling sea-birds call from nest to nest;Draw near and touch me, leaning out of space,O happy Sleep!There is no sorrow hidden or confess'd,There is no passion uttered or suppress'd,Thou can'st not for a little while efface;Enfold me in thy mystical embrace,Thou sovereign gift of God, most sweet, most blest,O happy Sleep!
O happy sleep! that bear'st upon thy breastThe blood-red poppy of enchanting rest,Draw near me through the stillness of this placeAnd let thy low breath move across my face,As faint winds move above a poplar's crest.
The broad seas darken slowly in the west;The wheeling sea-birds call from nest to nest;Draw near and touch me, leaning out of space,O happy Sleep!
There is no sorrow hidden or confess'd,There is no passion uttered or suppress'd,Thou can'st not for a little while efface;Enfold me in thy mystical embrace,Thou sovereign gift of God, most sweet, most blest,O happy Sleep!
Ada Louise Martin.
It is enough to love you. Let me beOnly an influence, as the wandering seaAnswers the moon that yet foregoes to shine;Only a sacrifice, as in a shrineThe lamp burns on where dead eyes cannot see;Only a hope unknown, withheld from thee,Yet ever like a petrel plaintively,Just following on to life's far twilight line,It is enough.Go where you will, I follow.Youare free.Alone, unloved, to all eternityI track that chance no virtue can divine,When pitiful, loving, with fond hands in mine,You say: "True heart, here take your will of me,It is enough."
It is enough to love you. Let me beOnly an influence, as the wandering seaAnswers the moon that yet foregoes to shine;Only a sacrifice, as in a shrineThe lamp burns on where dead eyes cannot see;Only a hope unknown, withheld from thee,Yet ever like a petrel plaintively,Just following on to life's far twilight line,It is enough.
Go where you will, I follow.Youare free.Alone, unloved, to all eternityI track that chance no virtue can divine,When pitiful, loving, with fond hands in mine,You say: "True heart, here take your will of me,It is enough."
Theo. Marzials.
When I see you my heart singsDeep within me for deep love;In my deep heart's dreamiest grove,Your bright image comes like Spring's,Bringing back the murmured doveTo the wan dim watersprings.Would my tongue could tell the thingsLove seems but one echo ofWhen I see you!Hope lies dying, Time's disproofStrips love's roses to the stings;But the bird that knows its wingsBear it where it will aloof,Sings not, Love, as my heart singsWhen I see you.
When I see you my heart singsDeep within me for deep love;In my deep heart's dreamiest grove,Your bright image comes like Spring's,Bringing back the murmured doveTo the wan dim watersprings.Would my tongue could tell the thingsLove seems but one echo ofWhen I see you!
Hope lies dying, Time's disproofStrips love's roses to the stings;But the bird that knows its wingsBear it where it will aloof,Sings not, Love, as my heart singsWhen I see you.
Theo. Marzials.
To-day, what is there in the airThat makes December seem sweet May?There are no swallows anywhere,Nor crocuses to crown your hair,And hail you down my garden way.Last night the full moon's frozen stareStruck me, perhaps; or did you sayReally,—you'd come, sweet friend and fair!To-day?To-day is here:—come! crown to-dayWith Spring's delight or Spring's despair,Love cannot bide old Time's delay:—Down my glad gardens light winds play,And my whole life shall bloom and bearTo-day.
To-day, what is there in the airThat makes December seem sweet May?There are no swallows anywhere,Nor crocuses to crown your hair,And hail you down my garden way.
Last night the full moon's frozen stareStruck me, perhaps; or did you sayReally,—you'd come, sweet friend and fair!To-day?
To-day is here:—come! crown to-dayWith Spring's delight or Spring's despair,Love cannot bide old Time's delay:—Down my glad gardens light winds play,And my whole life shall bloom and bearTo-day.
Theo. Marzials.
The Old Year goes down-hill so slowAnd silent that he seems to knowThe mighty march of time, foretellingHis passing: into his eyelids wellingCome tears of bitter pain and woe.The lusty blast can scarce foregoHis cape about his ears to blow,As feebly to his final dwellingThe Old Year goes.Within the belfry, row on row,The bells are swinging to and fro;Now joyfully the chimes are swelling—Now solemn and few the notes are knelling—For here the New Year comes:—and lo!The Old Year goes!
The Old Year goes down-hill so slowAnd silent that he seems to knowThe mighty march of time, foretellingHis passing: into his eyelids wellingCome tears of bitter pain and woe.
The lusty blast can scarce foregoHis cape about his ears to blow,As feebly to his final dwellingThe Old Year goes.
Within the belfry, row on row,The bells are swinging to and fro;Now joyfully the chimes are swelling—Now solemn and few the notes are knelling—For here the New Year comes:—and lo!The Old Year goes!
Brander Matthews.
Under the rows of gas-jets bright,Bathed in a blazing river of light,A regal beauty sits; above herThe butterflies of fashion hover,And burn their wings, and take to flight.Mark you her pure complexion,-whiteThough flush may follow flush? DespiteHer blush, the lily I discoverUnder the rose.All compliments to her are trite;She has adorers left and right;And I confess, here, under coverOf secrecy, I too-I love her!Say naught; she knows it not. 'Tis quiteUnder the rose.
Under the rows of gas-jets bright,Bathed in a blazing river of light,A regal beauty sits; above herThe butterflies of fashion hover,And burn their wings, and take to flight.
Mark you her pure complexion,-whiteThough flush may follow flush? DespiteHer blush, the lily I discoverUnder the rose.
All compliments to her are trite;She has adorers left and right;And I confess, here, under coverOf secrecy, I too-I love her!Say naught; she knows it not. 'Tis quiteUnder the rose.
Brander Matthews.
Violet, delicate, sweet,Down in the deep of the wood,Hid in thy still retreat,Far from the sound of the street,Man and his merciless mood:-Safe from the storm and the heat,Breathing of beauty and goodFragrantly, under thy hoodViolet.Beautiful maid, discreet,Where is the mate that is meet,Meet for thee-strive as he could-Yet will I kneel at thy feet,Fearing another one should,Violet!
Violet, delicate, sweet,Down in the deep of the wood,Hid in thy still retreat,Far from the sound of the street,Man and his merciless mood:-
Safe from the storm and the heat,Breathing of beauty and goodFragrantly, under thy hoodViolet.
Beautiful maid, discreet,Where is the mate that is meet,Meet for thee-strive as he could-Yet will I kneel at thy feet,Fearing another one should,Violet!
Cosmo Monkhouse.
O scorn me not, although my worth be slight,Although the stars alone can match thy light,Although the wind alone can mock thy grace,And thy glass only show so fair a face—Yet—let me find some favour in thy sight.The proud stars will not bend from their chill height,Nor will the wind thy faithfulness requite.Thy mirror gives thee but a cold embrace.O scorn me not.My lamp is feeble, but by day or nightIt shall not wane, and, but for thy delight,My footsteps shall not for a little spaceForego the echo of thy tender pace,-I would so serve and guard thee if I might.O scorn me not.
O scorn me not, although my worth be slight,Although the stars alone can match thy light,Although the wind alone can mock thy grace,And thy glass only show so fair a face—Yet—let me find some favour in thy sight.
The proud stars will not bend from their chill height,Nor will the wind thy faithfulness requite.Thy mirror gives thee but a cold embrace.O scorn me not.
My lamp is feeble, but by day or nightIt shall not wane, and, but for thy delight,My footsteps shall not for a little spaceForego the echo of thy tender pace,-I would so serve and guard thee if I might.O scorn me not.
Cosmo Monkhouse.
Ten thousand Pounds (a-year), no moreNor less will suit. A man is poorWithout his horses and his cows,His city and his country house,His salmon river and his moor;And many things unmissed beforeWould be desired and swell the score;But 'tis enough when fate allowsTen thousand Pounds.But O, my babies on the floor;My wife's blithe welcome at the door;My bread well-earned with sweat of brows;My garden flowerful, green of boughs;Friends, books;-I would not change ye forTen thousand Pounds.
Ten thousand Pounds (a-year), no moreNor less will suit. A man is poorWithout his horses and his cows,His city and his country house,His salmon river and his moor;
And many things unmissed beforeWould be desired and swell the score;But 'tis enough when fate allowsTen thousand Pounds.
But O, my babies on the floor;My wife's blithe welcome at the door;My bread well-earned with sweat of brows;My garden flowerful, green of boughs;Friends, books;-I would not change ye forTen thousand Pounds.
Cosmo Monkhouse.
One of these days, my lady whispereth,A day made beautiful with summer's breath,Our feet shall cease from these divided ways,Our lives shall leave the distance and the hazeAnd flower together in a mingling wreath.No pain shall part us then, no grief amaze,No doubt dissolve the glory of our gaze;Earth shall be heaven for us twain, she saith,One of these days.Ah love, my love! Athwart how many MaysThe old hope lures us with its long delays!How many winters waste our fainting faith!I wonder, will it come this side of death,With any of the old sun in its rays,One of these days?
One of these days, my lady whispereth,A day made beautiful with summer's breath,Our feet shall cease from these divided ways,Our lives shall leave the distance and the hazeAnd flower together in a mingling wreath.
No pain shall part us then, no grief amaze,No doubt dissolve the glory of our gaze;Earth shall be heaven for us twain, she saith,One of these days.
Ah love, my love! Athwart how many MaysThe old hope lures us with its long delays!How many winters waste our fainting faith!I wonder, will it come this side of death,With any of the old sun in its rays,One of these days?
John Payne.
Life lapses by for you and me;Our sweet days pass us by and fleeAnd evermore death draws us nigh;The blue fades fast out of our sky,The ripple ceases from our sea.What would we not give, you and I,The early sweet of life to buy?Alas! sweetheart, that cannot we;Life lapses by.But though our young days buried lie,Shall love with Spring and Summer die?What if the roses faded be?We in each other's eyes will seeNew Springs, nor question how or whyLife lapses by.
Life lapses by for you and me;Our sweet days pass us by and fleeAnd evermore death draws us nigh;The blue fades fast out of our sky,The ripple ceases from our sea.What would we not give, you and I,The early sweet of life to buy?Alas! sweetheart, that cannot we;Life lapses by.
But though our young days buried lie,Shall love with Spring and Summer die?What if the roses faded be?We in each other's eyes will seeNew Springs, nor question how or whyLife lapses by.
John Payne.