Chapter 45

430

DREAM-PEDLARYIf there were dreams to sell,What would you buy?Some cost a passing bell;Some a light sigh,That shakes from Life's fresh crownOnly a rose-leaf down.If there were dreams to sell,Merry and sad to tell,And the crier rang the bell,What would you buy?A cottage lone and still,With bowers nigh,Shadowy, my woes to still,Until I die.Such peace from Life's fresh crownFain would I shake me down.Were dreams to have at will,This would best heal my ill,This would I buy.Thomas Lovell Beddoes

If there were dreams to sell,What would you buy?Some cost a passing bell;Some a light sigh,That shakes from Life's fresh crownOnly a rose-leaf down.If there were dreams to sell,Merry and sad to tell,And the crier rang the bell,What would you buy?A cottage lone and still,With bowers nigh,Shadowy, my woes to still,Until I die.Such peace from Life's fresh crownFain would I shake me down.Were dreams to have at will,This would best heal my ill,This would I buy.Thomas Lovell Beddoes

If there were dreams to sell,

What would you buy?

Some cost a passing bell;

Some a light sigh,

That shakes from Life's fresh crown

Only a rose-leaf down.

If there were dreams to sell,

Merry and sad to tell,

And the crier rang the bell,

What would you buy?

A cottage lone and still,With bowers nigh,Shadowy, my woes to still,Until I die.Such peace from Life's fresh crownFain would I shake me down.Were dreams to have at will,This would best heal my ill,This would I buy.Thomas Lovell Beddoes

A cottage lone and still,

With bowers nigh,

Shadowy, my woes to still,

Until I die.

Such peace from Life's fresh crown

Fain would I shake me down.

Were dreams to have at will,

This would best heal my ill,

This would I buy.

Thomas Lovell Beddoes

431

THE EVENING SUNThe evening sun was sinking downOn low green hills and clustered trees;It was a scene as fair and loneAs ever felt the soothing breezeThat cools the grass when day is gone,And gives the waves a brighter blue,And makes the soft white clouds sail on—Like spirits of ethereal dewWhich all the morn had hovered o'erThe azure flowers, where they were nursed,And now return to Heaven once more,Where their bright glories shone at first.Emily Brontë

The evening sun was sinking downOn low green hills and clustered trees;It was a scene as fair and loneAs ever felt the soothing breezeThat cools the grass when day is gone,And gives the waves a brighter blue,And makes the soft white clouds sail on—Like spirits of ethereal dewWhich all the morn had hovered o'erThe azure flowers, where they were nursed,And now return to Heaven once more,Where their bright glories shone at first.Emily Brontë

The evening sun was sinking downOn low green hills and clustered trees;It was a scene as fair and loneAs ever felt the soothing breeze

The evening sun was sinking down

On low green hills and clustered trees;

It was a scene as fair and lone

As ever felt the soothing breeze

That cools the grass when day is gone,And gives the waves a brighter blue,And makes the soft white clouds sail on—Like spirits of ethereal dew

That cools the grass when day is gone,

And gives the waves a brighter blue,

And makes the soft white clouds sail on—

Like spirits of ethereal dew

Which all the morn had hovered o'erThe azure flowers, where they were nursed,And now return to Heaven once more,Where their bright glories shone at first.Emily Brontë

Which all the morn had hovered o'er

The azure flowers, where they were nursed,

And now return to Heaven once more,

Where their bright glories shone at first.

Emily Brontë

432

TO THE EVENING STARThou Fair-haired Angel of the Evening,Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, lightThy bright torch of love; thy radiant crownPut on, and smile upon our evening bed!Smile on our loves; and while thou drawest theBlue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dewOn every flower that shuts its sweet eyesIn timely sleep. Let thy West Wind sleep onThe lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon,Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide,And the lion glares through the dun forest:The fleeces of the flocks are covered withThy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence.William Blake

Thou Fair-haired Angel of the Evening,Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, lightThy bright torch of love; thy radiant crownPut on, and smile upon our evening bed!Smile on our loves; and while thou drawest theBlue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dewOn every flower that shuts its sweet eyesIn timely sleep. Let thy West Wind sleep onThe lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon,Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide,And the lion glares through the dun forest:The fleeces of the flocks are covered withThy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence.William Blake

Thou Fair-haired Angel of the Evening,

Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light

Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown

Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!

Smile on our loves; and while thou drawest the

Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew

On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes

In timely sleep. Let thy West Wind sleep on

The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,

And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon,

Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide,

And the lion glares through the dun forest:

The fleeces of the flocks are covered with

Thy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence.

William Blake

433

TO DAISIES, NOT TO SHUT SO SOONShut not so soon; the dull-eyed nightHath not as yet begunTo make a seisure on the light,Or to seale up the Sun.No Marigolds yet closèd are;No shadowes great appeare:Nor doth the early Shepheard's StarreShine like a spangle here.Stay but till myJuliacloseHer life-begetting eye;And let the whole world then disposeIt selfe to live or dye.Robert Herrick

Shut not so soon; the dull-eyed nightHath not as yet begunTo make a seisure on the light,Or to seale up the Sun.No Marigolds yet closèd are;No shadowes great appeare:Nor doth the early Shepheard's StarreShine like a spangle here.Stay but till myJuliacloseHer life-begetting eye;And let the whole world then disposeIt selfe to live or dye.Robert Herrick

Shut not so soon; the dull-eyed nightHath not as yet begunTo make a seisure on the light,Or to seale up the Sun.

Shut not so soon; the dull-eyed night

Hath not as yet begun

To make a seisure on the light,

Or to seale up the Sun.

No Marigolds yet closèd are;No shadowes great appeare:Nor doth the early Shepheard's StarreShine like a spangle here.

No Marigolds yet closèd are;

No shadowes great appeare:

Nor doth the early Shepheard's Starre

Shine like a spangle here.

Stay but till myJuliacloseHer life-begetting eye;And let the whole world then disposeIt selfe to live or dye.Robert Herrick

Stay but till myJuliaclose

Her life-begetting eye;

And let the whole world then dispose

It selfe to live or dye.

Robert Herrick

434

OF THE GOING DOWN OF THE SUNWhat, hast thou run thy Race? Art going down?Thou seemest angry, why dost on us frown?Yea wrap thy head with Clouds, and hide thy face,As threatning to withdraw from us thy Grace?Oh leave us not! When once thou hid'st thy head,Our Hórizon with darkness will be spread.Tell's, who hath thee offended? Turn again:Alas! too late—Entreaties are in vain!...John Bunyan

What, hast thou run thy Race? Art going down?Thou seemest angry, why dost on us frown?Yea wrap thy head with Clouds, and hide thy face,As threatning to withdraw from us thy Grace?Oh leave us not! When once thou hid'st thy head,Our Hórizon with darkness will be spread.Tell's, who hath thee offended? Turn again:Alas! too late—Entreaties are in vain!...John Bunyan

What, hast thou run thy Race? Art going down?

Thou seemest angry, why dost on us frown?

Yea wrap thy head with Clouds, and hide thy face,

As threatning to withdraw from us thy Grace?

Oh leave us not! When once thou hid'st thy head,

Our Hórizon with darkness will be spread.

Tell's, who hath thee offended? Turn again:

Alas! too late—Entreaties are in vain!...

John Bunyan

435

VIRTUESweet day, so cool, so calm, so brightThe bridal of the earth and skie:The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,For thou must die.Sweet rose, whose hue angry and braveBids the rash gazer wipe his eye,Thy root is ever in its grave,And thou must die.Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,A box where sweets compacted lie,My music shows ye have your closes,And all must die.Only a sweet and vertuous soul,Like seasoned timber, never gives;But though the whole world turn to coal,Then chiefly lives.George Herbert

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so brightThe bridal of the earth and skie:The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,For thou must die.Sweet rose, whose hue angry and braveBids the rash gazer wipe his eye,Thy root is ever in its grave,And thou must die.Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,A box where sweets compacted lie,My music shows ye have your closes,And all must die.Only a sweet and vertuous soul,Like seasoned timber, never gives;But though the whole world turn to coal,Then chiefly lives.George Herbert

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so brightThe bridal of the earth and skie:The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,For thou must die.

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright

The bridal of the earth and skie:

The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,

For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue angry and braveBids the rash gazer wipe his eye,Thy root is ever in its grave,And thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave

Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,

Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,A box where sweets compacted lie,My music shows ye have your closes,And all must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,

A box where sweets compacted lie,

My music shows ye have your closes,

And all must die.

Only a sweet and vertuous soul,Like seasoned timber, never gives;But though the whole world turn to coal,Then chiefly lives.George Herbert

Only a sweet and vertuous soul,

Like seasoned timber, never gives;

But though the whole world turn to coal,

Then chiefly lives.

George Herbert

436

NIGHTThe sun descending in the west,The evening star does shine;The birds are silent in their nest,And I must seek for mine.The moon, like a flower,In heaven's high bower,With silent delightSits and smiles on the night.Farewell green fields and happy groves,Where flocks have took delight.Where lambs have nibbled, silent movesThe feet of angels bright;Unseen they pour blessing,And joy without ceasing,On each bud and blossom,And each sleeping bosom.They look in every thoughtless nest,Where birds are covered warm;They visit caves of every beast,To keep them all from harm.If they see any weeping,That should have been sleeping,They pour sleep on their head,And sit down by their bed.When wolves and tygers howl for prey,They pitying stand and weep;Seeking to drive their thirst away,And keep them from the sheep.But if they rush dreadful,The angels, most heedful,Receive each mild spirit,New worlds to inherit.And there the lion's ruddy eyesShall flow with tears of gold,And pitying the tender cries,And walking round the fold,Saying, "Wrath, by his meekness,And, by his health, sicknessIs driven awayFrom our immortal day."And now beside thee, bleating lamb,I can lie down and sleep;Or think on Him who bore thy name,Graze after thee and weep.For, washed in life's river,My bright mane for everShall shine like the gold,As I guard o'er the fold."William Blake

The sun descending in the west,The evening star does shine;The birds are silent in their nest,And I must seek for mine.The moon, like a flower,In heaven's high bower,With silent delightSits and smiles on the night.Farewell green fields and happy groves,Where flocks have took delight.Where lambs have nibbled, silent movesThe feet of angels bright;Unseen they pour blessing,And joy without ceasing,On each bud and blossom,And each sleeping bosom.They look in every thoughtless nest,Where birds are covered warm;They visit caves of every beast,To keep them all from harm.If they see any weeping,That should have been sleeping,They pour sleep on their head,And sit down by their bed.When wolves and tygers howl for prey,They pitying stand and weep;Seeking to drive their thirst away,And keep them from the sheep.But if they rush dreadful,The angels, most heedful,Receive each mild spirit,New worlds to inherit.And there the lion's ruddy eyesShall flow with tears of gold,And pitying the tender cries,And walking round the fold,Saying, "Wrath, by his meekness,And, by his health, sicknessIs driven awayFrom our immortal day."And now beside thee, bleating lamb,I can lie down and sleep;Or think on Him who bore thy name,Graze after thee and weep.For, washed in life's river,My bright mane for everShall shine like the gold,As I guard o'er the fold."William Blake

The sun descending in the west,

The evening star does shine;

The birds are silent in their nest,

And I must seek for mine.

The moon, like a flower,

In heaven's high bower,

With silent delight

Sits and smiles on the night.

Farewell green fields and happy groves,Where flocks have took delight.Where lambs have nibbled, silent movesThe feet of angels bright;Unseen they pour blessing,And joy without ceasing,On each bud and blossom,And each sleeping bosom.

Farewell green fields and happy groves,

Where flocks have took delight.

Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves

The feet of angels bright;

Unseen they pour blessing,

And joy without ceasing,

On each bud and blossom,

And each sleeping bosom.

They look in every thoughtless nest,Where birds are covered warm;They visit caves of every beast,To keep them all from harm.If they see any weeping,That should have been sleeping,They pour sleep on their head,And sit down by their bed.

They look in every thoughtless nest,

Where birds are covered warm;

They visit caves of every beast,

To keep them all from harm.

If they see any weeping,

That should have been sleeping,

They pour sleep on their head,

And sit down by their bed.

When wolves and tygers howl for prey,They pitying stand and weep;Seeking to drive their thirst away,And keep them from the sheep.But if they rush dreadful,The angels, most heedful,Receive each mild spirit,New worlds to inherit.

When wolves and tygers howl for prey,

They pitying stand and weep;

Seeking to drive their thirst away,

And keep them from the sheep.

But if they rush dreadful,

The angels, most heedful,

Receive each mild spirit,

New worlds to inherit.

And there the lion's ruddy eyesShall flow with tears of gold,And pitying the tender cries,And walking round the fold,Saying, "Wrath, by his meekness,And, by his health, sicknessIs driven awayFrom our immortal day.

And there the lion's ruddy eyes

Shall flow with tears of gold,

And pitying the tender cries,

And walking round the fold,

Saying, "Wrath, by his meekness,

And, by his health, sickness

Is driven away

From our immortal day.

"And now beside thee, bleating lamb,I can lie down and sleep;Or think on Him who bore thy name,Graze after thee and weep.For, washed in life's river,My bright mane for everShall shine like the gold,As I guard o'er the fold."William Blake

"And now beside thee, bleating lamb,

I can lie down and sleep;

Or think on Him who bore thy name,

Graze after thee and weep.

For, washed in life's river,

My bright mane for ever

Shall shine like the gold,

As I guard o'er the fold."

William Blake

437

NURSE'S SONGWhen the voices of children are heard on the green,And laughing is heard on the hill,My heart is at rest within my breast,And everything else is still."Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down,And the dews of night arise;Come, come, leave off play, and let us awayTill the morning appears in the skies.""No, no, let us play, for it is yet day,And we cannot go to sleep;Besides, in the sky the little birds fly,And the hills are all covered with sheep.""Well, well, go and play till the light fades away,And then go home to bed."The little ones leapèd and shouted and laughedAnd all the hills echoèd.William Blake

When the voices of children are heard on the green,And laughing is heard on the hill,My heart is at rest within my breast,And everything else is still."Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down,And the dews of night arise;Come, come, leave off play, and let us awayTill the morning appears in the skies.""No, no, let us play, for it is yet day,And we cannot go to sleep;Besides, in the sky the little birds fly,And the hills are all covered with sheep.""Well, well, go and play till the light fades away,And then go home to bed."The little ones leapèd and shouted and laughedAnd all the hills echoèd.William Blake

When the voices of children are heard on the green,And laughing is heard on the hill,My heart is at rest within my breast,And everything else is still.

When the voices of children are heard on the green,

And laughing is heard on the hill,

My heart is at rest within my breast,

And everything else is still.

"Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down,And the dews of night arise;Come, come, leave off play, and let us awayTill the morning appears in the skies."

"Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down,

And the dews of night arise;

Come, come, leave off play, and let us away

Till the morning appears in the skies."

"No, no, let us play, for it is yet day,And we cannot go to sleep;Besides, in the sky the little birds fly,And the hills are all covered with sheep."

"No, no, let us play, for it is yet day,

And we cannot go to sleep;

Besides, in the sky the little birds fly,

And the hills are all covered with sheep."

"Well, well, go and play till the light fades away,And then go home to bed."The little ones leapèd and shouted and laughedAnd all the hills echoèd.William Blake

"Well, well, go and play till the light fades away,

And then go home to bed."

The little ones leapèd and shouted and laughed

And all the hills echoèd.

William Blake

438

THE EVENING PRIMROSEWhen once the sun sinks in the west,And dew-drops pearl the evening's breast;Almost as pale as moonbeams are,Or its companionable star,The evening primrose opes anewIts delicate blossoms to the dew;And, shunning hermit of the light,Wastes its fair bloom upon the night;Who, blindfold to its fond caresses,Knows not the beauty he possesses.Thus it blooms on till night is byeAnd day looks out with open eye,Abashed at the gaze it cannot shun,It faints and withers, and is done.Emily Brontë

When once the sun sinks in the west,And dew-drops pearl the evening's breast;Almost as pale as moonbeams are,Or its companionable star,The evening primrose opes anewIts delicate blossoms to the dew;And, shunning hermit of the light,Wastes its fair bloom upon the night;Who, blindfold to its fond caresses,Knows not the beauty he possesses.Thus it blooms on till night is byeAnd day looks out with open eye,Abashed at the gaze it cannot shun,It faints and withers, and is done.Emily Brontë

When once the sun sinks in the west,

And dew-drops pearl the evening's breast;

Almost as pale as moonbeams are,

Or its companionable star,

The evening primrose opes anew

Its delicate blossoms to the dew;

And, shunning hermit of the light,

Wastes its fair bloom upon the night;

Who, blindfold to its fond caresses,

Knows not the beauty he possesses.

Thus it blooms on till night is bye

And day looks out with open eye,

Abashed at the gaze it cannot shun,

It faints and withers, and is done.

Emily Brontë

439

"TIME, YOU OLD GIPSY MAN"Time, you old gipsy man,Will you not stay,Put up your caravanJust for one day?All things I'll give youWill you be my guest,Bells for your jennetOf silver the best,Goldsmiths shall beat youA great golden ringPeacocks shall bow to you,Little boys sing,Oh, and sweet girls willFestoon you with may.Time, you old gipsy,Why hasten away?Last week in Babylon,Last night in Rome,Morning, and in the crushUnder Paul's dome;Under Paul's dialYou tighten your rein—Only a moment,And off once again;Off to some cityNow blind in the womb,Off to anotherEre that's in the tomb.Time, you old gipsy man,Will you not stay,Put up your caravanJust for one day?Ralph Hodgson

Time, you old gipsy man,Will you not stay,Put up your caravanJust for one day?All things I'll give youWill you be my guest,Bells for your jennetOf silver the best,Goldsmiths shall beat youA great golden ringPeacocks shall bow to you,Little boys sing,Oh, and sweet girls willFestoon you with may.Time, you old gipsy,Why hasten away?Last week in Babylon,Last night in Rome,Morning, and in the crushUnder Paul's dome;Under Paul's dialYou tighten your rein—Only a moment,And off once again;Off to some cityNow blind in the womb,Off to anotherEre that's in the tomb.Time, you old gipsy man,Will you not stay,Put up your caravanJust for one day?Ralph Hodgson

Time, you old gipsy man,Will you not stay,Put up your caravanJust for one day?

Time, you old gipsy man,

Will you not stay,

Put up your caravan

Just for one day?

All things I'll give youWill you be my guest,Bells for your jennetOf silver the best,Goldsmiths shall beat youA great golden ringPeacocks shall bow to you,Little boys sing,Oh, and sweet girls willFestoon you with may.Time, you old gipsy,Why hasten away?

All things I'll give you

Will you be my guest,

Bells for your jennet

Of silver the best,

Goldsmiths shall beat you

A great golden ring

Peacocks shall bow to you,

Little boys sing,

Oh, and sweet girls will

Festoon you with may.

Time, you old gipsy,

Why hasten away?

Last week in Babylon,Last night in Rome,Morning, and in the crushUnder Paul's dome;Under Paul's dialYou tighten your rein—Only a moment,And off once again;Off to some cityNow blind in the womb,Off to anotherEre that's in the tomb.

Last week in Babylon,

Last night in Rome,

Morning, and in the crush

Under Paul's dome;

Under Paul's dial

You tighten your rein—

Only a moment,

And off once again;

Off to some city

Now blind in the womb,

Off to another

Ere that's in the tomb.

Time, you old gipsy man,Will you not stay,Put up your caravanJust for one day?Ralph Hodgson

Time, you old gipsy man,

Will you not stay,

Put up your caravan

Just for one day?

Ralph Hodgson

440

AFTERWARDSWhen the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay,And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings,Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the neighbours say,"He was a man who used to notice such things"?If it be in the dusk when, like an eyelid's soundless blink,The dewfall-hawk comes crossing the shades to alightUpon the wind-warped upland thorn, a gazer may think,"To him this must have been a familiar sight."If I pass during some nocturnal blackness, mothy and warm,When the hedgehog travels furtively over the lawn,One may say, "He strove that such innocent creatures should come to no harm,But he could do little for them; and now he is gone."If, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they stand at the door,Watching the full-starred heavens that winter sees,Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more,"He was one who had an eye for such mysteries"?And will any say when my bell of quittance is heard in the gloom,And a crossing breeze cuts a pause in its outrollings,Till they rise again, as they were a new bell's boom,"He hears it not now, but used to notice such things"?Thomas Hardy

When the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay,And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings,Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the neighbours say,"He was a man who used to notice such things"?If it be in the dusk when, like an eyelid's soundless blink,The dewfall-hawk comes crossing the shades to alightUpon the wind-warped upland thorn, a gazer may think,"To him this must have been a familiar sight."If I pass during some nocturnal blackness, mothy and warm,When the hedgehog travels furtively over the lawn,One may say, "He strove that such innocent creatures should come to no harm,But he could do little for them; and now he is gone."If, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they stand at the door,Watching the full-starred heavens that winter sees,Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more,"He was one who had an eye for such mysteries"?And will any say when my bell of quittance is heard in the gloom,And a crossing breeze cuts a pause in its outrollings,Till they rise again, as they were a new bell's boom,"He hears it not now, but used to notice such things"?Thomas Hardy

When the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay,

And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings,

Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the neighbours say,

"He was a man who used to notice such things"?

If it be in the dusk when, like an eyelid's soundless blink,The dewfall-hawk comes crossing the shades to alightUpon the wind-warped upland thorn, a gazer may think,"To him this must have been a familiar sight."

If it be in the dusk when, like an eyelid's soundless blink,

The dewfall-hawk comes crossing the shades to alight

Upon the wind-warped upland thorn, a gazer may think,

"To him this must have been a familiar sight."

If I pass during some nocturnal blackness, mothy and warm,When the hedgehog travels furtively over the lawn,One may say, "He strove that such innocent creatures should come to no harm,But he could do little for them; and now he is gone."

If I pass during some nocturnal blackness, mothy and warm,

When the hedgehog travels furtively over the lawn,

One may say, "He strove that such innocent creatures should come to no harm,

But he could do little for them; and now he is gone."

If, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they stand at the door,Watching the full-starred heavens that winter sees,Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more,"He was one who had an eye for such mysteries"?

If, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they stand at the door,

Watching the full-starred heavens that winter sees,

Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more,

"He was one who had an eye for such mysteries"?

And will any say when my bell of quittance is heard in the gloom,And a crossing breeze cuts a pause in its outrollings,Till they rise again, as they were a new bell's boom,"He hears it not now, but used to notice such things"?Thomas Hardy

And will any say when my bell of quittance is heard in the gloom,

And a crossing breeze cuts a pause in its outrollings,

Till they rise again, as they were a new bell's boom,

"He hears it not now, but used to notice such things"?

Thomas Hardy

441

STEPPING WESTWARD"What, you are stepping westward?"—"Yea."—'Twould be a wildish destiny,If we, who thus together roamIn a strange land, and far from home,Were in this place the guests of chance;Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,Though home or shelter he had none,With such a sky to lead him on?"The dewy ground was dark and cold;Behind, all gloomy to behold;And stepping westward seemed to beA kind of heavenly destiny;I liked the greeting; 'twas a soundOf something without place or bound;And seemed to give me spiritual rightTo travel through that region bright.The voice was soft, and she who spakeWas walking by her native lake;The salutation had to meThe very sound of courtesy;Its power was felt; and while my eyeWas fixed upon the glowing sky,The echo of the voice enwroughtA human sweetness with the thoughtOf travelling through the world that layBefore me in my endless way.William Wordsworth

"What, you are stepping westward?"—"Yea."—'Twould be a wildish destiny,If we, who thus together roamIn a strange land, and far from home,Were in this place the guests of chance;Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,Though home or shelter he had none,With such a sky to lead him on?"The dewy ground was dark and cold;Behind, all gloomy to behold;And stepping westward seemed to beA kind of heavenly destiny;I liked the greeting; 'twas a soundOf something without place or bound;And seemed to give me spiritual rightTo travel through that region bright.The voice was soft, and she who spakeWas walking by her native lake;The salutation had to meThe very sound of courtesy;Its power was felt; and while my eyeWas fixed upon the glowing sky,The echo of the voice enwroughtA human sweetness with the thoughtOf travelling through the world that layBefore me in my endless way.William Wordsworth

"What, you are stepping westward?"—"Yea."

—'Twould be a wildish destiny,

If we, who thus together roam

In a strange land, and far from home,

Were in this place the guests of chance;

Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,

Though home or shelter he had none,

With such a sky to lead him on?"

The dewy ground was dark and cold;Behind, all gloomy to behold;And stepping westward seemed to beA kind of heavenly destiny;I liked the greeting; 'twas a soundOf something without place or bound;And seemed to give me spiritual rightTo travel through that region bright.

The dewy ground was dark and cold;

Behind, all gloomy to behold;

And stepping westward seemed to be

A kind of heavenly destiny;

I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound

Of something without place or bound;

And seemed to give me spiritual right

To travel through that region bright.

The voice was soft, and she who spakeWas walking by her native lake;The salutation had to meThe very sound of courtesy;Its power was felt; and while my eyeWas fixed upon the glowing sky,The echo of the voice enwroughtA human sweetness with the thoughtOf travelling through the world that layBefore me in my endless way.William Wordsworth

The voice was soft, and she who spake

Was walking by her native lake;

The salutation had to me

The very sound of courtesy;

Its power was felt; and while my eye

Was fixed upon the glowing sky,

The echo of the voice enwrought

A human sweetness with the thought

Of travelling through the world that lay

Before me in my endless way.

William Wordsworth

442

FOLDING THE FLOCKSShepherds all, and Maidens fair,Fold your Flocks up; for the Air'Gins to thicken, and the SunAlready his great course hath run.See the Dew-drops how they kissEvery little Flower that is:Hanging on their Velvet Heads,Like a Rope of Cristal Beads.See the heavy Clouds low falling,And brightHesperusdown callingThe dead Night from under Ground,At whose rising, Mists unsound,Damps and Vapours fly apace,Hov'ring o'er the smiling FaceOf these Pastures, where they come,Striking dead both Bud and Bloom;Therefore, from such Danger, lockEv'ry one of his lovèd Flock;And let your Dogs lie loose without,Lest the Wolf come as a scoutFrom the Mountain, and, ere day,Bear a Lamb or Kid away;Or the crafty, thievish FoxBreak upon your simple Flocks:To secure yourself from theseBe not too secure in ease;Let one Eye his watches keep,While the other Eye doth sleep;So shall you good Shepherds prove,And deserve your Master's love.Now, good night! may Sweetest SlumbersAnd soft Silence fall in numbersOn your Eye-lids: So, farewell;Thus I end my Evening knell.John Fletcher

Shepherds all, and Maidens fair,Fold your Flocks up; for the Air'Gins to thicken, and the SunAlready his great course hath run.See the Dew-drops how they kissEvery little Flower that is:Hanging on their Velvet Heads,Like a Rope of Cristal Beads.See the heavy Clouds low falling,And brightHesperusdown callingThe dead Night from under Ground,At whose rising, Mists unsound,Damps and Vapours fly apace,Hov'ring o'er the smiling FaceOf these Pastures, where they come,Striking dead both Bud and Bloom;Therefore, from such Danger, lockEv'ry one of his lovèd Flock;And let your Dogs lie loose without,Lest the Wolf come as a scoutFrom the Mountain, and, ere day,Bear a Lamb or Kid away;Or the crafty, thievish FoxBreak upon your simple Flocks:To secure yourself from theseBe not too secure in ease;Let one Eye his watches keep,While the other Eye doth sleep;So shall you good Shepherds prove,And deserve your Master's love.Now, good night! may Sweetest SlumbersAnd soft Silence fall in numbersOn your Eye-lids: So, farewell;Thus I end my Evening knell.John Fletcher

Shepherds all, and Maidens fair,

Fold your Flocks up; for the Air

'Gins to thicken, and the Sun

Already his great course hath run.

See the Dew-drops how they kiss

Every little Flower that is:

Hanging on their Velvet Heads,

Like a Rope of Cristal Beads.

See the heavy Clouds low falling,

And brightHesperusdown calling

The dead Night from under Ground,

At whose rising, Mists unsound,

Damps and Vapours fly apace,

Hov'ring o'er the smiling Face

Of these Pastures, where they come,

Striking dead both Bud and Bloom;

Therefore, from such Danger, lock

Ev'ry one of his lovèd Flock;

And let your Dogs lie loose without,

Lest the Wolf come as a scout

From the Mountain, and, ere day,

Bear a Lamb or Kid away;

Or the crafty, thievish Fox

Break upon your simple Flocks:

To secure yourself from theseBe not too secure in ease;Let one Eye his watches keep,While the other Eye doth sleep;So shall you good Shepherds prove,And deserve your Master's love.Now, good night! may Sweetest SlumbersAnd soft Silence fall in numbersOn your Eye-lids: So, farewell;Thus I end my Evening knell.John Fletcher

To secure yourself from these

Be not too secure in ease;

Let one Eye his watches keep,

While the other Eye doth sleep;

So shall you good Shepherds prove,

And deserve your Master's love.

Now, good night! may Sweetest Slumbers

And soft Silence fall in numbers

On your Eye-lids: So, farewell;

Thus I end my Evening knell.

John Fletcher

443

TO THE NIGHTSwiftly walk o'er the western wave,Spirit of Night!Out of the misty eastern cave,Where, all the long and lone daylight,Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,Which make thee terrible and dear,—Swift be thy flight!Wrap thy form in a mantle greyStar-inwrought;Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day,Kiss her until she be wearied out:Then wander o'er city and sea and land,Touching all with thine opiate wand—Come, long-sought!When I arose and saw the dawnI sighed for thee;When light rode high, and the dew was gone,And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,And the weary Day turned to his rest,Lingering like an unloved guest,I sighed for thee.Thy brother Death came, and criedWouldst thou me?Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,Murmured like a noon-tide bee,Shall I nestle near thy side?Wouldst thou me?—And I repliedNo, not thee!Death will come when thou art dead,Soon, too soon—Sleep will come when thou art fled;Of neither would I ask the boonI ask of thee, belovèd Night—Swift be thine approaching flight,Come soon, soon!Percy Bysshe Shelley

Swiftly walk o'er the western wave,Spirit of Night!Out of the misty eastern cave,Where, all the long and lone daylight,Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,Which make thee terrible and dear,—Swift be thy flight!Wrap thy form in a mantle greyStar-inwrought;Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day,Kiss her until she be wearied out:Then wander o'er city and sea and land,Touching all with thine opiate wand—Come, long-sought!When I arose and saw the dawnI sighed for thee;When light rode high, and the dew was gone,And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,And the weary Day turned to his rest,Lingering like an unloved guest,I sighed for thee.Thy brother Death came, and criedWouldst thou me?Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,Murmured like a noon-tide bee,Shall I nestle near thy side?Wouldst thou me?—And I repliedNo, not thee!Death will come when thou art dead,Soon, too soon—Sleep will come when thou art fled;Of neither would I ask the boonI ask of thee, belovèd Night—Swift be thine approaching flight,Come soon, soon!Percy Bysshe Shelley

Swiftly walk o'er the western wave,

Spirit of Night!

Out of the misty eastern cave,

Where, all the long and lone daylight,

Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,

Which make thee terrible and dear,—

Swift be thy flight!

Wrap thy form in a mantle greyStar-inwrought;Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day,Kiss her until she be wearied out:Then wander o'er city and sea and land,Touching all with thine opiate wand—Come, long-sought!

Wrap thy form in a mantle grey

Star-inwrought;

Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day,

Kiss her until she be wearied out:

Then wander o'er city and sea and land,

Touching all with thine opiate wand—

Come, long-sought!

When I arose and saw the dawnI sighed for thee;When light rode high, and the dew was gone,And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,And the weary Day turned to his rest,Lingering like an unloved guest,I sighed for thee.

When I arose and saw the dawn

I sighed for thee;

When light rode high, and the dew was gone,

And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,

And the weary Day turned to his rest,

Lingering like an unloved guest,

I sighed for thee.

Thy brother Death came, and criedWouldst thou me?Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,Murmured like a noon-tide bee,Shall I nestle near thy side?Wouldst thou me?—And I repliedNo, not thee!

Thy brother Death came, and cried

Wouldst thou me?

Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,

Murmured like a noon-tide bee,

Shall I nestle near thy side?

Wouldst thou me?—And I replied

No, not thee!

Death will come when thou art dead,Soon, too soon—Sleep will come when thou art fled;Of neither would I ask the boonI ask of thee, belovèd Night—Swift be thine approaching flight,Come soon, soon!Percy Bysshe Shelley

Death will come when thou art dead,

Soon, too soon—

Sleep will come when thou art fled;

Of neither would I ask the boon

I ask of thee, belovèd Night—

Swift be thine approaching flight,

Come soon, soon!

Percy Bysshe Shelley

444

LIGHT THE LAMPS UP, LAMPLIGHTER!(For a Lamplighter, a Grandmother, the Angel Gabriel, and Any Number of Others)Light the lamps up, Lamplighter,The people are in the street—Without a lightThey have no sight,And where will they plant their feet?Some will tread in the gutter,And some in the mud—oh dear!Light the lamps up, Lamplighter,Because the night is here.Light the candles, Grandmother,The children are going to bed—Without a wickThey'll stumble and stick,And where will they lay their head?Some will lie on the staircase,And some in the hearth—oh dear!Light the candles, Grandmother,Because the night is here.Light the stars up, Gabriel,The cherubs are out to fly—If heaven is blindHow will they findTheir way across the sky?Some will splash in the Milky Way,Or bump on the moon—oh dear!Light the stars up, Gabriel,Because the night is here.Eleanor Farjeon

(For a Lamplighter, a Grandmother, the Angel Gabriel, and Any Number of Others)

Light the lamps up, Lamplighter,The people are in the street—Without a lightThey have no sight,And where will they plant their feet?Some will tread in the gutter,And some in the mud—oh dear!Light the lamps up, Lamplighter,Because the night is here.Light the candles, Grandmother,The children are going to bed—Without a wickThey'll stumble and stick,And where will they lay their head?Some will lie on the staircase,And some in the hearth—oh dear!Light the candles, Grandmother,Because the night is here.Light the stars up, Gabriel,The cherubs are out to fly—If heaven is blindHow will they findTheir way across the sky?Some will splash in the Milky Way,Or bump on the moon—oh dear!Light the stars up, Gabriel,Because the night is here.Eleanor Farjeon

Light the lamps up, Lamplighter,

The people are in the street—

Without a light

They have no sight,

And where will they plant their feet?

Some will tread in the gutter,

And some in the mud—oh dear!

Light the lamps up, Lamplighter,

Because the night is here.

Light the candles, Grandmother,The children are going to bed—Without a wickThey'll stumble and stick,And where will they lay their head?Some will lie on the staircase,And some in the hearth—oh dear!Light the candles, Grandmother,Because the night is here.

Light the candles, Grandmother,

The children are going to bed—

Without a wick

They'll stumble and stick,

And where will they lay their head?

Some will lie on the staircase,

And some in the hearth—oh dear!

Light the candles, Grandmother,

Because the night is here.

Light the stars up, Gabriel,The cherubs are out to fly—If heaven is blindHow will they findTheir way across the sky?Some will splash in the Milky Way,Or bump on the moon—oh dear!Light the stars up, Gabriel,Because the night is here.Eleanor Farjeon

Light the stars up, Gabriel,

The cherubs are out to fly—

If heaven is blind

How will they find

Their way across the sky?

Some will splash in the Milky Way,

Or bump on the moon—oh dear!

Light the stars up, Gabriel,

Because the night is here.

Eleanor Farjeon

445

WILL YOU COME?Will you come?Will you come?Will you rideSo lateAt my side?O, will you come?Will you come?Will you comeIf the nightHas a moon,Full and bright?O, will you come?Would you come?Would you comeIf the noonGave light,Not the moon?Beautiful, would you come?Would you have come?Would you have comeWithout scorning,Had it beenStill morning?Beloved, would you have come?If you comeHaste and come.Owls have cried;It grows darkTo ride.Beloved, beautiful, come!Edward Thomas

Will you come?Will you come?Will you rideSo lateAt my side?O, will you come?Will you come?Will you comeIf the nightHas a moon,Full and bright?O, will you come?Would you come?Would you comeIf the noonGave light,Not the moon?Beautiful, would you come?Would you have come?Would you have comeWithout scorning,Had it beenStill morning?Beloved, would you have come?If you comeHaste and come.Owls have cried;It grows darkTo ride.Beloved, beautiful, come!Edward Thomas

Will you come?Will you come?Will you rideSo lateAt my side?O, will you come?

Will you come?

Will you ride

So late

At my side?

O, will you come?

Will you come?Will you comeIf the nightHas a moon,Full and bright?O, will you come?

Will you come?

Will you come

If the night

Has a moon,

Full and bright?

O, will you come?

Would you come?Would you comeIf the noonGave light,Not the moon?Beautiful, would you come?

Would you come?

Would you come

If the noon

Gave light,

Not the moon?

Beautiful, would you come?

Would you have come?Would you have comeWithout scorning,Had it beenStill morning?Beloved, would you have come?

Would you have come?

Would you have come

Without scorning,

Had it been

Still morning?

Beloved, would you have come?

If you comeHaste and come.Owls have cried;It grows darkTo ride.Beloved, beautiful, come!Edward Thomas

If you come

Haste and come.

Owls have cried;

It grows dark

To ride.

Beloved, beautiful, come!

Edward Thomas

446

COME!Wull ye come in eärly Spring,Come at Easter, or in Mäy?Or when Whitsuntide mid bringLonger light to show your wäy?Wull ye come, if you be true,Vor to quicken love anew?Wull ye call in Spring or Fall?Come now soon by zun or moon?Wull ye come?Come wi' väice to väice the whileAll their words be sweet to hear;Come that feäce to feäce mid smile,While their smiles do seem so dear;Come within the year to seekWoone you have sought woonce a week?Come while flow'rs be on the bow'rs,And the bird o' songs a-heärd.Wull ye come?Ees cometoye, an' comevorye, is my word,I wull come.William Barnes

Wull ye come in eärly Spring,Come at Easter, or in Mäy?Or when Whitsuntide mid bringLonger light to show your wäy?Wull ye come, if you be true,Vor to quicken love anew?Wull ye call in Spring or Fall?Come now soon by zun or moon?Wull ye come?Come wi' väice to väice the whileAll their words be sweet to hear;Come that feäce to feäce mid smile,While their smiles do seem so dear;Come within the year to seekWoone you have sought woonce a week?Come while flow'rs be on the bow'rs,And the bird o' songs a-heärd.Wull ye come?Ees cometoye, an' comevorye, is my word,I wull come.William Barnes

Wull ye come in eärly Spring,

Come at Easter, or in Mäy?

Or when Whitsuntide mid bring

Longer light to show your wäy?

Wull ye come, if you be true,

Vor to quicken love anew?

Wull ye call in Spring or Fall?

Come now soon by zun or moon?

Wull ye come?

Come wi' väice to väice the whileAll their words be sweet to hear;Come that feäce to feäce mid smile,While their smiles do seem so dear;Come within the year to seekWoone you have sought woonce a week?Come while flow'rs be on the bow'rs,And the bird o' songs a-heärd.Wull ye come?

Come wi' väice to väice the while

All their words be sweet to hear;

Come that feäce to feäce mid smile,

While their smiles do seem so dear;

Come within the year to seek

Woone you have sought woonce a week?

Come while flow'rs be on the bow'rs,

And the bird o' songs a-heärd.

Wull ye come?

Ees cometoye, an' comevorye, is my word,I wull come.William Barnes

Ees cometoye, an' comevorye, is my word,

I wull come.

William Barnes

447

HYMN TO DIANAQueen and huntress, chaste and fair,Now the sun is laid to sleep,Seated in thy silver chair,State in wonted manner keep;Hesperus entreats thy light,Goddess excellently bright.Earth, let not thy envious shadeDare itself to interpose;Cynthia's shining orb was madeHeaven to clear when day did close:Bless us then with wishèd sight,Goddess excellently bright.Lay thy bow of pearl apart,And thy crystal shining quiver;Give unto the flying hartSpace to breathe, how short soever:Thou that mak'st a day of night,Goddess excellently bright.Ben Jonson

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,Now the sun is laid to sleep,Seated in thy silver chair,State in wonted manner keep;Hesperus entreats thy light,Goddess excellently bright.Earth, let not thy envious shadeDare itself to interpose;Cynthia's shining orb was madeHeaven to clear when day did close:Bless us then with wishèd sight,Goddess excellently bright.Lay thy bow of pearl apart,And thy crystal shining quiver;Give unto the flying hartSpace to breathe, how short soever:Thou that mak'st a day of night,Goddess excellently bright.Ben Jonson

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,Now the sun is laid to sleep,Seated in thy silver chair,State in wonted manner keep;Hesperus entreats thy light,Goddess excellently bright.

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,

Now the sun is laid to sleep,

Seated in thy silver chair,

State in wonted manner keep;

Hesperus entreats thy light,

Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shadeDare itself to interpose;Cynthia's shining orb was madeHeaven to clear when day did close:Bless us then with wishèd sight,Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade

Dare itself to interpose;

Cynthia's shining orb was made

Heaven to clear when day did close:

Bless us then with wishèd sight,

Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,And thy crystal shining quiver;Give unto the flying hartSpace to breathe, how short soever:Thou that mak'st a day of night,Goddess excellently bright.Ben Jonson

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,

And thy crystal shining quiver;

Give unto the flying hart

Space to breathe, how short soever:

Thou that mak'st a day of night,

Goddess excellently bright.

Ben Jonson

448

THE CLOUDS HAVE LEFT THE SKYThe clouds have left the sky,The wind hath left the sea,The half-moon up on highShrinketh her face of dree.She lightens on the combOf leaden waves, that roarAnd thrust their hurried foamUp on the dusky shore.Behind the western barsThe shrouded day retreats,And unperceived the starsSteal to their sovran seats.And whiter grows the foam,The small moon lightens more;And as I turn me home,My shadow walks before.Robert Bridges

The clouds have left the sky,The wind hath left the sea,The half-moon up on highShrinketh her face of dree.She lightens on the combOf leaden waves, that roarAnd thrust their hurried foamUp on the dusky shore.Behind the western barsThe shrouded day retreats,And unperceived the starsSteal to their sovran seats.And whiter grows the foam,The small moon lightens more;And as I turn me home,My shadow walks before.Robert Bridges

The clouds have left the sky,The wind hath left the sea,The half-moon up on highShrinketh her face of dree.

The clouds have left the sky,

The wind hath left the sea,

The half-moon up on high

Shrinketh her face of dree.

She lightens on the combOf leaden waves, that roarAnd thrust their hurried foamUp on the dusky shore.

She lightens on the comb

Of leaden waves, that roar

And thrust their hurried foam

Up on the dusky shore.

Behind the western barsThe shrouded day retreats,And unperceived the starsSteal to their sovran seats.

Behind the western bars

The shrouded day retreats,

And unperceived the stars

Steal to their sovran seats.

And whiter grows the foam,The small moon lightens more;And as I turn me home,My shadow walks before.Robert Bridges

And whiter grows the foam,

The small moon lightens more;

And as I turn me home,

My shadow walks before.

Robert Bridges

449

WITH HOW SAD STEPSWith how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!How silently, and with how wan a face!What! may it be that even in heavenly placeThat busy archer his sharp arrows tries?Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyesCan judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case:I read it in thy looks; thy languished graceTo me, that feel the like, thy state descries.Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?Are beauties there as proud as here they be?Do they above love to be loved, and yetThose lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?Sir Philip Sidney

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!How silently, and with how wan a face!What! may it be that even in heavenly placeThat busy archer his sharp arrows tries?Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyesCan judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case:I read it in thy looks; thy languished graceTo me, that feel the like, thy state descries.Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?Are beauties there as proud as here they be?Do they above love to be loved, and yetThose lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?Sir Philip Sidney

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!

How silently, and with how wan a face!

What! may it be that even in heavenly place

That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?

Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes

Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case:

I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace

To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.

Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?Are beauties there as proud as here they be?Do they above love to be loved, and yetThose lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?Sir Philip Sidney

Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,

Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?

Are beauties there as proud as here they be?

Do they above love to be loved, and yet

Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?

Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

Sir Philip Sidney

450

IN DISPRAISE OF THE MOONI would not be the Moon, the sickly thing,To summon owls and bats upon the wing;For when the noble Sun is gone away,She turns his night into a pallid day.She hath no air, no radiance of her own,That world unmusical of earth and stone.She wakes her dim, uncoloured, voiceless hosts,Ghost of the Sun, herself the sun of ghosts.The mortal eyes that gaze too long on herOf Reason's piercing ray defrauded are.Light in itself doth feed the living brain;That light, reflected, but makes darkness plain.Mary Coleridge

I would not be the Moon, the sickly thing,To summon owls and bats upon the wing;For when the noble Sun is gone away,She turns his night into a pallid day.She hath no air, no radiance of her own,That world unmusical of earth and stone.She wakes her dim, uncoloured, voiceless hosts,Ghost of the Sun, herself the sun of ghosts.The mortal eyes that gaze too long on herOf Reason's piercing ray defrauded are.Light in itself doth feed the living brain;That light, reflected, but makes darkness plain.Mary Coleridge

I would not be the Moon, the sickly thing,To summon owls and bats upon the wing;For when the noble Sun is gone away,She turns his night into a pallid day.

I would not be the Moon, the sickly thing,

To summon owls and bats upon the wing;

For when the noble Sun is gone away,

She turns his night into a pallid day.

She hath no air, no radiance of her own,That world unmusical of earth and stone.She wakes her dim, uncoloured, voiceless hosts,Ghost of the Sun, herself the sun of ghosts.

She hath no air, no radiance of her own,

That world unmusical of earth and stone.

She wakes her dim, uncoloured, voiceless hosts,

Ghost of the Sun, herself the sun of ghosts.

The mortal eyes that gaze too long on herOf Reason's piercing ray defrauded are.Light in itself doth feed the living brain;That light, reflected, but makes darkness plain.Mary Coleridge

The mortal eyes that gaze too long on her

Of Reason's piercing ray defrauded are.

Light in itself doth feed the living brain;

That light, reflected, but makes darkness plain.

Mary Coleridge

451

THE WANING MOONAnd like a dying lady, lean and pale,Who totters forth, wrapt in a gauzy veil,Out of her chamber, led by the insaneAnd feeble wanderings of her fading brain,The moon arose up in the murky east,A white and shapeless mass.Percy Bysshe Shelley

And like a dying lady, lean and pale,Who totters forth, wrapt in a gauzy veil,Out of her chamber, led by the insaneAnd feeble wanderings of her fading brain,The moon arose up in the murky east,A white and shapeless mass.Percy Bysshe Shelley

And like a dying lady, lean and pale,

Who totters forth, wrapt in a gauzy veil,

Out of her chamber, led by the insane

And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,

The moon arose up in the murky east,

A white and shapeless mass.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

452

WE'LL GO NO MORE A-ROVINGSo, we'll go no more a-rovingSo late into the night,Though the heart be still as loving,And the moon be still as bright.For the sword outwears its sheath,And the soul wears out the breast,And the heart must pause to breathe,And love itself have rest.Though the night was made for loving,And the day returns too soon,Yet we'll go no more a-rovingBy the light of the moon.George Gordon, Lord Byron

So, we'll go no more a-rovingSo late into the night,Though the heart be still as loving,And the moon be still as bright.For the sword outwears its sheath,And the soul wears out the breast,And the heart must pause to breathe,And love itself have rest.Though the night was made for loving,And the day returns too soon,Yet we'll go no more a-rovingBy the light of the moon.George Gordon, Lord Byron

So, we'll go no more a-rovingSo late into the night,Though the heart be still as loving,And the moon be still as bright.

So, we'll go no more a-roving

So late into the night,

Though the heart be still as loving,

And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,And the soul wears out the breast,And the heart must pause to breathe,And love itself have rest.

For the sword outwears its sheath,

And the soul wears out the breast,

And the heart must pause to breathe,

And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,And the day returns too soon,Yet we'll go no more a-rovingBy the light of the moon.George Gordon, Lord Byron

Though the night was made for loving,

And the day returns too soon,

Yet we'll go no more a-roving

By the light of the moon.

George Gordon, Lord Byron

453

SONG OF THE NIGHT AT DAYBREAKAll my stars forsake me,And the dawn-winds shake me.Where shall I betake me?Whither shall I runTill the set of sun,Till the day be done?To the mountain-mine,To the boughs o' the pine,To the blind man's eyne,To a brow that isBowed upon the knees,Sick with memories.Alice Meynell

All my stars forsake me,And the dawn-winds shake me.Where shall I betake me?Whither shall I runTill the set of sun,Till the day be done?To the mountain-mine,To the boughs o' the pine,To the blind man's eyne,To a brow that isBowed upon the knees,Sick with memories.Alice Meynell

All my stars forsake me,And the dawn-winds shake me.Where shall I betake me?

All my stars forsake me,

And the dawn-winds shake me.

Where shall I betake me?

Whither shall I runTill the set of sun,Till the day be done?

Whither shall I run

Till the set of sun,

Till the day be done?

To the mountain-mine,To the boughs o' the pine,To the blind man's eyne,

To the mountain-mine,

To the boughs o' the pine,

To the blind man's eyne,

To a brow that isBowed upon the knees,Sick with memories.Alice Meynell

To a brow that is

Bowed upon the knees,

Sick with memories.

Alice Meynell

454

THE NIGHT WILL NEVER STAYThe night will never stay,The night will still go by,Though with a million starsYou pin it to the sky;Though you bind it with the blowing windAnd buckle it with the moon,The night will slip awayLike sorrow or a tune.Eleanor Farjeon

The night will never stay,The night will still go by,Though with a million starsYou pin it to the sky;Though you bind it with the blowing windAnd buckle it with the moon,The night will slip awayLike sorrow or a tune.Eleanor Farjeon

The night will never stay,

The night will still go by,

Though with a million stars

You pin it to the sky;

Though you bind it with the blowing wind

And buckle it with the moon,

The night will slip away

Like sorrow or a tune.

Eleanor Farjeon

455

LINES FOR A BED AT KELMSCOTT MANOR"The wind's on the woldAnd the night is a-cold,And Thames runs chillTwixt mead and hill,But kind and dearIs the old house here,And my heart is warmMidst winter's harm.Rest then and rest,And think of the bestTwixt summer and springWhen all birds singIn the town of the tree,And ye lie in meAnd scarce dare moveLest earth and its loveShould fade awayEre the full of the day.I am old and have seenMany things that have been,Both grief and peace,And wane and increase.No tale I tellOf ill or well,But this I say,Night treadeth on day,And for worst and bestRight good is rest."William Morris

"The wind's on the woldAnd the night is a-cold,And Thames runs chillTwixt mead and hill,But kind and dearIs the old house here,And my heart is warmMidst winter's harm.Rest then and rest,And think of the bestTwixt summer and springWhen all birds singIn the town of the tree,And ye lie in meAnd scarce dare moveLest earth and its loveShould fade awayEre the full of the day.I am old and have seenMany things that have been,Both grief and peace,And wane and increase.No tale I tellOf ill or well,But this I say,Night treadeth on day,And for worst and bestRight good is rest."William Morris

"The wind's on the wold

And the night is a-cold,

And Thames runs chill

Twixt mead and hill,

But kind and dear

Is the old house here,

And my heart is warm

Midst winter's harm.

Rest then and rest,

And think of the best

Twixt summer and spring

When all birds sing

In the town of the tree,

And ye lie in me

And scarce dare move

Lest earth and its love

Should fade away

Ere the full of the day.

I am old and have seenMany things that have been,Both grief and peace,And wane and increase.No tale I tellOf ill or well,But this I say,Night treadeth on day,And for worst and bestRight good is rest."William Morris

I am old and have seen

Many things that have been,

Both grief and peace,

And wane and increase.

No tale I tell

Of ill or well,

But this I say,

Night treadeth on day,

And for worst and best

Right good is rest."

William Morris

456

ROCK, BALL, FIDDLEHe that lies at the stock,Shall have the gold rock;He that lies at the wall,Shall have the gold ball;He that lies in the middle,Shall have the gold fiddle.

He that lies at the stock,Shall have the gold rock;He that lies at the wall,Shall have the gold ball;He that lies in the middle,Shall have the gold fiddle.

He that lies at the stock,

Shall have the gold rock;

He that lies at the wall,

Shall have the gold ball;

He that lies in the middle,

Shall have the gold fiddle.

457

BEFORE SLEEPINGMatthew, Mark, Luke, and John,Bless the bed that I lie on.Before I lay me down to sleepI give my soul to Christ to keep.Four corners to my bed,Four angels there aspread,Two to foot, and two to head,And four to carry me when I'm dead.I go by sea, I go by land,The Lord made me with His right hand.If any danger come to me,Sweet Jesus Christ deliver me.He's the branch and I'm the flower,Pray God send me a happy hour,And if I die before I wake,I pray that Christ my soul will take.

Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,Bless the bed that I lie on.Before I lay me down to sleepI give my soul to Christ to keep.Four corners to my bed,Four angels there aspread,Two to foot, and two to head,And four to carry me when I'm dead.I go by sea, I go by land,The Lord made me with His right hand.If any danger come to me,Sweet Jesus Christ deliver me.He's the branch and I'm the flower,Pray God send me a happy hour,And if I die before I wake,I pray that Christ my soul will take.

Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,

Bless the bed that I lie on.

Before I lay me down to sleep

I give my soul to Christ to keep.

Four corners to my bed,

Four angels there aspread,

Two to foot, and two to head,

And four to carry me when I'm dead.

I go by sea, I go by land,The Lord made me with His right hand.If any danger come to me,Sweet Jesus Christ deliver me.He's the branch and I'm the flower,Pray God send me a happy hour,And if I die before I wake,I pray that Christ my soul will take.

I go by sea, I go by land,

The Lord made me with His right hand.

If any danger come to me,

Sweet Jesus Christ deliver me.

He's the branch and I'm the flower,

Pray God send me a happy hour,

And if I die before I wake,

I pray that Christ my soul will take.

458

ON A QUIET CONSCIENCEClose thine eyes, and sleep secure;Thy soul is safe, thy body sure.He that guards thee, he that keeps,Never slumbers, never sleeps.A quiet conscience in the breastHas only peace, has only rest.The wisest and the mirth of kingsAre out of tune unless she sings:Then close thine eyes in peace and sleep secure,No sleep so sweet as thine, no rest so sure.Charles I.

Close thine eyes, and sleep secure;Thy soul is safe, thy body sure.He that guards thee, he that keeps,Never slumbers, never sleeps.A quiet conscience in the breastHas only peace, has only rest.The wisest and the mirth of kingsAre out of tune unless she sings:Then close thine eyes in peace and sleep secure,No sleep so sweet as thine, no rest so sure.Charles I.

Close thine eyes, and sleep secure;

Thy soul is safe, thy body sure.

He that guards thee, he that keeps,

Never slumbers, never sleeps.

A quiet conscience in the breast

Has only peace, has only rest.

The wisest and the mirth of kings

Are out of tune unless she sings:

Then close thine eyes in peace and sleep secure,

No sleep so sweet as thine, no rest so sure.

Charles I.

459

SONGWhile Morpheus thus does gently layHis powerful charge upon each partMaking thy spirits even obeyThe silver charms of his dull art;I, thy Good Angel, from thy side,—As smoke doth from the altar rise,Making no noise as it doth glide,—Will leave thee in this soft surprise;And from the clouds will fetch thee downA holy vision, to expressThy right unto an earthly crown;No power can make this kingdom less.But gently, gently, lest I bringA start in sleep by sudden flight,Playing aloof, and hovering,Till I am lost unto the sight.This is a motion still and soft;So free from noise and cry,That Jove himself, who hears a thought,Knows not when we pass by.Henry Killigrew

While Morpheus thus does gently layHis powerful charge upon each partMaking thy spirits even obeyThe silver charms of his dull art;I, thy Good Angel, from thy side,—As smoke doth from the altar rise,Making no noise as it doth glide,—Will leave thee in this soft surprise;And from the clouds will fetch thee downA holy vision, to expressThy right unto an earthly crown;No power can make this kingdom less.But gently, gently, lest I bringA start in sleep by sudden flight,Playing aloof, and hovering,Till I am lost unto the sight.This is a motion still and soft;So free from noise and cry,That Jove himself, who hears a thought,Knows not when we pass by.Henry Killigrew

While Morpheus thus does gently layHis powerful charge upon each partMaking thy spirits even obeyThe silver charms of his dull art;

While Morpheus thus does gently lay

His powerful charge upon each part

Making thy spirits even obey

The silver charms of his dull art;

I, thy Good Angel, from thy side,—As smoke doth from the altar rise,Making no noise as it doth glide,—Will leave thee in this soft surprise;

I, thy Good Angel, from thy side,—

As smoke doth from the altar rise,

Making no noise as it doth glide,—

Will leave thee in this soft surprise;

And from the clouds will fetch thee downA holy vision, to expressThy right unto an earthly crown;No power can make this kingdom less.

And from the clouds will fetch thee down

A holy vision, to express

Thy right unto an earthly crown;

No power can make this kingdom less.

But gently, gently, lest I bringA start in sleep by sudden flight,Playing aloof, and hovering,Till I am lost unto the sight.

But gently, gently, lest I bring

A start in sleep by sudden flight,

Playing aloof, and hovering,

Till I am lost unto the sight.

This is a motion still and soft;So free from noise and cry,That Jove himself, who hears a thought,Knows not when we pass by.Henry Killigrew

This is a motion still and soft;

So free from noise and cry,

That Jove himself, who hears a thought,

Knows not when we pass by.

Henry Killigrew

460

THE EVE OF SAINT MARKUpon a Sabbath-day it fell;Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell,That called the folk to evening prayer;The city streets were clean and fairFrom wholesome drench of April rains;And, on the western window panes,The chilly sunset faintly toldOf unmatured green vallies cold,Of the green thorny bloomless hedge,Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge,Of primroses by sheltered rills,And daisies on the aguish hills.Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell:The silent streets were crowded wellWith staid and pious companies,Warm from their fire-side oratories;And moving, with demurest air,To even-song, and vesper-prayer.Each archèd porch, and entry low,Was filled with patient folk and slow,With whispers hush, and shuffling feet,While played the organ loud and sweet.The bells had ceased, the prayers begun,And Bertha had not yet half doneA curious volume, patched and torn,That all day long, from earliest morn,Had taken captive her two eyes,Among its golden broideries;Perplexed her with a thousand things,—The stars of Heaven, and angels' wings,Martyrs in a fiery blaze,Azure saints in silver rays,Moses' breastplate, and the sevenCandlesticks John saw in Heaven,The winged Lion of Saint Mark,And the Covenantal Ark,With its many mysteries,Cherubim and golden mice.Bertha was a maiden fair,Dwelling in the old Minster-square;From her fire-side she could see,Sidelong, its rich antiquity,Far as the Bishop's garden-wall;Where sycamores and elm-trees tall,Full-leaved, the forest had outstript,By no sharp north-wind ever nipt,So sheltered by the mighty pile,Bertha arose, and read awhile,With forehead 'gainst the window-pane,Again she tryed, and then again,Until the dusk eve left her darkUpon the legend of St. Mark.From plaited lawn-frill, fine and thin,She lifted up her soft warm chin,With aching neck and swimming eyes,And dazed with saintly imageries.All was gloom, and silent all,Save now and then the still foot-fallOf one returning homewards late,Past the echoing minster-gate.The clamorous daws, that all the dayAbove tree-tops and towers play,Pair by pair had gone to rest,Each in its ancient belfry-nest,Where asleep they fall betimes,To music of the drowsy chimes.All was silent, all was gloom,Abroad and in the homely room:Down she sat, poor cheated soul!And struck a lamp from the dismal coal;Leaned forward, with bright drooping hairAnd slant book, full against the glare.Her shadow, in uneasy guise,Hovered about, a giant size,On ceiling-beam and old oak chair,The parrot's cage, and panel square;And the warm angled winter screen,On which were many monsters seen,Called doves of Siam, Lima mice,And legless birds of Paradise,Macaw, and tender Avadavat,And silken-furred Angora cat.Untired she read, her shadow stillGlowered about, as it would fillThe room with wildest forms and shades,As though some ghostly queen of spadesHad come to mock behind her back,And dance, and ruffle her garments black.Untired she read the legend page,Of holy Mark, from youth to age,On land, on sea, in pagan chains,Rejoicing for his many pains.Sometimes the learned eremite,With golden star, or dagger bright,Referred to pious poesiesWritten in smallest crow-quill sizeBeneath the text; and thus the rhymeWas parcelled out from time to time:—"'Gif ye wol stonden[203]hardie wight—Amiddės of the blackė night—Righte in the churchė porch, pardieYe wol behold a companieApprochen thee full dolourouse:For sooth to sain from everich houseBe it in city or villàgeWol come the Phantom and imàgeOf ilka[204]gent and ilka carleWhom coldė Deathė hath in parleAnd wol some day that very yearTouchen with foulė venime spearAnd sadly do them all to die.—Hem all shalt thou see verilie—And everichon shall by thee passAll who must die that year, Alas.'"Als[205]writith he of swevenis,[206]Men han beforne they wake in bliss,Whanne that hir friendės thinke hem boundIn crimpèd shroude farre under grounde;And how a litling child mote beA saint er its nativitie,Gif that the modre—God her blesse!—Kepen in solitarinesse,And kissen devoute the holy croce—Of Goddės love, and Sathan's force,—He writith; and thinges many mo,Of swichė thinges I may not show.Bot I must tellen verilieSomdel of Saintė Cicilie,And chieflie what he auctorietheOf Saintė Markis life and dethe:"At length her constant eyelids comeUpon the fervent martyrdom;Then lastly to his holy shrine,Exalt amid the tapers' shineAt Venice....John Keats

Upon a Sabbath-day it fell;Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell,That called the folk to evening prayer;The city streets were clean and fairFrom wholesome drench of April rains;And, on the western window panes,The chilly sunset faintly toldOf unmatured green vallies cold,Of the green thorny bloomless hedge,Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge,Of primroses by sheltered rills,And daisies on the aguish hills.Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell:The silent streets were crowded wellWith staid and pious companies,Warm from their fire-side oratories;And moving, with demurest air,To even-song, and vesper-prayer.Each archèd porch, and entry low,Was filled with patient folk and slow,With whispers hush, and shuffling feet,While played the organ loud and sweet.The bells had ceased, the prayers begun,And Bertha had not yet half doneA curious volume, patched and torn,That all day long, from earliest morn,Had taken captive her two eyes,Among its golden broideries;Perplexed her with a thousand things,—The stars of Heaven, and angels' wings,Martyrs in a fiery blaze,Azure saints in silver rays,Moses' breastplate, and the sevenCandlesticks John saw in Heaven,The winged Lion of Saint Mark,And the Covenantal Ark,With its many mysteries,Cherubim and golden mice.Bertha was a maiden fair,Dwelling in the old Minster-square;From her fire-side she could see,Sidelong, its rich antiquity,Far as the Bishop's garden-wall;Where sycamores and elm-trees tall,Full-leaved, the forest had outstript,By no sharp north-wind ever nipt,So sheltered by the mighty pile,Bertha arose, and read awhile,With forehead 'gainst the window-pane,Again she tryed, and then again,Until the dusk eve left her darkUpon the legend of St. Mark.From plaited lawn-frill, fine and thin,She lifted up her soft warm chin,With aching neck and swimming eyes,And dazed with saintly imageries.All was gloom, and silent all,Save now and then the still foot-fallOf one returning homewards late,Past the echoing minster-gate.The clamorous daws, that all the dayAbove tree-tops and towers play,Pair by pair had gone to rest,Each in its ancient belfry-nest,Where asleep they fall betimes,To music of the drowsy chimes.All was silent, all was gloom,Abroad and in the homely room:Down she sat, poor cheated soul!And struck a lamp from the dismal coal;Leaned forward, with bright drooping hairAnd slant book, full against the glare.Her shadow, in uneasy guise,Hovered about, a giant size,On ceiling-beam and old oak chair,The parrot's cage, and panel square;And the warm angled winter screen,On which were many monsters seen,Called doves of Siam, Lima mice,And legless birds of Paradise,Macaw, and tender Avadavat,And silken-furred Angora cat.Untired she read, her shadow stillGlowered about, as it would fillThe room with wildest forms and shades,As though some ghostly queen of spadesHad come to mock behind her back,And dance, and ruffle her garments black.Untired she read the legend page,Of holy Mark, from youth to age,On land, on sea, in pagan chains,Rejoicing for his many pains.Sometimes the learned eremite,With golden star, or dagger bright,Referred to pious poesiesWritten in smallest crow-quill sizeBeneath the text; and thus the rhymeWas parcelled out from time to time:—"'Gif ye wol stonden[203]hardie wight—Amiddės of the blackė night—Righte in the churchė porch, pardieYe wol behold a companieApprochen thee full dolourouse:For sooth to sain from everich houseBe it in city or villàgeWol come the Phantom and imàgeOf ilka[204]gent and ilka carleWhom coldė Deathė hath in parleAnd wol some day that very yearTouchen with foulė venime spearAnd sadly do them all to die.—Hem all shalt thou see verilie—And everichon shall by thee passAll who must die that year, Alas.'"Als[205]writith he of swevenis,[206]Men han beforne they wake in bliss,Whanne that hir friendės thinke hem boundIn crimpèd shroude farre under grounde;And how a litling child mote beA saint er its nativitie,Gif that the modre—God her blesse!—Kepen in solitarinesse,And kissen devoute the holy croce—Of Goddės love, and Sathan's force,—He writith; and thinges many mo,Of swichė thinges I may not show.Bot I must tellen verilieSomdel of Saintė Cicilie,And chieflie what he auctorietheOf Saintė Markis life and dethe:"At length her constant eyelids comeUpon the fervent martyrdom;Then lastly to his holy shrine,Exalt amid the tapers' shineAt Venice....John Keats

Upon a Sabbath-day it fell;

Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell,

That called the folk to evening prayer;

The city streets were clean and fair

From wholesome drench of April rains;

And, on the western window panes,

The chilly sunset faintly told

Of unmatured green vallies cold,

Of the green thorny bloomless hedge,

Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge,

Of primroses by sheltered rills,

And daisies on the aguish hills.

Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell:

The silent streets were crowded well

With staid and pious companies,

Warm from their fire-side oratories;

And moving, with demurest air,

To even-song, and vesper-prayer.

Each archèd porch, and entry low,

Was filled with patient folk and slow,

With whispers hush, and shuffling feet,

While played the organ loud and sweet.

The bells had ceased, the prayers begun,

And Bertha had not yet half done

A curious volume, patched and torn,That all day long, from earliest morn,Had taken captive her two eyes,Among its golden broideries;Perplexed her with a thousand things,—The stars of Heaven, and angels' wings,Martyrs in a fiery blaze,Azure saints in silver rays,Moses' breastplate, and the sevenCandlesticks John saw in Heaven,The winged Lion of Saint Mark,And the Covenantal Ark,With its many mysteries,Cherubim and golden mice.

A curious volume, patched and torn,

That all day long, from earliest morn,

Had taken captive her two eyes,

Among its golden broideries;

Perplexed her with a thousand things,—

The stars of Heaven, and angels' wings,

Martyrs in a fiery blaze,

Azure saints in silver rays,

Moses' breastplate, and the seven

Candlesticks John saw in Heaven,

The winged Lion of Saint Mark,

And the Covenantal Ark,

With its many mysteries,

Cherubim and golden mice.

Bertha was a maiden fair,Dwelling in the old Minster-square;From her fire-side she could see,Sidelong, its rich antiquity,Far as the Bishop's garden-wall;Where sycamores and elm-trees tall,Full-leaved, the forest had outstript,By no sharp north-wind ever nipt,So sheltered by the mighty pile,Bertha arose, and read awhile,With forehead 'gainst the window-pane,Again she tryed, and then again,Until the dusk eve left her darkUpon the legend of St. Mark.From plaited lawn-frill, fine and thin,She lifted up her soft warm chin,With aching neck and swimming eyes,And dazed with saintly imageries.

Bertha was a maiden fair,

Dwelling in the old Minster-square;

From her fire-side she could see,

Sidelong, its rich antiquity,

Far as the Bishop's garden-wall;

Where sycamores and elm-trees tall,

Full-leaved, the forest had outstript,

By no sharp north-wind ever nipt,

So sheltered by the mighty pile,

Bertha arose, and read awhile,

With forehead 'gainst the window-pane,

Again she tryed, and then again,

Until the dusk eve left her dark

Upon the legend of St. Mark.

From plaited lawn-frill, fine and thin,

She lifted up her soft warm chin,

With aching neck and swimming eyes,

And dazed with saintly imageries.

All was gloom, and silent all,Save now and then the still foot-fallOf one returning homewards late,Past the echoing minster-gate.The clamorous daws, that all the dayAbove tree-tops and towers play,Pair by pair had gone to rest,Each in its ancient belfry-nest,Where asleep they fall betimes,To music of the drowsy chimes.

All was gloom, and silent all,

Save now and then the still foot-fall

Of one returning homewards late,

Past the echoing minster-gate.

The clamorous daws, that all the day

Above tree-tops and towers play,

Pair by pair had gone to rest,

Each in its ancient belfry-nest,

Where asleep they fall betimes,

To music of the drowsy chimes.

All was silent, all was gloom,Abroad and in the homely room:Down she sat, poor cheated soul!And struck a lamp from the dismal coal;Leaned forward, with bright drooping hairAnd slant book, full against the glare.Her shadow, in uneasy guise,Hovered about, a giant size,On ceiling-beam and old oak chair,The parrot's cage, and panel square;And the warm angled winter screen,On which were many monsters seen,Called doves of Siam, Lima mice,And legless birds of Paradise,Macaw, and tender Avadavat,And silken-furred Angora cat.Untired she read, her shadow stillGlowered about, as it would fillThe room with wildest forms and shades,As though some ghostly queen of spadesHad come to mock behind her back,And dance, and ruffle her garments black.Untired she read the legend page,Of holy Mark, from youth to age,On land, on sea, in pagan chains,Rejoicing for his many pains.Sometimes the learned eremite,With golden star, or dagger bright,Referred to pious poesiesWritten in smallest crow-quill sizeBeneath the text; and thus the rhymeWas parcelled out from time to time:—"'Gif ye wol stonden[203]hardie wight—Amiddės of the blackė night—Righte in the churchė porch, pardieYe wol behold a companieApprochen thee full dolourouse:For sooth to sain from everich houseBe it in city or villàgeWol come the Phantom and imàgeOf ilka[204]gent and ilka carleWhom coldė Deathė hath in parleAnd wol some day that very yearTouchen with foulė venime spearAnd sadly do them all to die.—Hem all shalt thou see verilie—And everichon shall by thee passAll who must die that year, Alas.'

All was silent, all was gloom,

Abroad and in the homely room:

Down she sat, poor cheated soul!

And struck a lamp from the dismal coal;

Leaned forward, with bright drooping hair

And slant book, full against the glare.

Her shadow, in uneasy guise,

Hovered about, a giant size,

On ceiling-beam and old oak chair,

The parrot's cage, and panel square;

And the warm angled winter screen,

On which were many monsters seen,

Called doves of Siam, Lima mice,

And legless birds of Paradise,

Macaw, and tender Avadavat,

And silken-furred Angora cat.

Untired she read, her shadow still

Glowered about, as it would fill

The room with wildest forms and shades,

As though some ghostly queen of spades

Had come to mock behind her back,

And dance, and ruffle her garments black.

Untired she read the legend page,

Of holy Mark, from youth to age,

On land, on sea, in pagan chains,

Rejoicing for his many pains.

Sometimes the learned eremite,

With golden star, or dagger bright,

Referred to pious poesies

Written in smallest crow-quill size

Beneath the text; and thus the rhyme

Was parcelled out from time to time:—

"'Gif ye wol stonden[203]hardie wight—

Amiddės of the blackė night—

Righte in the churchė porch, pardie

Ye wol behold a companie

Approchen thee full dolourouse:

For sooth to sain from everich house

Be it in city or villàge

Wol come the Phantom and imàge

Of ilka[204]gent and ilka carle

Whom coldė Deathė hath in parle

And wol some day that very year

Touchen with foulė venime spear

And sadly do them all to die.—

Hem all shalt thou see verilie—

And everichon shall by thee pass

All who must die that year, Alas.'

"Als[205]writith he of swevenis,[206]Men han beforne they wake in bliss,Whanne that hir friendės thinke hem boundIn crimpèd shroude farre under grounde;And how a litling child mote beA saint er its nativitie,Gif that the modre—God her blesse!—Kepen in solitarinesse,And kissen devoute the holy croce—Of Goddės love, and Sathan's force,—He writith; and thinges many mo,Of swichė thinges I may not show.Bot I must tellen verilieSomdel of Saintė Cicilie,And chieflie what he auctorietheOf Saintė Markis life and dethe:"

"Als[205]writith he of swevenis,[206]

Men han beforne they wake in bliss,

Whanne that hir friendės thinke hem bound

In crimpèd shroude farre under grounde;

And how a litling child mote be

A saint er its nativitie,

Gif that the modre—God her blesse!—

Kepen in solitarinesse,

And kissen devoute the holy croce—

Of Goddės love, and Sathan's force,—

He writith; and thinges many mo,

Of swichė thinges I may not show.

Bot I must tellen verilie

Somdel of Saintė Cicilie,

And chieflie what he auctoriethe

Of Saintė Markis life and dethe:"

At length her constant eyelids comeUpon the fervent martyrdom;Then lastly to his holy shrine,Exalt amid the tapers' shineAt Venice....John Keats

At length her constant eyelids come

Upon the fervent martyrdom;

Then lastly to his holy shrine,

Exalt amid the tapers' shine

At Venice....

John Keats

461

LAID IN MY QUIET BEDLaid in my quiet bed, in study as I were,I saw within my troubled head a heap of thoughts appear;And every thought did shew so lively in mine eyes,That now I sighed, and then I smiled, as cause of thought did rise.I saw the little boy in thought how oft that heDid wish of God, to scape the rod, a tall young man to be.The young man eke that feels his bones with pains opprest,How he would be a rich old man, to live and lie at rest.The rich old man that sees his end draw on so sore,How he would be a boy again, to live so much the more.Whereat full oft I smiled, to see how all these three,From boy to man, from man to boy, would chop and change degree....Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey

Laid in my quiet bed, in study as I were,I saw within my troubled head a heap of thoughts appear;And every thought did shew so lively in mine eyes,That now I sighed, and then I smiled, as cause of thought did rise.I saw the little boy in thought how oft that heDid wish of God, to scape the rod, a tall young man to be.The young man eke that feels his bones with pains opprest,How he would be a rich old man, to live and lie at rest.The rich old man that sees his end draw on so sore,How he would be a boy again, to live so much the more.Whereat full oft I smiled, to see how all these three,From boy to man, from man to boy, would chop and change degree....Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey

Laid in my quiet bed, in study as I were,

I saw within my troubled head a heap of thoughts appear;

And every thought did shew so lively in mine eyes,

That now I sighed, and then I smiled, as cause of thought did rise.

I saw the little boy in thought how oft that he

Did wish of God, to scape the rod, a tall young man to be.

The young man eke that feels his bones with pains opprest,

How he would be a rich old man, to live and lie at rest.

The rich old man that sees his end draw on so sore,

How he would be a boy again, to live so much the more.

Whereat full oft I smiled, to see how all these three,

From boy to man, from man to boy, would chop and change degree....

Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey

462

AT NIGHTHome, home from the horizon far and clear,Hither the soft wings sweep;Flocks of the memories of the day draw nearThe dovecote doors of sleep.Oh, which are they that come through sweetest lightOf all these homing birds?Which with the straightest and the swiftest flight?Your words to me, your words!Alice Meynell

Home, home from the horizon far and clear,Hither the soft wings sweep;Flocks of the memories of the day draw nearThe dovecote doors of sleep.Oh, which are they that come through sweetest lightOf all these homing birds?Which with the straightest and the swiftest flight?Your words to me, your words!Alice Meynell

Home, home from the horizon far and clear,Hither the soft wings sweep;Flocks of the memories of the day draw nearThe dovecote doors of sleep.

Home, home from the horizon far and clear,

Hither the soft wings sweep;

Flocks of the memories of the day draw near

The dovecote doors of sleep.

Oh, which are they that come through sweetest lightOf all these homing birds?Which with the straightest and the swiftest flight?Your words to me, your words!Alice Meynell

Oh, which are they that come through sweetest light

Of all these homing birds?

Which with the straightest and the swiftest flight?

Your words to me, your words!

Alice Meynell

463

ECHOCome to me in the silence of the night;Come in the speaking silence of a dream;Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as brightAs sunlight on a stream;Come back in tears,O memory, hope, love of finished years.O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet;Where thirsting longing eyesWatch the slow doorThat opening, letting in, lets out no more.Yet come to me in dreams, that I may liveMy very life again though cold in death:Come back to me in dreams, that I may givePulse for pulse, breath for breath:Speak low, lean low,As long ago, my love, how long ago.Christina Rossetti

Come to me in the silence of the night;Come in the speaking silence of a dream;Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as brightAs sunlight on a stream;Come back in tears,O memory, hope, love of finished years.O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet;Where thirsting longing eyesWatch the slow doorThat opening, letting in, lets out no more.Yet come to me in dreams, that I may liveMy very life again though cold in death:Come back to me in dreams, that I may givePulse for pulse, breath for breath:Speak low, lean low,As long ago, my love, how long ago.Christina Rossetti

Come to me in the silence of the night;

Come in the speaking silence of a dream;

Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright

As sunlight on a stream;

Come back in tears,

O memory, hope, love of finished years.

O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet;Where thirsting longing eyesWatch the slow doorThat opening, letting in, lets out no more.

O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,

Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,

Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet;

Where thirsting longing eyes

Watch the slow door

That opening, letting in, lets out no more.

Yet come to me in dreams, that I may liveMy very life again though cold in death:Come back to me in dreams, that I may givePulse for pulse, breath for breath:Speak low, lean low,As long ago, my love, how long ago.Christina Rossetti

Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live

My very life again though cold in death:

Come back to me in dreams, that I may give

Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:

Speak low, lean low,

As long ago, my love, how long ago.

Christina Rossetti

464

THE SHADOW OF NIGHTHow strange it is to wakeAnd watch while others sleep,Till sight and hearing acheFor objects that may keepThe awful inner senseUnroused, lest it should markThe life that haunts the emptinessAnd horror of the dark.How strange the distant bayOf dogs; how wild the noteOf cocks that scream for day,In homesteads far remote;How strange and wild to hearThe old and crumbling tower,Amidst the darkness, suddenlyTake life and speak the hour....The nightingale is gay,For she can vanquish night;Dreaming, she sings of day,Notes that make darkness bright:But when the refluent gloomSaddens the gaps of song,We charge on her the dolefulness,And call her crazed with wrong.Coventry Patmore

How strange it is to wakeAnd watch while others sleep,Till sight and hearing acheFor objects that may keepThe awful inner senseUnroused, lest it should markThe life that haunts the emptinessAnd horror of the dark.How strange the distant bayOf dogs; how wild the noteOf cocks that scream for day,In homesteads far remote;How strange and wild to hearThe old and crumbling tower,Amidst the darkness, suddenlyTake life and speak the hour....The nightingale is gay,For she can vanquish night;Dreaming, she sings of day,Notes that make darkness bright:But when the refluent gloomSaddens the gaps of song,We charge on her the dolefulness,And call her crazed with wrong.Coventry Patmore

How strange it is to wake

And watch while others sleep,

Till sight and hearing ache

For objects that may keep

The awful inner sense

Unroused, lest it should mark

The life that haunts the emptiness

And horror of the dark.

How strange the distant bayOf dogs; how wild the noteOf cocks that scream for day,In homesteads far remote;How strange and wild to hearThe old and crumbling tower,Amidst the darkness, suddenlyTake life and speak the hour....

How strange the distant bay

Of dogs; how wild the note

Of cocks that scream for day,

In homesteads far remote;

How strange and wild to hear

The old and crumbling tower,

Amidst the darkness, suddenly

Take life and speak the hour....

The nightingale is gay,For she can vanquish night;Dreaming, she sings of day,Notes that make darkness bright:But when the refluent gloomSaddens the gaps of song,We charge on her the dolefulness,And call her crazed with wrong.Coventry Patmore

The nightingale is gay,

For she can vanquish night;

Dreaming, she sings of day,

Notes that make darkness bright:

But when the refluent gloom

Saddens the gaps of song,

We charge on her the dolefulness,

And call her crazed with wrong.

Coventry Patmore

Back to Index Next