William Allingham. 1824-1889
769. The Fairies
UP the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather!
Down along the rocky shoreSome make their home,They live on crispy pancakesOf yellow tide-foam;Some in the reedsOf the black mountain lake,With frogs for their watch-dogs,All night awake.
High on the hill-topThe old King sits;He is now so old and grayHe 's nigh lost his wits.With a bridge of white mistColumbkill he crosses,On his stately journeysFrom Slieveleague to Rosses;Or going up with musicOn cold starry nightsTo sup with the QueenOf the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little BridgetFor seven years long;When she came down againHer friends were all gone.They took her lightly back,Between the night and morrow,They thought that she was fast asleep,But she was dead with sorrow.They have kept her ever sinceDeep within the lake,On a bed of flag-leaves,Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hill-side,Through the mosses bare,They have planted thorn-treesFor pleasure here and there.If any man so daringAs dig them up in spite,He shall find their sharpest thornsIn his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather!
George MacDonald. 1824-1905
770. That Holy Thing
THEY all were looking for a kingTo slay their foes and lift them high:Thou cam'st, a little baby thingThat made a woman cry.
O Son of Man, to right my lotNaught but Thy presence can avail;Yet on the road Thy wheels are not,Nor on the sea Thy sail!
My how or when Thou wilt not heed,But come down Thine own secret stair,That Thou mayst answer all my need—Yea, every bygone prayer.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 1828-1882
771. The Blessed Damozel
THE blessed Damozel lean'd outFrom the gold bar of Heaven:Her blue grave eyes were deeper muchThan a deep water, even.She had three lilies in her hand,And the stars in her hair were seven.
Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,No wrought flowers did adorn,But a white rose of Mary's giftOn the neck meetly worn;And her hair, lying down her back,Was yellow like ripe corn.
Herseem'd she scarce had been a dayOne of God's choristers;The wonder was not yet quite goneFrom that still look of hers;Albeit, to them she left, her dayHad counted as ten years.
(To one it is ten years of years:…Yet now, here in this place,Surely she lean'd o'er me,—her hairFell all about my face….Nothing: the Autumn-fall of leaves.The whole year sets apace.)
It was the terrace of God's houseThat she was standing on,—By God built over the sheer depthIn which Space is begun;So high, that looking downward thence,She scarce could see the sun.
It lies from Heaven across the floodOf ether, as a bridge.Beneath, the tides of day and nightWith flame and darkness ridgeThe void, as low as where this earthSpins like a fretful midge.
But in those tracts, with her, it wasThe peace of utter lightAnd silence. For no breeze may stirAlong the steady flightOf seraphim; no echo there,Beyond all depth or height.
Heard hardly, some of her new friends,Playing at holy games,Spake gentle-mouth'd, among themselves,Their virginal chaste names;And the souls, mounting up to God,Went by her like thin flames.
And still she bow'd herself, and stoop'dInto the vast waste calm;Till her bosom's pressure must have madeThe bar she lean'd on warm,And the lilies lay as if asleepAlong her bended arm.
From the fixt lull of Heaven, she sawTime, like a pulse, shake fierceThrough all the worlds. Her gaze still strove,In that steep gulf, to pierceThe swarm; and then she spoke, as whenThe stars sang in their spheres.
'I wish that he were come to me,For he will come,' she said.'Have I not pray'd in solemn Heaven?On earth, has he not pray'd?Are not two prayers a perfect strength?And shall I feel afraid?
'When round his head the aureole clings,And he is clothed in white,I'll take his hand, and go with himTo the deep wells of light,And we will step down as to a streamAnd bathe there in God's sight.
'We two will stand beside that shrine,Occult, withheld, untrod,Whose lamps tremble continuallyWith prayer sent up to God;And where each need, reveal'd, expectsIts patient period.
'We two will lie i' the shadow ofThat living mystic treeWithin whose secret growth the DoveSometimes is felt to be,While every leaf that His plumes touchSaith His name audibly.
'And I myself will teach to him,—I myself, lying so,—The songs I sing here; which his mouthShall pause in, hush'd and slow,Finding some knowledge at each pause,And some new thing to know.'
(Alas! to her wise simple mindThese things were all but knownBefore: they trembled on her sense,—Her voice had caught their tone.Alas for lonely Heaven! AlasFor life wrung out alone!
Alas, and though the end were reach'd?…Was thy part understoodOr borne in trust? And for her sakeShall this too be found good?—May the close lips that knew not prayerPraise ever, though they would?)
'We two,' she said, 'will seek the grovesWhere the lady Mary is,With her five handmaidens, whose namesAre five sweet symphonies:—Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,Margaret and Rosalys.
'Circle-wise sit they, with bound locksAnd bosoms covered;Into the fine cloth, white like flame,Weaving the golden thread,To fashion the birth-robes for themWho are just born, being dead.
'He shall fear, haply, and be dumb.Then I will lay my cheekTo his, and tell about our love,Not once abash'd or weak:And the dear Mother will approveMy pride, and let me speak.
'Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,To Him round whom all soulsKneel—the unnumber'd solemn headsBow'd with their aureoles:And Angels, meeting us, shall singTo their citherns and citoles.
'There will I ask of Christ the LordThus much for him and me:—To have more blessing than on earthIn nowise; but to beAs then we were,—being as thenAt peace. Yea, verily.
'Yea, verily; when he is comeWe will do thus and thus:Till this my vigil seem quite strangeAnd almost fabulous;We two will live at once, one life;And peace shall be with us.'
She gazed, and listen'd, and then said,Less sad of speech than mild,—'All this is when he comes.' She ceased:The light thrill'd past her, fill'dWith Angels, in strong level lapse.Her eyes pray'd, and she smiled.
(I saw her smile.) But soon their flightWas vague 'mid the poised spheres.And then she cast her arms alongThe golden barriers,And laid her face between her hands,And wept. (I heard her tears.)
George Meredith. 1828-1909
772. Love in the Valley
UNDER yonder beech-tree single on the green-sward,Couch'd with her arms behind her golden head,Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly,Lies my young love sleeping in the shade.Had I the heart to slide an arm beneath her,Press her parting lips as her waist I gather slow,Waking in amazement she could not but embrace me:Then would she hold me and never let me go?. . .Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow,Swift as the swallow along the river's lightCircleting the surface to meet his mirror'd winglets,Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight.Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops,Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun,She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer,Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!. . .When her mother tends her before the laughing mirror,Tying up her laces, looping up her hair,Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded,More love should I have, and much less care.When her mother tends her before the lighted mirror,Loosening her laces, combing down her curls,Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded,I should miss but one for many boys and girls.. . .Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadowsFlying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon.No, she is athirst and drinking up her wonder:Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon.Deals she an unkindness, 'tis but her rapid measure,Even as in a dance; and her smile can heal no less:Like the swinging May-cloud that pelts the flowers with hailstonesOff a sunny border, she was made to bruise and bless.. . .Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweepingWavy in the dusk lit by one large star.Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle-note unvaried,Brooding o'er the gloom, spins the brown evejar.Darker grows the valley, more and more forgetting:So were it with me if forgetting could be will'd.Tell the grassy hollow that holds the bubbling well-spring,Tell it to forget the source that keeps it fill'd.. . .Stepping down the hill with her fair companions,Arm in arm, all against the raying West,Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches,Brave is her shape, and sweeter unpossess'd.Sweeter, for she is what my heart first awakingWhisper'd the world was; morning light is she.Love that so desires would fain keep her changeless;Fain would fling the net, and fain have her free.. . .Happy happy time, when the white star hoversLow over dim fields fresh with bloomy dew,Near the face of dawn, that draws athwart the darkness,Threading it with colour, like yewberries the yew.Thicker crowd the shades as the grave East deepensGlowing, and with crimson a long cloud swells.Maiden still the morn is; and strange she is, and secret;Strange her eyes; her cheeks are cold as cold sea-shells.. . .Sunrays, leaning on our southern hills and lightingWild cloud-mountains that drag the hills along,Oft ends the day of your shifting brilliant laughterChill as a dull face frowning on a song.Ay, but shows the South-west a ripple-feather'd bosomBlown to silver while the clouds are shaken and ascendScaling the mid-heavens as they stream, there comes a sunsetRich, deep like love in beauty without end.. . .When at dawn she sighs, and like an infant to the windowTurns grave eyes craving light, released from dreams,Beautiful she looks, like a white water-lilyBursting out of bud in havens of the streams.When from bed she rises clothed from neck to ankleIn her long nightgown sweet as boughs of May,Beautiful she looks, like a tall garden-lilyPure from the night, and splendid for the day.. . .Mother of the dews, dark eye-lash'd twilight,Low-lidded twilight, o'er the valley's brim,Rounding on thy breast sings the dew-delighted skylark,Clear as though the dewdrops had their voice in him.Hidden where the rose-flush drinks the rayless planet,Fountain-full he pours the spraying fountain-showers.Let me hear her laughter, I would have her everCool as dew in twilight, the lark above the flowers.. . .All the girls are out with their baskets for the primrose;Up lanes, woods through, they troop in joyful bands.My sweet leads: she knows not why, but now she loiters,Eyes the bent anemones, and hangs her hands.Such a look will tell that the violets are peeping,Coming the rose: and unaware a crySprings in her bosom for odours and for colour,Covert and the nightingale; she knows not why.. . .Kerchief'd head and chin she darts between her tulips,Streaming like a willow gray in arrowy rain:Some bend beaten cheek to gravel, and their angelShe will be; she lifts them, and on she speeds again.Black the driving raincloud breasts the iron gateway:She is forth to cheer a neighbour lacking mirth.So when sky and grass met rolling dumb for thunderSaw I once a white dove, sole light of earth.
Prim little scholars are the flowers of her garden,Train'd to stand in rows, and asking if they please.I might love them well but for loving more the wild ones:O my wild ones! they tell me more than these.You, my wild one, you tell of honied field-rose,Violet, blushing eglantine in life; and even as they,They by the wayside are earnest of your goodness,You are of life's, on the banks that line the way.. . .Peering at her chamber the white crowns the red rose,Jasmine winds the porch with stars two and three.Parted is the window; she sleeps; the starry jasmineBreathes a falling breath that carries thoughts of me.Sweeter unpossess'd, have I said of her my sweetest?Not while she sleeps: while she sleeps the jasmine breathes,Luring her to love; she sleeps; the starry jasmineBears me to her pillow under white rose-wreaths.. . .Yellow with birdfoot-trefoil are the grass-glades;Yellow with cinquefoil of the dew-gray leaf;Yellow with stonecrop; the moss-mounds are yellow;Blue-neck'd the wheat sways, yellowing to the sheaf.Green-yellow, bursts from the copse the laughing yaffle;Sharp as a sickle is the edge of shade and shine:Earth in her heart laughs looking at the heavens,Thinking of the harvest: I look and think of mine.. . .This I may know: her dressing and undressingSuch a change of light shows as when the skies in sportShift from cloud to moonlight; or edging over thunderSlips a ray of sun; or sweeping into portWhite sails furl; or on the ocean bordersWhite sails lean along the waves leaping green.Visions of her shower before me, but from eyesightGuarded she would be like the sun were she seen.. . .Front door and back of the moss'd old farmhouseOpen with the morn, and in a breezy linkFreshly sparkles garden to stripe-shadow'd orchard,Green across a rill where on sand the minnows wink.Busy in the grass the early sun of summerSwarms, and the blackbird's mellow fluting notesCall my darling up with round and roguish challenge:Quaintest, richest carol of all the singing throats!. . .Cool was the woodside; cool as her white diaryKeeping sweet the cream-pan; and there the boys from school,Cricketing below, rush'd brown and red with sunshine;O the dark translucence of the deep-eyed cool!Spying from the farm, herself she fetch'd a pitcherFull of milk, and tilted for each in turn the beak.Then a little fellow, mouth up and on tiptoe,Said, 'I will kiss you': she laugh'd and lean'd her cheek.. . .Doves of the fir-wood walling high our red roofThrough the long noon coo, crooning through the coo.Loose droop the leaves, and down the sleepy roadwaySometimes pipes a chaffinch; loose droops the blue.Cows flap a show tail knee-deep in the river,Breathless, given up to sun and gnat and fly.Nowhere is she seen; and if I see her nowhere,Lighting may come, straight rains and tiger sky.. . .O the golden sheaf, the rustling treasure-armful!O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced!O the treasure-tresses one another overNodding! O the girdle slack about the waist!Slain are the poppies that shot their random scarletQuick amid the wheat-ears: wound about the waist,Gather'd, see these brides of Earth one blush of ripeness!O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced!. . .Large and smoky red the sun's cold disk drops,Clipp'd by naked hills, on violet shaded snow:Eastward large and still lights up a bower of moonrise,Whence at her leisure steps the moon aglow.Nightlong on black print-branches our beech-treeGazes in this whiteness: nightlong could I.Here may life on death or death on life be painted.Let me clasp her soul to know she cannot die!. . .Gossips count her faults; they scour a narrow chamberWhere there is no window, read not heaven or her.'When she was a tiny,' one aged woman quavers,Plucks at my heart and leads me by the ear.Faults she had once as she learn'd to run and tumbled:Faults of feature some see, beauty not complete.Yet, good gossips, beauty that makes holyEarth and air, may have faults from head to feet.. . .Hither she comes; she comes to me; she lingers,Deepens her brown eyebrows, while in new surpriseHigh rise the lashes in wonder of a stranger;Yet am I the light and living of her eyes.Something friends have told her fills her heart to brimming,Nets her in her blushes, and wounds her, and tames.—Sure of her haven, O like a dove alighting,Arms up, she dropp'd: our souls were in our names.. . .Soon will she lie like a white frost sunrise.Yellow oats and brown wheat, barley pale as rye,Long since your sheaves have yielded to the thresher,Felt the girdle loosen'd, seen the tresses fly.Soon will she lie like a blood-red sunset.Swift with the to-morrow, green-wing'd Spring!Sing from the South-west, bring her back the truants,Nightingale and swallow, song and dipping wing.. . .Soft new beech-leaves, up to beamy AprilSpreading bough on bough a primrose mountain, youLucid in the moon, raise lilies to the skyfields,Youngest green transfused in silver shining through:Fairer than the lily, than the wild white cherry:Fair as in image my seraph love appearsBorne to me by dreams when dawn is at my eyelids:Fair as in the flesh she swims to me on tears.. . .Could I find a place to be alone with heaven,I would speak my heart out: heaven is my need.Every woodland tree is flushing like the dogwood,Flashing like the whitebeam, swaying like the reed.Flushing like the dogwood crimson in October;Streaming like the flag-reed South-west blown;Flashing as in gusts the sudden-lighted whitebeam:All seem to know what is for heaven alone.
George Meredith. 1828-1909
773. Phoebus with Admetus
WHEN by Zeus relenting the mandate was revoked,Sentencing to exile the bright Sun-God,Mindful were the ploughmen of who the steer had yoked,Who: and what a track show'd the upturn'd sod!Mindful were the shepherds, as now the noon severeBent a burning eyebrow to brown evetide,How the rustic flute drew the silver to the sphere,Sister of his own, till her rays fell wide.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken'dThat had thee here obscure.Chirping none, the scarlet cicalas crouch'd in ranks:Slack the thistle-head piled its down-silk gray:Scarce the stony lizard suck'd hollows in his flanks:Thick on spots of umbrage our drowsed flocks lay.Sudden bow'd the chestnuts beneath a wind unheard,Lengthen'd ran the grasses, the sky grew slate:Then amid a swift flight of wing'd seed white as curd,Clear of limb a Youth smote the master's gate.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken'dThat had thee here obscure.
Water, first of singers, o'er rocky mount and mead,First of earthly singers, the sun-loved rill,Sang of him, and flooded the ripples on the reed,Seeking whom to waken and what ear fill.Water, sweetest soother to kiss a wound and cool,Sweetest and divinest, the sky-born brook,Chuckled, with a whimper, and made a mirror-poolRound the guest we welcomed, the strange hand shook.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken'dThat had thee here obscure.
Many swarms of wild bees descended on our fields:Stately stood the wheatstalk with head bent high:Big of heart we labour'd at storing mighty yields,Wool and corn, and clusters to make men cry!Hand-like rush'd the vintage; we strung the bellied skinsPlump, and at the sealing the Youth's voice rose:Maidens clung in circle, on little fists their chins;Gentle beasties through push'd a cold long nose.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken'dThat had thee here obscure.
Foot to fire in snowtime we trimm'd the slender shaft:Often down the pit spied the lean wolf's teethGrin against his will, trapp'd by masterstrokes of craft;Helpless in his froth-wrath as green logs seethe!Safe the tender lambs tugg'd the teats, and winter spedWhirl'd before the crocus, the year's new gold.Hung the hooky beak up aloft, the arrowheadRedden'd through his feathers for our dear fold.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken'dThat had thee here obscure.
Tales we drank of giants at war with gods above:Rocks were they to look on, and earth climb'd air!Tales of search for simples, and those who sought of loveEase because the creature was all too fair.Pleasant ran our thinking that while our work was good.Sure as fruits for sweat would the praise come fast.He that wrestled stoutest and tamed the billow-broodDanced in rings with girls, like a sail-flapp'd mast.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken'dThat had thee here obscure.
Lo, the herb of healing, when once the herb is known,Shines in shady woods bright as new-sprung flame.Ere the string was tighten'd we heard the mellow tone,After he had taught how the sweet sounds came.Stretch'd about his feet, labour done, 'twas as you seeRed pomegranates tumble and burst hard rind.So began contention to give delight and beExcellent in things aim'd to make life kind.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken'dThat had thee here obscure.
You with shelly horns, rams! and, promontory goats,You whose browsing beards dip in coldest dew!Bulls, that walk the pastures in kingly-flashing coats!Laurel, ivy, vine, wreathed for feasts not few!You that build the shade-roof, and you that court the rays,You that leap besprinkling the rock stream-rent:He has been our fellow, the morning of our days;Us he chose for housemates, and this way went.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken'dThat had thee here obscure.
George Meredith. 1828-1909
774. Tardy Spring
NOW the North wind ceases,The warm South-west awakes;Swift fly the fleeces,Thick the blossom-flakes.
Now hill to hill has made the stride,And distance waves the without-end:Now in the breast a door flings wide;Our farthest smiles, our next is friend.And song of England's rush of flowersIs this full breeze with mellow stops,That spins the lark for shine, for showers;He drinks his hurried flight, and drops.The stir in memory seem these things,Which out of moisten'd turf and clay,Astrain for light push patient rings,Or leap to find the waterway.'Tis equal to a wonder done,Whatever simple lives renewTheir tricks beneath the father sun,As though they caught a broken clue:So hard was earth an eyewink back;But now the common life has come,The blotting cloud a dappled pack,The grasses one vast underhum.A City clothed in snow and soot,With lamps for day in ghostly rows,Breaks to the scene of hosts afoot,The river that reflective flows:And there did fog down crypts of streetPlay spectre upon eye and mouth:—Their faces are a glass to greetThis magic of the whirl for South.A burly joy each creature swellsWith sound of its own hungry quest;Earth has to fill her empty wells,And speed the service of the nest;The phantom of the snow-wreath melt,That haunts the farmer's look abroad,Who sees what tomb a white night built,Where flocks now bleat and sprouts the clod.For iron Winter held her firm;Across her sky he laid his hand;And bird he starved, he stiffen'd worm;A sightless heaven, a shaven land.Her shivering Spring feign'd fast asleep,The bitten buds dared not unfold:We raced on roads and ice to keepThought of the girl we love from cold.
But now the North wind ceases,The warm South-west awakes,The heavens are out in fleeces,And earth's green banner shakes.
George Meredith. 1828-1909
775. Love's Grave
MARK where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like,Its skeleton shadow on the broad-back'd wave!Here is a fitting spot to dig Love's grave;Here where the ponderous breakers plunge and strike,And dart their hissing tongues high up the sand:In hearing of the ocean, and in sightOf those ribb'd wind-streaks running into white.If I the death of Love had deeply plann'd,I never could have made it half so sure,As by the unblest kisses which upbraidThe full-waked sense; or failing that, degrade!'Tis morning: but no morning can restoreWhat we have forfeited. I see no sin:The wrong is mix'd. In tragic life, God wot,No villain need be! Passions spin the plot:We are betray'd by what is false within.
George Meredith. 1828-1909
776. Lucifer in Starlight
ON a starr'd night Prince Lucifer uprose.Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiendAbove the rolling ball in cloud part screen'd,Where sinners hugg'd their spectre of repose.Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those.And now upon his western wing he lean'd,Now his huge bulk o'er Afric's sands careen'd,Now the black planet shadow'd Arctic snows.Soaring through wider zones that prick'd his scarsWith memory of the old revolt from Awe,He reach'd a middle height, and at the stars,Which are the brain of heaven, he look'd, and sank.Around the ancient track march'd, rank on rank,The army of unalterable law.
Alexander Smith. 1829-1867
777. Love
THE fierce exulting worlds, the motes in rays,The churlish thistles, scented briers,The wind-swept bluebells on the sunny braes,Down to the central fires,
Exist alike in Love. Love is a seaFilling all the abysses dimOf lornest space, in whose deeps regallySuns and their bright broods swim.
This mighty sea of Love, with wondrous tides,Is sternly just to sun and grain;'Tis laving at this moment Saturn's sides,'Tis in my blood and brain.
All things have something more than barren use;There is a scent upon the brier,A tremulous splendour in the autumn dews,Cold morns are fringed with fire.
The clodded earth goes up in sweet-breath'd flowers;In music dies poor human speech,And into beauty blow those hearts of oursWhen Love is born in each.
Daisies are white upon the churchyard sod,Sweet tears the clouds lean down and give.The world is very lovely. O my God,I thank Thee that I live!
Alexander Smith. 1829-1867
778. Barbara
ON the Sabbath-day,Through the churchyard old and gray,Over the crisp and yellow leaves I held my rustling way;And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms,'Mid the gorgeous storms of music—in the mellow organ-calms,'Mid the upward-streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms,I stood careless, Barbara.
My heart was otherwhere,While the organ shook the air,And the priest, with outspread hands, bless'd the people with aprayer;But when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saintlike shineGleam'd a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mine—Gleam'd and vanish'd in a moment—O that face was surely thineOut of heaven, Barbara!
O pallid, pallid face!O earnest eyes of grace!When last I saw thee, dearest, it was in another place.You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on your wrist:The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mist—A purple stain of agony was on the mouth I kiss'd,That wild morning, Barbara.
I search'd, in my despair,Sunny noon and midnight air;I could not drive away the thought that you were lingering there.O many and many a winter night I sat when you were gone,My worn face buried in my hands, beside the fire alone—Within the dripping churchyard, the rain plashing on your stone,You were sleeping, Barbara.
'Mong angels, do you thinkOf the precious golden linkI clasp'd around your happy arm while sitting by yon brink?Or when that night of gliding dance, of laughter and guitars,Was emptied of its music, and we watch'd, through lattice-bars,The silent midnight heaven creeping o'er us with its stars,Till the day broke, Barbara?
In the years I've changed;Wild and far my heart has ranged,And many sins and errors now have been on me avenged;But to you I have been faithful whatsoever good I lack'd:I loved you, and above my life still hangs that love intact—Your love the trembling rainbow, I the reckless cataract.Still I love you. Barbara.
Yet, Love, I am unblest;With many doubts opprest,I wander like the desert wind without a place of rest.Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry shore,The hunger of my soul were still'd; for Death hath told you moreThan the melancholy world doth know—things deeper than all loreYou could teach me, Barbara.
In vain, in vain, in vain!You will never come again.There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of rain;The gloaming closes slowly round, loud winds are in the tree,Round selfish shores for ever moans the hurt and wounded sea;There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with Death and thee—Barbara!
Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894
779. Bride Song FROM 'THE PRINCE'S PROGRESS'
TOO late for love, too late for joy,Too late, too late!You loiter'd on the road too long,You trifled at the gate:The enchanted dove upon her branchDied without a mate;The enchanted princess in her towerSlept, died, behind the grate;Her heart was starving all this whileYou made it wait.
Ten years ago, five years ago,One year ago,Even then you had arrived in time,Though somewhat slow;Then you had known her living faceWhich now you cannot know:The frozen fountain would have leap'd,The buds gone on to blow,The warm south wind would have awakedTo melt the snow.
Is she fair now as she lies?Once she was fair;Meet queen for any kingly king,With gold-dust on her hair.Now there are poppies in her locks,White poppies she must wear;Must wear a veil to shroud her faceAnd the want graven there:Or is the hunger fed at length,Cast off the care?
We never saw her with a smileOr with a frown;Her bed seem'd never soft to her,Though toss'd of down;She little heeded what she wore,Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;We think her white brows often achedBeneath her crown,Till silvery hairs show'd in her locksThat used to be so brown.
We never heard her speak in haste:Her tones were sweet,And modulated just so muchAs it was meet:Her heart sat silent through the noiseAnd concourse of the street.There was no hurry in her hands,No hurry in her feet;There was no bliss drew nigh to her,That she might run to greet.
You should have wept her yesterday,Wasting upon her bed:But wherefore should you weep to-dayThat she is dead?Lo, we who love weep not to-day,But crown her royal head.Let be these poppies that we strew,Your roses are too red:Let be these poppies, not for youCut down and spread.
Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894
780. A Birthday
MY heart is like a singing birdWhose nest is in a water'd shoot;My heart is like an apple-treeWhose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit;My heart is like a rainbow shellThat paddles in a halcyon sea;My heart is gladder than all these,Because my love is come to me.
Raise me a daïs of silk and down;Hang it with vair and purple dyes;Carve it in doves and pomegranates,And peacocks with a hundred eyes;Work it in gold and silver grapes,In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;Because the birthday of my lifeIs come, my love is come to me.
Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894
781. 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 meWith 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 nightingaleSing on, as if in pain;And dreaming through the twilightThat doth not rise nor set,Haply I may remember,And haply may forget.
Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894
782. Twice
I TOOK my heart in my hand(O my love, O my love),I said: Let me fall or stand,Let me live or die,But this once hear me speak(O my love, O my love)—Yet a woman's words are weak;You should speak, not I.
You took my heart in your handWith a friendly smile,With a critical eye you scann'd,Then set it down,And said, 'It is still unripe,Better wait awhile;Wait while the skylarks pipe,Till the corn grows brown.'As you set it down it broke—Broke, but I did not wince;I smiled at the speech you spoke,At your judgement I heard:But I have not often smiledSince then, nor question'd since,Nor cared for cornflowers wild,Nor sung with the singing bird.
I take my heart in my hand,O my God, O my God,My broken heart in my hand:Thou hast seen, judge Thou.My hope was written on sand,O my God, O my God:Now let thy judgement stand—Yea, judge me now.
This contemn'd of a man,This marr'd one heedless day,This heart take thou to scanBoth within and without:Refine with fire its gold,Purge Thou its dross away—Yea, hold it in Thy hold,Whence none can pluck it out.
I take my heart in my hand—I shall not die, but live—Before Thy face I stand;I, for Thou callest such:All that I have I bring,All that I am I give,Smile Thou and I shall sing,But shall not question much.
Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894
783. Uphill
DOES the road wind uphill all the way?Yes, to the very end.Will the day's journey take the whole long day?From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place?A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin.May not the darkness hide it from my face?You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?Those who have gone before.Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?They will not keep you waiting at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?Of labour you shall find the sum.Will there be beds for me and all who seek?Yea, beds for all who come.
Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894
784. Passing Away
PASSING away, saith the World, passing away:Chances, beauty and youth sapp'd day by day:Thy life never continueth in one stay.Is the eye waxen dim, is the dark hair changing to grayThat hath won neither laurel nor bay?I shall clothe myself in Spring and bud in May:Thou, root-stricken, shalt not rebuild thy decayOn my bosom for aye.Then I answer'd: Yea.
Passing away, saith my Soul, passing away:With its burden of fear and hope, of labour and play,Hearken what the past doth witness and say:Rust in thy gold, a moth is in thine array,A canker is in thy bud, thy leaf must decay.At midnight, at cockcrow, at morning, one certain day,Lo, the Bridegroom shall come and shall not delay:Watch thou and pray.Then I answer'd: Yea.
Passing away, saith my God, passing away:Winter passeth after the long delay:New grapes on the vine, new figs on the tender spray,Turtle calleth turtle in Heaven's May.Though I tarry, wait for me, trust me, watch and pray.Arise, come away; night is past, and lo, it is day;My love, my sister, my spouse, thou shalt hear me say—Then I answer'd: Yea.
Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894
785. Marvel of Marvels
MARVEL of marvels, if I myself shall beholdWith mine own eyes my King in His city of gold;Where the least of lambs is spotless white in the fold,Where the least and last of saints in spotless white is stoled,Where the dimmest head beyond a moon is aureoled.O saints, my beloved, now mouldering to mould in the mould,Shall I see you lift your heads, see your cerements unroll'd,See with these very eyes? who now in darkness and coldTremble for the midnight cry, the rapture, the tale untold,—The Bridegroom cometh, cometh, His Bride to enfold!
Cold it is, my beloved, since your funeral bell was toll'd:Cold it is, O my King, how cold alone on the wold!
Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894
786. Is it Well with the Child?
SAFE where I cannot die yet,Safe where I hope to lie too,Safe from the fume and the fret;You, and you,Whom I never forget.Safe from the frost and the snow,Safe from the storm and the sun,Safe where the seeds wait to growOne by one,And to come back in blow.
Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894
787. Remember
REMEMBER me when I am gone away,Gone far away into the silent land;When you can no more hold me by the hand,Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.Remember me when no more day by dayYou tell me of our future that you plann'd:Only remember me; you understandIt will be late to counsel then or pray.Yet if you should forget me for a whileAnd afterwards remember, do not grieve:For if the darkness and corruption leaveA vestige of the thoughts that once I had,Better by far you should forget and smileThan that you should remember and be sad.
Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894
788. Aloof
THE irresponsive silence of the land,The irresponsive sounding of the sea,Speak both one message of one sense to me:—Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so standThou too aloof, bound with the flawless bandOf inner solitude; we bind not thee;But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?What heart shall touch thy heart? What hand thy hand?And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,And sometimes I remember days of oldWhen fellowship seem'd not so far to seek,And all the world and I seem'd much less cold,And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold,And hope felt strong, and life itself not weak.
Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894
789. Rest
O EARTH, lie heavily upon her eyes;Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth;Lie close around her; leave no room for mirthWith its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs.She hath no questions, she hath no replies,Hush'd in and curtain'd with a blessed dearthOf all that irk'd her from the hour of birth;With stillness that is almost Paradise.Darkness more clear than noonday holdeth her,Silence more musical than any song;Even her very heart has ceased to stir:Until the morning of EternityHer rest shall not begin nor end, but be;And when she wakes she will not think it long.
Thomas Edward Brown. 1830-1897
790. Dora
SHE knelt upon her brother's grave,My little girl of six years old—He used to be so good and brave,The sweetest lamb of all our fold;He used to shout, he used to sing,Of all our tribe the little king—And so unto the turf her ear she laid,To hark if still in that dark place he play'd.No sound! no sound!Death's silence was profound;And horror creptInto her aching heart, and Dora wept.If this is as it ought to be,My God, I leave it unto Thee.
Thomas Edward Brown. 1830-1897
791. Jessie
WHEN Jessie comes with her soft breast,And yields the golden keys,Then is it as if God caress'dTwin babes upon His knees—Twin babes that, each to other press'd,Just feel the Father's arms, wherewith they both are bless'd.
But when I think if we must part,And all this personal dream be fled—O then my heart! O then my useless heart!Would God that thou wert dead—A clod insensible to joys and ills—A stone remote in some bleak gully of the hills!
Thomas Edward Brown. 1830-1897
792. Salve!
TO live within a cave—it is most good;But, if God make a day,And some one come, and say,'Lo! I have gather'd faggots in the wood!'E'en let him stay,And light a fire, and fan a temporal mood!
So sit till morning! when the light is grownThat he the path can read,Then bid the man God-speed!His morning is not thine: yet must thou ownThey have a cheerful warmth—those ashes on the stone.
Thomas Edward Brown. 1830-1897
793. My Garden
A GARDEN is a lovesome thing, God wot!Rose plot,Fringed pool,Fern'd grot—The veriest schoolOf peace; and yet the foolContends that God is not—Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool?Nay, but I have a sign;'Tis very sure God walks in mine.
Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton, Earl of Lytton. 1831-1892
794. A Night in Italy
SWEET are the rosy memories of the lipsThat first kiss'd ours, albeit they kiss no more:Sweet is the sight of sunset-sailing ships,Altho' they leave us on a lonely shore:Sweet are familiar songs, tho' Music dipsHer hollow shell in Thought's forlornest wells:And sweet, tho' sad, the sound of midnight bellsWhen the oped casement with the night-rain drips.
There is a pleasure which is born of pain:The grave of all things hath its violet.Else why, thro' days which never come again,Roams Hope with that strange longing, like Regret?Why put the posy in the cold dead hand?Why plant the rose above the lonely grave?Why bring the corpse across the salt sea-wave?Why deem the dead more near in native land?
Thy name hath been a silence in my lifeSo long, it falters upon language now,O more to me than sister or than wifeOnce … and now—nothing! It is hard to knowThat such things have been, and are not; and yetLife loiters, keeps a pulse at even measure,And goes upon its business and its pleasure,And knows not all the depths of its regret….
Ah, could the memory cast her spots, as doThe snake's brood theirs in spring! and be once moreWholly renew'd, to dwell i' the time that 's new,With no reiterance of those pangs of yore.Peace, peace! My wild song will go wanderingToo wantonly, down paths a private painHath trodden bare. What was it jarr'd the strain?Some crush'd illusion, left with crumpled wing
Tangled in Music's web of twined strings—That started that false note, and crack'd the tuneIn its beginning. Ah, forgotten thingsStumble back strangely! and the ghost of JuneStands by December's fire, cold, cold! and putsThe last spark out.—How could I sing arightWith those old airs haunting me all the nightAnd those old steps that sound when daylight shuts?
For back she comes, and moves reproachfully,The mistress of my moods, and looks bereft(Cruel to the last!) as tho' 'twere I, not she,That did the wrong, and broke the spell, and leftMemory comfortless.—Away! away!Phantoms, about whose brows the bindweed clings,Hopeless regret! In thinking of these thingsSome men have lost their minds, and others may.
Yet, O for one deep draught in this dull hour!One deep, deep draught of the departed time!O for one brief strong pulse of ancient power,To beat and breathe thro' all the valves of rhyme!Thou, Memory, with thy downward eyes, that artThe cup-bearer of gods, pour deep and long,Brim all the vacant chalices of songWith health! Droop down thine urn. I hold my heart
One draught of what I shall not taste againSave when my brain with thy dark wine is brimm'd,—One draught! and then straight onward, spite of pain,And spite of all things changed, with gaze undimm'd,Love's footsteps thro' the waning Past to exploreUndaunted; and to carve in the wan lightOf Hope's last outposts, on Song's utmost height,The sad resemblance of an hour or more.
Midnight, and love, and youth, and Italy!Love in the land where love most lovely seems!Land of my love, tho' I be far from thee,Lend, for love's sake, the light of thy moonbeams,The spirit of thy cypress-groves and allThy dark-eyed beauty for a little whileTo my desire. Yet once more let her smileFall o'er me: o'er me let her long hair fall….
Under the blessed darkness unreprovedWe were alone, in that best hour of timeWhich first reveal'd to us how much we loved,'Neath the thick starlight. The young night sublimeHung trembling o'er us. At her feet I knelt,And gazed up from her feet into her eyes.Her face was bow'd: we breathed each other's sighs:We did not speak: not move: we look'd: we felt.
The night said not a word. The breeze was dead.The leaf lay without whispering on the tree,As I lay at her feet. Droop'd was her head:One hand in mine: and one still pensivelyWent wandering through my hair. We were together.How? Where? What matter? Somewhere in a dream,Drifting, slow drifting down a wizard stream:Whither? Together: then what matter whither?
It was enough for me to clasp her hand:To blend with her love-looks my own: no more.Enough (with thoughts like ships that cannot land,Blown by faint winds about a magic shore)To realize, in each mysterious feeling,The droop of the warm cheek so near my own:The cool white arm about my shoulder thrown:Those exquisite fair feet where I was kneeling.
How little know they life's divinest bliss,That know not to possess and yet refrain!Let the young Psyche roam, a fleeting kiss:Grasp it—a few poor grains of dust remain.See how those floating flowers, the butterflies,Hover the garden thro', and take no root!Desire for ever hath a flying foot:Free pleasure comes and goes beneath the skies.
Close not thy hand upon the innocent joyThat trusts itself within thy reach. It may,Or may not, linger. Thou canst but destroyThe winged wanderer. Let it go or stay.Love thou the rose, yet leave it on its stem.Think! Midas starved by turning all to gold.Blessed are those that spare, and that withhold;Because the whole world shall be trusted them.
The foolish Faun pursues the unwilling NymphThat culls her flowers beside the precipiceOr dips her shining ankles in the lymph:But, just when she must perish or be his,Heaven puts an arm out. She is safe. The shoreGains some new fountain; or the lilied lawnA rarer sort of rose: but ah, poor Faun!To thee she shall be changed for evermore.
Chase not too close the fading rapture. LeaveTo Love his long auroras, slowly seen.Be ready to release as to receive.Deem those the nearest, soul to soul, betweenWhose lips yet lingers reverence on a sigh.Judge what thy sense can reach not, most thine own,If once thy soul hath seized it. The unknownIs life to love, religion, poetry.
The moon had set. There was not any light,Save of the lonely legion'd watch-stars paleIn outer air, and what by fits made brightHot oleanders in a rosy valeSearch'd by the lamping fly, whose little sparkWent in and out, like passion's bashful hope.Meanwhile the sleepy globe began to slopeA ponderous shoulder sunward thro' the dark.
And the night pass'd in beauty like a dream.Aloof in those dark heavens paused Destiny,With her last star descending in the gleamOf the cold morrow, from the emptied sky.The hour, the distance from her old self, allThe novelty and loneness of the placeHad left a lovely awe on that fair face,And all the land grew strange and magical.
As droops some billowy cloud to the crouch'd hill,Heavy with all heaven's tears, for all earth's care,She droop'd unto me, without force or will,And sank upon my bosom, murmuring thereA woman's inarticulate passionate words.O moment of all moments upon earth!O life's supreme! How worth, how wildly worth,Whole worlds of flame, to know this world affords.
What even Eternity can not restore!When all the ends of life take hands and meetRound centres of sweet fire. Ah, never more,Ah never, shall the bitter with the sweetBe mingled so in the pale after-years!One hour of life immortal spirits possess.This drains the world, and leaves but weariness,And parching passion, and perplexing tears.
Sad is it, that we cannot even keepThat hour to sweeten life's last toil: but YouthGrasps all, and leaves us: and when we would weep,We dare not let our tears fall, lest, in truth,They fall upon our work which must be done.And so we bind up our torn hearts from breaking:Our eyes from weeping, and our brows from aching:And follow the long pathway all alone.
Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton, Earl of Lytton. 1831-1892
795. The Last Wish
SINCE all that I can ever do for theeIs to do nothing, this my prayer must be:That thou mayst never guess nor ever seeThe all-endured this nothing-done costs me.
James Thomson. 1834-1882
796. In the Train
AS we rush, as we rush in the Train,The trees and the houses go wheeling back,But the starry heavens above the plainCome flying on our track.
All the beautiful stars of the sky,The silver doves of the forest of Night,Over the dull earth swarm and fly,Companions of our flight.
We will rush ever on without fear;Let the goal be far, the flight be fleet!For we carry the Heavens with us, dear,While the Earth slips from our feet!
James Thomson. 1834-1882
797. Sunday up the River
MY love o'er the water bends dreaming;It glideth and glideth away:She sees there her own beauty, gleamingThrough shadow and ripple and spray.
O tell her, thou murmuring river,As past her your light wavelets roll,How steadfast that image for everShines pure in pure depths of my soul.
James Thomson. 1834-1882
798. Gifts
GIVE a man a horse he can ride,Give a man a boat he can sail;And his rank and wealth, his strength and health,On sea nor shore shall fail.
Give a man a pipe he can smoke,Give a man a book he can read:And his home is bright with a calm delight,Though the room be poor indeed.
Give a man a girl he can love,As I, O my love, love thee;And his heart is great with the pulse of Fate,At home, on land, on sea.
James Thomson. 1834-1882
799. The Vine
THE wine of Love is music,And the feast of Love is song:And when Love sits down to the banquet,Love sits long:
Sits long and arises drunken,But not with the feast and the wine;He reeleth with his own heart,That great, rich Vine.
William Morris. 1834-1896
800. Summer Dawn
PRAY but one prayer for me 'twixt thy closed lips,Think but one thought of me up in the stars.The summer night waneth, the morning light slipsFaint and gray 'twixt the leaves of the aspen, betwixt thecloud-bars,That are patiently waiting there for the dawn:Patient and colourless, though Heaven's goldWaits to float through them along with the sun.Far out in the meadows, above the young corn,The heavy elms wait, and restless and coldThe uneasy wind rises; the roses are dun;Through the long twilight they pray for the dawnRound the lone house in the midst of the corn.Speak but one word to me over the corn,Over the tender, bow'd locks of the corn.
William Morris. 1834-1896
801. Love is enough
LOVE is enough: though the World be a-waning,And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining,Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discoverThe gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder,Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder,And this day draw a veil over all deeds pass'd over,Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter;The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alterThese lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.
William Morris. 1834-1896
802. The Nymph's Song to Hylas
I KNOW a little garden-closeSet thick with lily and red rose,Where I would wander if I mightFrom dewy dawn to dewy night,And have one with me wandering.
And though within it no birds sing,And though no pillar'd house is there,And though the apple boughs are bareOf fruit and blossom, would to God,Her feet upon the green grass trod,And I beheld them as before!
There comes a murmur from the shore,And in the place two fair streams are,Drawn from the purple hills afar,Drawn down unto the restless sea;The hills whose flowers ne'er fed the bee,The shore no ship has ever seen,Still beaten by the billows green,Whose murmur comes unceasinglyUnto the place for which I cry.
For which I cry both day and night,For which I let slip all delight,That maketh me both deaf and blind,Careless to win, unskill'd to find,And quick to lose what all men seek.
Yet tottering as I am, and weak,Still have I left a little breathTo seek within the jaws of deathAn entrance to that happy place;To seek the unforgotten faceOnce seen, once kiss'd, once reft from meAnigh the murmuring of the sea.
Roden Berkeley Wriothesley Noel. 1834-1894
803. The Water-Nymph and the Boy
I FLUNG me round him,I drew him under;I clung, I drown'd him,My own white wonder!…
Father and mother,Weeping and wild,Came to the forest,Calling the child,Came from the palace,Down to the pool,Calling my darling,My beautiful!Under the water,Cold and so pale!Could it be love madeBeauty to fail?
Ah me for mortals!In a few moons,If I had left him,After some JunesHe would have faded,Faded away,He, the young monarch, whomAll would obey,Fairer than day;Alien to springtime,Joyless and gray,He would have faded,Faded away,Moving a mockery,Scorn'd of the day!Now I have taken himAll in his prime,Saved from slow poisoningPitiless Time,Fill'd with his happiness,One with the prime,Saved from the cruelDishonour of Time.Laid him, my beautiful,Laid him to rest,Loving, adorable,Softly to rest,Here in my crystalline,Here in my breast!
Roden Berkeley Wriothesley Noel. 1834-1894
804. The Old
THEY are waiting on the shoreFor the bark to take them home:They will toil and grieve no more;The hour for release hath come.
All their long life lies behindLike a dimly blending dream:There is nothing left to bindTo the realms that only seem.
They are waiting for the boat;There is nothing left to do:What was near them grows remote,Happy silence falls like dew;Now the shadowy bark is come,And the weary may go home.
By still water they would restIn the shadow of the tree:After battle sleep is best,After noise, tranquillity.
Thomas Ashe. 1836-1889
805. Meet We no Angels, Pansie?
CAME, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet,In white, to find her lover;The grass grew proud beneath her feet,The green elm-leaves above her:—Meet we no angels, Pansie?
She said, 'We meet no angels now';And soft lights stream'd upon her;And with white hand she touch'd a bough;She did it that great honour:—What! meet no angels, Pansie?
O sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes,Down-dropp'd brown eyes, so tender!Then what said I? Gallant repliesSeem flattery, and offend her:—But—meet no angels, Pansie?
Thomas Ashe. 1836-1889
806. To Two Bereaved
YOU must be sad; for though it is to Heaven,'Tis hard to yield a little girl of seven.Alas, for me 'tis hard my grief to rule,Who only met her as she went to school;Who never heard the little lips so sweetSay even 'Good-morning,' though our eyes would meetAs whose would fain be friends! How must you sigh,Sick for your loss, when even so sad am I,Who never clasp'd the small hands any day!Fair flowers thrive round the little grave, I pray.
Theodore Watts-Dunton. 1836-1914
807. Wassail Chorus at the Mermaid Tavern
CHRISTMAS knows a merry, merry place,Where he goes with fondest face,Brightest eye, brightest hair:Tell the Mermaid where is that one place,Where?
Raleigh. 'Tis by Devon's glorious halls,Whence, dear Ben, I come again:Bright of golden roofs and walls—El Dorado's rare domain—
Seem those halls when sunlight launchesShafts of gold thro' leafless branches,Where the winter's feathery mantle blanchesField and farm and lane.
CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c.
Drayton. 'Tis where Avon's wood-sprites weaveThrough the boughs a lace of rime,While the bells of Christmas EveFling for Will the Stratford-chimeO'er the river-flags emboss'dRich with flowery runes of frost—O'er the meads where snowy tufts are toss'd—Strains of olden time.
CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c.
Shakespeare's Friend. 'Tis, methinks, on any groundWhere our Shakespeare's feet are set.There smiles Christmas, holly-crown'dWith his blithest coronet:Friendship's face he loveth well:'Tis a countenance whose spellSheds a balm o'er every mead and dellWhere we used to fret.
CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c.
Heywood. More than all the pictures, Ben,Winter weaves by wood or stream,Christmas loves our London, whenRise thy clouds of wassail-steam—Clouds like these, that, curling, takeForms of faces gone, and wakeMany a lay from lips we loved, and makeLondon like a dream.
CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c.
Ben Jonson. Love's old songs shall never die,Yet the new shall suffer proof:Love's old drink of Yule brew IWassail for new love's behoof.Drink the drink I brew, and singTill the berried branches swing,Till our song make all the Mermaid ring—Yea, from rush to roof.