SARAH ROBERTSON MATHESON
It wasna from a golden throne,Or a bower with milk-white roses blown,But mid the kelp on northern sandThat I got a kiss of the king’s hand.I durstna raise my een tae seeIf he even cared to glance at me;His princely brow with care was crossedFor his true men slain and kingdom lost.Think not his hand was soft and white,Or his fingers a’ with jewels dight,Or round his wrists were jewels grandWhen I got a kiss of the king’s hand.But dearer far tae my twa eenWas the ragged sleeve of red and greenO’er that young weary hand that fain,With the guid broadsword, had found its ain.Farewell for ever, the distance grayAnd the lapping ocean seemed to say—For him a home in a foreign land,And for me one kiss of the king’s hand.
It wasna from a golden throne,Or a bower with milk-white roses blown,But mid the kelp on northern sandThat I got a kiss of the king’s hand.I durstna raise my een tae seeIf he even cared to glance at me;His princely brow with care was crossedFor his true men slain and kingdom lost.Think not his hand was soft and white,Or his fingers a’ with jewels dight,Or round his wrists were jewels grandWhen I got a kiss of the king’s hand.But dearer far tae my twa eenWas the ragged sleeve of red and greenO’er that young weary hand that fain,With the guid broadsword, had found its ain.Farewell for ever, the distance grayAnd the lapping ocean seemed to say—For him a home in a foreign land,And for me one kiss of the king’s hand.
It wasna from a golden throne,Or a bower with milk-white roses blown,But mid the kelp on northern sandThat I got a kiss of the king’s hand.
I durstna raise my een tae seeIf he even cared to glance at me;His princely brow with care was crossedFor his true men slain and kingdom lost.
Think not his hand was soft and white,Or his fingers a’ with jewels dight,Or round his wrists were jewels grandWhen I got a kiss of the king’s hand.
But dearer far tae my twa eenWas the ragged sleeve of red and greenO’er that young weary hand that fain,With the guid broadsword, had found its ain.
Farewell for ever, the distance grayAnd the lapping ocean seemed to say—For him a home in a foreign land,And for me one kiss of the king’s hand.
DUGALD MOORE
The sky in beauty arch’dThe wide and weltering flood,While the winds in triumph march’dThrough their pathless solitude—Rousing up the plume on ocean’s hoary crest,That like space in darkness slept,When his watch old Silence kept,Ere the earliest planet leaptFrom its breast.A speck is on the deeps,Like a spirit in her flight;How beautiful she keepsHer stately path in light!She sweeps the shining wilderness in glee—The sun has on her smiled,And the waves, no longer wild,Sing in glory round that childOf the sea.’Twas at the set of sunThat she tilted o’er the flood,Moving like God aloneO’er the glorious solitude—The billows crouch around her as her slavesHow exulting are her crew!—Each sight to them is new,As they sweep along the blueOf the waves.Fair herald of the fleetsThat yet shall cross the waves,Till the earth with ocean meetsOne universal grave,What armaments shall follow thee in joy!Linking each distant landWith trade’s harmonious band,Or bearing havoc’s brandTo destroy!
The sky in beauty arch’dThe wide and weltering flood,While the winds in triumph march’dThrough their pathless solitude—Rousing up the plume on ocean’s hoary crest,That like space in darkness slept,When his watch old Silence kept,Ere the earliest planet leaptFrom its breast.A speck is on the deeps,Like a spirit in her flight;How beautiful she keepsHer stately path in light!She sweeps the shining wilderness in glee—The sun has on her smiled,And the waves, no longer wild,Sing in glory round that childOf the sea.’Twas at the set of sunThat she tilted o’er the flood,Moving like God aloneO’er the glorious solitude—The billows crouch around her as her slavesHow exulting are her crew!—Each sight to them is new,As they sweep along the blueOf the waves.Fair herald of the fleetsThat yet shall cross the waves,Till the earth with ocean meetsOne universal grave,What armaments shall follow thee in joy!Linking each distant landWith trade’s harmonious band,Or bearing havoc’s brandTo destroy!
The sky in beauty arch’dThe wide and weltering flood,While the winds in triumph march’dThrough their pathless solitude—Rousing up the plume on ocean’s hoary crest,That like space in darkness slept,When his watch old Silence kept,Ere the earliest planet leaptFrom its breast.
A speck is on the deeps,Like a spirit in her flight;How beautiful she keepsHer stately path in light!She sweeps the shining wilderness in glee—The sun has on her smiled,And the waves, no longer wild,Sing in glory round that childOf the sea.
’Twas at the set of sunThat she tilted o’er the flood,Moving like God aloneO’er the glorious solitude—The billows crouch around her as her slavesHow exulting are her crew!—Each sight to them is new,As they sweep along the blueOf the waves.
Fair herald of the fleetsThat yet shall cross the waves,Till the earth with ocean meetsOne universal grave,What armaments shall follow thee in joy!Linking each distant landWith trade’s harmonious band,Or bearing havoc’s brandTo destroy!
LADY CAROLINE NAIRNE
I’m wearin’ awa, John,Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John,I’m wearin’ awaTo the land o’ the leal.There’s nae sorrow there, John,There’s neither cauld nor care, John,The day is aye fairIn the land o’ the leal.Our bonnie bairn’s there, John,She was baith gude and fair, John,And, oh, we grudged her sairTo the land o’ the leal.But sorrow’s sel’ wears past, John,And joy’s a-comin’ fast, John,The joy that’s aye to last,In the land o’ the leal.Oh, dry your glist’ning ee, John,My saul langs to be free, John,And Angels beckon meTo the land o’ the leal.O haud ye leal and true, John,Your day it’s wearin’ through, John,And I’ll welcome youTo the land o’ the leal.Now fare-ye-weel, my ain John,The warld’s cares are vain, John,We’ll meet and we’ll be fainIn the land o’ the leal.
I’m wearin’ awa, John,Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John,I’m wearin’ awaTo the land o’ the leal.There’s nae sorrow there, John,There’s neither cauld nor care, John,The day is aye fairIn the land o’ the leal.Our bonnie bairn’s there, John,She was baith gude and fair, John,And, oh, we grudged her sairTo the land o’ the leal.But sorrow’s sel’ wears past, John,And joy’s a-comin’ fast, John,The joy that’s aye to last,In the land o’ the leal.Oh, dry your glist’ning ee, John,My saul langs to be free, John,And Angels beckon meTo the land o’ the leal.O haud ye leal and true, John,Your day it’s wearin’ through, John,And I’ll welcome youTo the land o’ the leal.Now fare-ye-weel, my ain John,The warld’s cares are vain, John,We’ll meet and we’ll be fainIn the land o’ the leal.
I’m wearin’ awa, John,Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John,I’m wearin’ awaTo the land o’ the leal.
There’s nae sorrow there, John,There’s neither cauld nor care, John,The day is aye fairIn the land o’ the leal.
Our bonnie bairn’s there, John,She was baith gude and fair, John,And, oh, we grudged her sairTo the land o’ the leal.
But sorrow’s sel’ wears past, John,And joy’s a-comin’ fast, John,The joy that’s aye to last,In the land o’ the leal.
Oh, dry your glist’ning ee, John,My saul langs to be free, John,And Angels beckon meTo the land o’ the leal.
O haud ye leal and true, John,Your day it’s wearin’ through, John,And I’ll welcome youTo the land o’ the leal.
Now fare-ye-weel, my ain John,The warld’s cares are vain, John,We’ll meet and we’ll be fainIn the land o’ the leal.
ALEXANDER NICOLSON
My heart is yearning to thee, O Skye!Dearest of Islands!There first the sunshine gladdened my eye,On the sea sparkling;There doth the dust of my dear ones lie,In the old graveyard.Bright are the golden green fields to me,Here in the Lowlands;Sweet sings the mavis in the thorn-tree,Snowy with fragrance:But oh for a breath of the great North Sea,Girdling the mountains!Good is the smell of the brine that lavesBlack rock and skerry,Where the great palm-leaved tangle wavesDown in the green depths,And round the craggy bluff pierced with cavesSea-gulls are screaming.Where the sun sinks beyond Humish Head,Crowning in glory,As he goes down to his ocean bedStudded with islands,Flushing the Coolin with royal red,Would I were sailing!Many a hearth round that friendly shoreGiveth warm welcome;Charms still are there, as in days of yore,More than of mountains;But hearths and faces are seen no more,Once of the brightest.Many a poor black cottage is there,Grimy with peat smoke,Sending up in the soft evening airPurest blue incense,While the low music of psalm and prayerRises to Heaven.Kind were the voices I used to hearRound such a fireside,Speaking the mother tongue old and dear,Making the heart beatWith sudden tales of wonder and fear,Or plaintive singing.Great were the marvellous stories toldOf Ossian’s heroes,Giants, and witches, and young men bold,Seeking adventures,Winning kings’ daughters and guarded gold,Only with valour.Reared in those dwellings have brave ones been;Brave ones are still there;Forth from their darkness on Sunday I’ve seenComing pure linen,And like the linen the souls were cleanOf them that wore it.See that thou kindly use them, O man!To whom God givethStewardship over them, in thy short spanNot for thy pleasure;Woe be to them who choose for a clanFour-footed people!Blessings be with ye, both now and ayeDear human creatures!Yours is the love that no gold can buy!Nor time can wither,Peace be to thee and thy children, O Skye!Dearest of islands.
My heart is yearning to thee, O Skye!Dearest of Islands!There first the sunshine gladdened my eye,On the sea sparkling;There doth the dust of my dear ones lie,In the old graveyard.Bright are the golden green fields to me,Here in the Lowlands;Sweet sings the mavis in the thorn-tree,Snowy with fragrance:But oh for a breath of the great North Sea,Girdling the mountains!Good is the smell of the brine that lavesBlack rock and skerry,Where the great palm-leaved tangle wavesDown in the green depths,And round the craggy bluff pierced with cavesSea-gulls are screaming.Where the sun sinks beyond Humish Head,Crowning in glory,As he goes down to his ocean bedStudded with islands,Flushing the Coolin with royal red,Would I were sailing!Many a hearth round that friendly shoreGiveth warm welcome;Charms still are there, as in days of yore,More than of mountains;But hearths and faces are seen no more,Once of the brightest.Many a poor black cottage is there,Grimy with peat smoke,Sending up in the soft evening airPurest blue incense,While the low music of psalm and prayerRises to Heaven.Kind were the voices I used to hearRound such a fireside,Speaking the mother tongue old and dear,Making the heart beatWith sudden tales of wonder and fear,Or plaintive singing.Great were the marvellous stories toldOf Ossian’s heroes,Giants, and witches, and young men bold,Seeking adventures,Winning kings’ daughters and guarded gold,Only with valour.Reared in those dwellings have brave ones been;Brave ones are still there;Forth from their darkness on Sunday I’ve seenComing pure linen,And like the linen the souls were cleanOf them that wore it.See that thou kindly use them, O man!To whom God givethStewardship over them, in thy short spanNot for thy pleasure;Woe be to them who choose for a clanFour-footed people!Blessings be with ye, both now and ayeDear human creatures!Yours is the love that no gold can buy!Nor time can wither,Peace be to thee and thy children, O Skye!Dearest of islands.
My heart is yearning to thee, O Skye!Dearest of Islands!There first the sunshine gladdened my eye,On the sea sparkling;There doth the dust of my dear ones lie,In the old graveyard.
Bright are the golden green fields to me,Here in the Lowlands;Sweet sings the mavis in the thorn-tree,Snowy with fragrance:But oh for a breath of the great North Sea,Girdling the mountains!
Good is the smell of the brine that lavesBlack rock and skerry,Where the great palm-leaved tangle wavesDown in the green depths,And round the craggy bluff pierced with cavesSea-gulls are screaming.
Where the sun sinks beyond Humish Head,Crowning in glory,As he goes down to his ocean bedStudded with islands,Flushing the Coolin with royal red,Would I were sailing!
Many a hearth round that friendly shoreGiveth warm welcome;Charms still are there, as in days of yore,More than of mountains;But hearths and faces are seen no more,Once of the brightest.
Many a poor black cottage is there,Grimy with peat smoke,Sending up in the soft evening airPurest blue incense,While the low music of psalm and prayerRises to Heaven.
Kind were the voices I used to hearRound such a fireside,Speaking the mother tongue old and dear,Making the heart beatWith sudden tales of wonder and fear,Or plaintive singing.
Great were the marvellous stories toldOf Ossian’s heroes,Giants, and witches, and young men bold,Seeking adventures,Winning kings’ daughters and guarded gold,Only with valour.
Reared in those dwellings have brave ones been;Brave ones are still there;Forth from their darkness on Sunday I’ve seenComing pure linen,And like the linen the souls were cleanOf them that wore it.
See that thou kindly use them, O man!To whom God givethStewardship over them, in thy short spanNot for thy pleasure;Woe be to them who choose for a clanFour-footed people!
Blessings be with ye, both now and ayeDear human creatures!Yours is the love that no gold can buy!Nor time can wither,Peace be to thee and thy children, O Skye!Dearest of islands.
SIR NOËL PATON
Waves of the wild North Sea,Breaking—breaking—breaking!From the dumb agonyOf dreams awaking,How sweet within the loosened arms of sleepTo lie in silence deep,Lone listening to your many-throated roarAlong the caverned shore,In midnight darkness breaking—breaking—breaking!Wind of the wild North Sea,Calling—calling—calling!What may your message be,Rising and falling?From out the infinite ye make reply:“Whither? and whence? and why?”And my soul echoes the despairing moan—Which none can answer—none!—From out its depths abysmal calling—calling—calling.
Waves of the wild North Sea,Breaking—breaking—breaking!From the dumb agonyOf dreams awaking,How sweet within the loosened arms of sleepTo lie in silence deep,Lone listening to your many-throated roarAlong the caverned shore,In midnight darkness breaking—breaking—breaking!Wind of the wild North Sea,Calling—calling—calling!What may your message be,Rising and falling?From out the infinite ye make reply:“Whither? and whence? and why?”And my soul echoes the despairing moan—Which none can answer—none!—From out its depths abysmal calling—calling—calling.
Waves of the wild North Sea,Breaking—breaking—breaking!From the dumb agonyOf dreams awaking,How sweet within the loosened arms of sleepTo lie in silence deep,Lone listening to your many-throated roarAlong the caverned shore,In midnight darkness breaking—breaking—breaking!
Wind of the wild North Sea,Calling—calling—calling!What may your message be,Rising and falling?From out the infinite ye make reply:“Whither? and whence? and why?”And my soul echoes the despairing moan—Which none can answer—none!—From out its depths abysmal calling—calling—calling.
SIR NOEL PATON
Between the moaning of the mountain streamAnd the hoarse thunder of the Atlantic deep,An outcast from the peaceful realms of sleepI lie, and hear as in a fever-dreamThe homeless night-wind in the darkness screamAnd wail around the inaccessible steepDown whose gaunt sides the spectral torrents leapFrom crag to crag,—till almost I could deemThe plaided ghosts of buried centuriesWere mustering in the glen with bow and spearAnd shadowy hounds to hunt the shadowy deer,Mix in phantasmal sword-play, or, with eyesOf wrath and pain immortal, wander o’erLoved scenes where human footstep comes no more.
Between the moaning of the mountain streamAnd the hoarse thunder of the Atlantic deep,An outcast from the peaceful realms of sleepI lie, and hear as in a fever-dreamThe homeless night-wind in the darkness screamAnd wail around the inaccessible steepDown whose gaunt sides the spectral torrents leapFrom crag to crag,—till almost I could deemThe plaided ghosts of buried centuriesWere mustering in the glen with bow and spearAnd shadowy hounds to hunt the shadowy deer,Mix in phantasmal sword-play, or, with eyesOf wrath and pain immortal, wander o’erLoved scenes where human footstep comes no more.
Between the moaning of the mountain streamAnd the hoarse thunder of the Atlantic deep,An outcast from the peaceful realms of sleepI lie, and hear as in a fever-dreamThe homeless night-wind in the darkness screamAnd wail around the inaccessible steepDown whose gaunt sides the spectral torrents leapFrom crag to crag,—till almost I could deemThe plaided ghosts of buried centuriesWere mustering in the glen with bow and spearAnd shadowy hounds to hunt the shadowy deer,Mix in phantasmal sword-play, or, with eyesOf wrath and pain immortal, wander o’erLoved scenes where human footstep comes no more.
WILLIAM RENTON
The hills slipped over each on eachTill all their changing shadows died.Now in the open skyward reachThe lights grow solemn side by side.While of these hills the westermostRears high his majesty of coastIn shifting waste of dim-blue brineAnd fading olive hyaline;Till all the distance overflows,The green in watchet and the blueIn purple. Now they fuse and close—A darkling violet, fringed anewWith light that on the mountain soars,A dusky flame on tranquil shores;Kindling the summits as they growIn audience to the skies that call,Ineffable in rest and allThe pathos of the afterglow.
The hills slipped over each on eachTill all their changing shadows died.Now in the open skyward reachThe lights grow solemn side by side.While of these hills the westermostRears high his majesty of coastIn shifting waste of dim-blue brineAnd fading olive hyaline;Till all the distance overflows,The green in watchet and the blueIn purple. Now they fuse and close—A darkling violet, fringed anewWith light that on the mountain soars,A dusky flame on tranquil shores;Kindling the summits as they growIn audience to the skies that call,Ineffable in rest and allThe pathos of the afterglow.
The hills slipped over each on eachTill all their changing shadows died.Now in the open skyward reachThe lights grow solemn side by side.While of these hills the westermostRears high his majesty of coastIn shifting waste of dim-blue brineAnd fading olive hyaline;Till all the distance overflows,The green in watchet and the blueIn purple. Now they fuse and close—A darkling violet, fringed anewWith light that on the mountain soars,A dusky flame on tranquil shores;Kindling the summits as they growIn audience to the skies that call,Ineffable in rest and allThe pathos of the afterglow.
LADY JOHN SCOTT
We’ll meet nae mair at sunset when the weary day is dune,Nor wander hame thegither by the lee licht o’ the mune.I’ll hear your steps nae langer amang the dewy corn,For we’ll meet nae mair, my bonniest, either at e’en or morn.The yellow broom is waving abune the sunny brae,And the rowan berries dancing where the sparkling waters play;Tho’ a’ is bright and bonnie it’s an eerie place to me,For we’ll meet nae mair, my dearest, either by burn or tree.Far up into the wild hills there’s a kirkyard lone and still,Where the frosts lie ilka morning and the mists hang low and chill.And there ye sleep in silence while I wander here my laneTill we meet ance mair in Heaven never to part again!
We’ll meet nae mair at sunset when the weary day is dune,Nor wander hame thegither by the lee licht o’ the mune.I’ll hear your steps nae langer amang the dewy corn,For we’ll meet nae mair, my bonniest, either at e’en or morn.The yellow broom is waving abune the sunny brae,And the rowan berries dancing where the sparkling waters play;Tho’ a’ is bright and bonnie it’s an eerie place to me,For we’ll meet nae mair, my dearest, either by burn or tree.Far up into the wild hills there’s a kirkyard lone and still,Where the frosts lie ilka morning and the mists hang low and chill.And there ye sleep in silence while I wander here my laneTill we meet ance mair in Heaven never to part again!
We’ll meet nae mair at sunset when the weary day is dune,Nor wander hame thegither by the lee licht o’ the mune.I’ll hear your steps nae langer amang the dewy corn,For we’ll meet nae mair, my bonniest, either at e’en or morn.
The yellow broom is waving abune the sunny brae,And the rowan berries dancing where the sparkling waters play;Tho’ a’ is bright and bonnie it’s an eerie place to me,For we’ll meet nae mair, my dearest, either by burn or tree.
Far up into the wild hills there’s a kirkyard lone and still,Where the frosts lie ilka morning and the mists hang low and chill.And there ye sleep in silence while I wander here my laneTill we meet ance mair in Heaven never to part again!
EARL OF SOUTHESK
The bees about the Linden-tree,When blithely summer blooms were springing,Would hum a heartsome melody,The simple baby-soul of singing;And thus my spirit sang to meWhen youth its wanton way was winging:“Be glad, be sad—thou hast the choice—But mingle music with thy voice.”The linnets on the Linden-tree,Among the leaves in autumn dying,Are making gentle melody,A mild, mysterious, mournful sighing;And thus my spirit sings to meWhile years are flying, flying, flying:“Be sad, be sad, thou hast no choice,But mourn with music in thy voice.”
The bees about the Linden-tree,When blithely summer blooms were springing,Would hum a heartsome melody,The simple baby-soul of singing;And thus my spirit sang to meWhen youth its wanton way was winging:“Be glad, be sad—thou hast the choice—But mingle music with thy voice.”The linnets on the Linden-tree,Among the leaves in autumn dying,Are making gentle melody,A mild, mysterious, mournful sighing;And thus my spirit sings to meWhile years are flying, flying, flying:“Be sad, be sad, thou hast no choice,But mourn with music in thy voice.”
The bees about the Linden-tree,When blithely summer blooms were springing,Would hum a heartsome melody,The simple baby-soul of singing;And thus my spirit sang to meWhen youth its wanton way was winging:“Be glad, be sad—thou hast the choice—But mingle music with thy voice.”
The linnets on the Linden-tree,Among the leaves in autumn dying,Are making gentle melody,A mild, mysterious, mournful sighing;And thus my spirit sings to meWhile years are flying, flying, flying:“Be sad, be sad, thou hast no choice,But mourn with music in thy voice.”
JOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRP
Weird wife of Bein-y-Vreich! horo! horo!Aloft in the mist she dwells;Vreich horo! Vreich horo! Vreich horo!All alone by the lofty wells.Weird, weird wife! with the long gray locks,She follows her fleet-foot stags,Noisily moving through splinter’d rocks,And crashing the grisly crags.Tall wife, with the long gray hose! in hasteThe rough stony beach she walks;But dulse or seaweed she will not taste,Nor yet the green kail stalks.*O I will not let my herd of deer,My bonny red deer go down;I will not let them go down to the shore,To feed on the sea-shells brown.Oh, better they love in the corrie’s recess,Or on mountain top to dwell,And feed by my side on the green, green cress,That grows by the lofty well.Broad Bein-y-Vreich is grisly and drear,But wherever my feet have beenThe well-springs start for my darling deer,And the grass grows tender and green.And there high up on the calm nights clear,Beside the lofty spring,They come to my call, and I milk them there,And a weird wild song I sing.But when hunter men round my dun deer prowl,I will not let them nigh;Through the rended cloud I cast one scowl,They faint on the heath and die.And when the north wind o’er the desert bareDrives loud, to the corries belowI drive my herds down, and bield them thereFrom the drifts of the blinding snow.Then I mount the blast, and we ride full fast,And laugh as we stride the storm,I, and the witch of the Cruachan Ben,And the scowling-eyed Seul-Gorm.
Weird wife of Bein-y-Vreich! horo! horo!Aloft in the mist she dwells;Vreich horo! Vreich horo! Vreich horo!All alone by the lofty wells.Weird, weird wife! with the long gray locks,She follows her fleet-foot stags,Noisily moving through splinter’d rocks,And crashing the grisly crags.Tall wife, with the long gray hose! in hasteThe rough stony beach she walks;But dulse or seaweed she will not taste,Nor yet the green kail stalks.*O I will not let my herd of deer,My bonny red deer go down;I will not let them go down to the shore,To feed on the sea-shells brown.Oh, better they love in the corrie’s recess,Or on mountain top to dwell,And feed by my side on the green, green cress,That grows by the lofty well.Broad Bein-y-Vreich is grisly and drear,But wherever my feet have beenThe well-springs start for my darling deer,And the grass grows tender and green.And there high up on the calm nights clear,Beside the lofty spring,They come to my call, and I milk them there,And a weird wild song I sing.But when hunter men round my dun deer prowl,I will not let them nigh;Through the rended cloud I cast one scowl,They faint on the heath and die.And when the north wind o’er the desert bareDrives loud, to the corries belowI drive my herds down, and bield them thereFrom the drifts of the blinding snow.Then I mount the blast, and we ride full fast,And laugh as we stride the storm,I, and the witch of the Cruachan Ben,And the scowling-eyed Seul-Gorm.
Weird wife of Bein-y-Vreich! horo! horo!Aloft in the mist she dwells;Vreich horo! Vreich horo! Vreich horo!All alone by the lofty wells.
Weird, weird wife! with the long gray locks,She follows her fleet-foot stags,Noisily moving through splinter’d rocks,And crashing the grisly crags.
Tall wife, with the long gray hose! in hasteThe rough stony beach she walks;But dulse or seaweed she will not taste,Nor yet the green kail stalks.*O I will not let my herd of deer,My bonny red deer go down;I will not let them go down to the shore,To feed on the sea-shells brown.
Oh, better they love in the corrie’s recess,Or on mountain top to dwell,And feed by my side on the green, green cress,That grows by the lofty well.
Broad Bein-y-Vreich is grisly and drear,But wherever my feet have beenThe well-springs start for my darling deer,And the grass grows tender and green.
And there high up on the calm nights clear,Beside the lofty spring,They come to my call, and I milk them there,And a weird wild song I sing.
But when hunter men round my dun deer prowl,I will not let them nigh;Through the rended cloud I cast one scowl,They faint on the heath and die.
And when the north wind o’er the desert bareDrives loud, to the corries belowI drive my herds down, and bield them thereFrom the drifts of the blinding snow.
Then I mount the blast, and we ride full fast,And laugh as we stride the storm,I, and the witch of the Cruachan Ben,And the scowling-eyed Seul-Gorm.
UNA URQUHART
Ah bonnie darling, lift your dark eyes dreaming!See, the firelight fills the gloaming, though deep darkness grows without—Hush, dear, hush, I hear the sea-birds screaming,And down beyond the haven the tide comes with a shout!Ah, birdeen, sweetheart, sure he is not coming,He who has your hand in fee, while I have all your heart—Hush, dear, hush, I hear the wild bees hummingFar away in the underworld where true love shall not part!Darling, darling, darling, all the world is singing,Singing, singing, singing a song of joy for me!Hush, dear, hush, what wild sea-wind is bringingGloom o’ the sea about thy brow, athwart the eyes of thee?Ah, heart o’ me, darling, darling, all my heart’s aflame!Sure, at the last we are all in all, all in all we two!At the Door,A VOICE.This is the way I take my own, this is the boon I claim!(Later, in the dark, the living brooding beside the dead:—)Sure, at the last, ye are all in all, all in all, ye two—Ah, hell of my heart! Ye are dust to me—and dust with dust may woo!
Ah bonnie darling, lift your dark eyes dreaming!See, the firelight fills the gloaming, though deep darkness grows without—Hush, dear, hush, I hear the sea-birds screaming,And down beyond the haven the tide comes with a shout!Ah, birdeen, sweetheart, sure he is not coming,He who has your hand in fee, while I have all your heart—Hush, dear, hush, I hear the wild bees hummingFar away in the underworld where true love shall not part!Darling, darling, darling, all the world is singing,Singing, singing, singing a song of joy for me!Hush, dear, hush, what wild sea-wind is bringingGloom o’ the sea about thy brow, athwart the eyes of thee?Ah, heart o’ me, darling, darling, all my heart’s aflame!Sure, at the last we are all in all, all in all we two!At the Door,A VOICE.This is the way I take my own, this is the boon I claim!(Later, in the dark, the living brooding beside the dead:—)Sure, at the last, ye are all in all, all in all, ye two—Ah, hell of my heart! Ye are dust to me—and dust with dust may woo!
Ah bonnie darling, lift your dark eyes dreaming!See, the firelight fills the gloaming, though deep darkness grows without—
Hush, dear, hush, I hear the sea-birds screaming,And down beyond the haven the tide comes with a shout!
Ah, birdeen, sweetheart, sure he is not coming,He who has your hand in fee, while I have all your heart—
Hush, dear, hush, I hear the wild bees hummingFar away in the underworld where true love shall not part!
Darling, darling, darling, all the world is singing,Singing, singing, singing a song of joy for me!
Hush, dear, hush, what wild sea-wind is bringingGloom o’ the sea about thy brow, athwart the eyes of thee?
Ah, heart o’ me, darling, darling, all my heart’s aflame!Sure, at the last we are all in all, all in all we two!
At the Door,A VOICE.
This is the way I take my own, this is the boon I claim!
(Later, in the dark, the living brooding beside the dead:—)
Sure, at the last, ye are all in all, all in all, ye two—Ah, hell of my heart! Ye are dust to me—and dust with dust may woo!
UNKNOWN
My heart! my pulse! my flame!O the gloom, O the pain!He has no wish to save meWho will not come again.Love! Love! Love!The fair cheek, the dark hair,The promise forgotten;’Twill go with me there.False! false! false!O, youth is false for ever:He loves far more than living me—The lifeless heather.The hunting field,The greenwood tree,The trout, the running deer, he loves,Far more than me.He loves—loves—lovesTo stalk the frightened doe;He never heeds the pain he gives,His skill to show.O, the dark blue eye—A flower wet with dew;O, the fair false face—Too sweet to view!Love! Love! Love!The fair cheek, the dark hair!For him I’d scale the walls of hellGin he were there!
My heart! my pulse! my flame!O the gloom, O the pain!He has no wish to save meWho will not come again.Love! Love! Love!The fair cheek, the dark hair,The promise forgotten;’Twill go with me there.False! false! false!O, youth is false for ever:He loves far more than living me—The lifeless heather.The hunting field,The greenwood tree,The trout, the running deer, he loves,Far more than me.He loves—loves—lovesTo stalk the frightened doe;He never heeds the pain he gives,His skill to show.O, the dark blue eye—A flower wet with dew;O, the fair false face—Too sweet to view!Love! Love! Love!The fair cheek, the dark hair!For him I’d scale the walls of hellGin he were there!
My heart! my pulse! my flame!O the gloom, O the pain!He has no wish to save meWho will not come again.
Love! Love! Love!The fair cheek, the dark hair,The promise forgotten;’Twill go with me there.
False! false! false!O, youth is false for ever:He loves far more than living me—The lifeless heather.
The hunting field,The greenwood tree,The trout, the running deer, he loves,Far more than me.
He loves—loves—lovesTo stalk the frightened doe;He never heeds the pain he gives,His skill to show.
O, the dark blue eye—A flower wet with dew;O, the fair false face—Too sweet to view!
Love! Love! Love!The fair cheek, the dark hair!For him I’d scale the walls of hellGin he were there!
GEORGE MEREDITH
A wind sways the pines,And belowNot a breath of wild air;Still as the mosses that glowOn the flooring and over the linesOf the roots here and there.The pine-tree drops its dead;They are quiet, as under the sea.Overhead, overheadRushes life in a race,As the clouds the clouds chase;And we go,And we drop like the fruits of the tree,Even we,Even so.
A wind sways the pines,And belowNot a breath of wild air;Still as the mosses that glowOn the flooring and over the linesOf the roots here and there.The pine-tree drops its dead;They are quiet, as under the sea.Overhead, overheadRushes life in a race,As the clouds the clouds chase;And we go,And we drop like the fruits of the tree,Even we,Even so.
A wind sways the pines,And belowNot a breath of wild air;Still as the mosses that glowOn the flooring and over the linesOf the roots here and there.The pine-tree drops its dead;They are quiet, as under the sea.Overhead, overheadRushes life in a race,As the clouds the clouds chase;And we go,And we drop like the fruits of the tree,Even we,Even so.
From twig to twig the spider weavesAt noon his webbing fine.So near to mute the zephyr’s fluteThat only leaflets dance.The sun draws out of hazel leavesA smell of woodland wine.I wake a swarm to sudden stormAt any step’s advance.
From twig to twig the spider weavesAt noon his webbing fine.So near to mute the zephyr’s fluteThat only leaflets dance.The sun draws out of hazel leavesA smell of woodland wine.I wake a swarm to sudden stormAt any step’s advance.
From twig to twig the spider weavesAt noon his webbing fine.So near to mute the zephyr’s fluteThat only leaflets dance.The sun draws out of hazel leavesA smell of woodland wine.I wake a swarm to sudden stormAt any step’s advance.
Along my path is bugloss blue,The star with fruit in moss;The foxgloves drop from throat to topA daily lesser bell.The blackest shadow, nurse of dew,Has orange skeins across;And keenly red is one thin threadThat flashing seems to swell.
Along my path is bugloss blue,The star with fruit in moss;The foxgloves drop from throat to topA daily lesser bell.The blackest shadow, nurse of dew,Has orange skeins across;And keenly red is one thin threadThat flashing seems to swell.
Along my path is bugloss blue,The star with fruit in moss;The foxgloves drop from throat to topA daily lesser bell.The blackest shadow, nurse of dew,Has orange skeins across;And keenly red is one thin threadThat flashing seems to swell.
My world I note ere fancy comes,Minutest hushed observe:What busy bits of motioned witsThrough antlered mosswork strive;But now so low the stillness hums,My springs of seeing swerve,For half a wink to thrill and thinkThe woods with nymphs alive.
My world I note ere fancy comes,Minutest hushed observe:What busy bits of motioned witsThrough antlered mosswork strive;But now so low the stillness hums,My springs of seeing swerve,For half a wink to thrill and thinkThe woods with nymphs alive.
My world I note ere fancy comes,Minutest hushed observe:What busy bits of motioned witsThrough antlered mosswork strive;But now so low the stillness hums,My springs of seeing swerve,For half a wink to thrill and thinkThe woods with nymphs alive.
I neighbour the invisibleSo close that my consentIs only asked for spirits maskedTo leap from trees and flowers.And this because with them I dwellIn thought, while calmly bentTo read the lines dear Earth designsShall speak her life on ours.
I neighbour the invisibleSo close that my consentIs only asked for spirits maskedTo leap from trees and flowers.And this because with them I dwellIn thought, while calmly bentTo read the lines dear Earth designsShall speak her life on ours.
I neighbour the invisibleSo close that my consentIs only asked for spirits maskedTo leap from trees and flowers.And this because with them I dwellIn thought, while calmly bentTo read the lines dear Earth designsShall speak her life on ours.
Accept, she says; it is not hardIn woods; but she in townsRepeats, accept; and have we wept,And have we quailed with fears,Or shrunk with horrors, sure rewardWe have whom knowledge crowns;Who see in mould the rose unfold,The soul through blood and tears.
Accept, she says; it is not hardIn woods; but she in townsRepeats, accept; and have we wept,And have we quailed with fears,Or shrunk with horrors, sure rewardWe have whom knowledge crowns;Who see in mould the rose unfold,The soul through blood and tears.
Accept, she says; it is not hardIn woods; but she in townsRepeats, accept; and have we wept,And have we quailed with fears,Or shrunk with horrors, sure rewardWe have whom knowledge crowns;Who see in mould the rose unfold,The soul through blood and tears.
With splendour of a silver day,A frosted night had opened May:And on that plumed and armoured night,As one close temple hove our wood,Its border leafage virgin white.Remote down air an owl halloed.The black twig dropped without a twirl;The bud in jewelled grasp was nipped;The brown leaf cracked with a scorching curl;A crystal off the green leaf slipped.Across the tracks of rimy tan,Some busy thread at whiles would shoot;A limping minnow-rillet ran,To hang upon an icy foot.In this shrill hush of quietude,The ear conceived a severing cry.Almost it let the sound elude,When chuckles three, a warble shy,From hazels of the garden came,Near by the crimson-windowed farm.They laid the trance on breath and frame,A prelude of the passion-charm.Then soon was heard, not sooner heardThan answered, doubled, trebled, more,Voice of an Eden in the birdRenewing with his pipe of fourThe sob: a troubled Eden, richIn throb of heart: unnumbered throatsFlung upward at a fountain’s pitch,The fervour of the four long notes,That on the fountain’s pool subside;Exult and ruffle and upspring:Endless the crossing multipliedOf silver and of golden string.There chimed a bubbled underbrewWith witch-wild spray of vocal dew.It seemed a single harper sweptOur wild wood’s inner chords and wakedA spirit that for yearning achedEre men desired and joyed or wept.Or now a legion ravishingMusician rivals did uniteIn love of sweetness high to singThe subtle song that rivals light;From breast of earth to breast of sky:And they were secret, they were nigh:A hand the magic might disperse;The magic swung my universe.Yet sharpened breath forbade to dream,Where all was visionary gleam;Where Seasons, as with cymbals, clashed;And feelings, passing joy and woe,Churned, gurgled, spouted, interflashed,Nor either was the one we know:Nor pregnant of the heart containedIn us were they, that griefless plained,That plaining soared; and through the heartStruck to one note the wide apart:—A passion surgent from despair;A paining bliss in fervid cold;Off the last vital edge of air,Leaping heavenward of the lofty-souled,For rapture of a wine of tears;As had a star among the spheresCaught up our earth to some mid-heightOf double life to ear and sight,She giving voice to thought that shinesKeen-brilliant of her deepest mines;While steely drips the rillet clinked,And hoar with crust the cowslips swelled.Then was the lyre of Earth beheld,Then heard by me: it holds me linked;Across the years to dead-ebb shoresI stand on, my blood-thrill restores.But would I conjure into meThose issue notes, I must reviewWhat serious breath the woodland drew;The low throb of expectancy;How the white mother-muteness pressedOn leaf and meadow-herb; how shook,Nigh speech of mouth, the sparkle-crestSeen spinning on the bracken crook.
With splendour of a silver day,A frosted night had opened May:And on that plumed and armoured night,As one close temple hove our wood,Its border leafage virgin white.Remote down air an owl halloed.The black twig dropped without a twirl;The bud in jewelled grasp was nipped;The brown leaf cracked with a scorching curl;A crystal off the green leaf slipped.Across the tracks of rimy tan,Some busy thread at whiles would shoot;A limping minnow-rillet ran,To hang upon an icy foot.In this shrill hush of quietude,The ear conceived a severing cry.Almost it let the sound elude,When chuckles three, a warble shy,From hazels of the garden came,Near by the crimson-windowed farm.They laid the trance on breath and frame,A prelude of the passion-charm.Then soon was heard, not sooner heardThan answered, doubled, trebled, more,Voice of an Eden in the birdRenewing with his pipe of fourThe sob: a troubled Eden, richIn throb of heart: unnumbered throatsFlung upward at a fountain’s pitch,The fervour of the four long notes,That on the fountain’s pool subside;Exult and ruffle and upspring:Endless the crossing multipliedOf silver and of golden string.There chimed a bubbled underbrewWith witch-wild spray of vocal dew.It seemed a single harper sweptOur wild wood’s inner chords and wakedA spirit that for yearning achedEre men desired and joyed or wept.Or now a legion ravishingMusician rivals did uniteIn love of sweetness high to singThe subtle song that rivals light;From breast of earth to breast of sky:And they were secret, they were nigh:A hand the magic might disperse;The magic swung my universe.Yet sharpened breath forbade to dream,Where all was visionary gleam;Where Seasons, as with cymbals, clashed;And feelings, passing joy and woe,Churned, gurgled, spouted, interflashed,Nor either was the one we know:Nor pregnant of the heart containedIn us were they, that griefless plained,That plaining soared; and through the heartStruck to one note the wide apart:—A passion surgent from despair;A paining bliss in fervid cold;Off the last vital edge of air,Leaping heavenward of the lofty-souled,For rapture of a wine of tears;As had a star among the spheresCaught up our earth to some mid-heightOf double life to ear and sight,She giving voice to thought that shinesKeen-brilliant of her deepest mines;While steely drips the rillet clinked,And hoar with crust the cowslips swelled.Then was the lyre of Earth beheld,Then heard by me: it holds me linked;Across the years to dead-ebb shoresI stand on, my blood-thrill restores.But would I conjure into meThose issue notes, I must reviewWhat serious breath the woodland drew;The low throb of expectancy;How the white mother-muteness pressedOn leaf and meadow-herb; how shook,Nigh speech of mouth, the sparkle-crestSeen spinning on the bracken crook.
With splendour of a silver day,A frosted night had opened May:And on that plumed and armoured night,As one close temple hove our wood,Its border leafage virgin white.Remote down air an owl halloed.The black twig dropped without a twirl;The bud in jewelled grasp was nipped;The brown leaf cracked with a scorching curl;A crystal off the green leaf slipped.Across the tracks of rimy tan,Some busy thread at whiles would shoot;A limping minnow-rillet ran,To hang upon an icy foot.
In this shrill hush of quietude,The ear conceived a severing cry.Almost it let the sound elude,When chuckles three, a warble shy,From hazels of the garden came,Near by the crimson-windowed farm.They laid the trance on breath and frame,A prelude of the passion-charm.
Then soon was heard, not sooner heardThan answered, doubled, trebled, more,Voice of an Eden in the birdRenewing with his pipe of fourThe sob: a troubled Eden, richIn throb of heart: unnumbered throatsFlung upward at a fountain’s pitch,The fervour of the four long notes,That on the fountain’s pool subside;Exult and ruffle and upspring:Endless the crossing multipliedOf silver and of golden string.There chimed a bubbled underbrewWith witch-wild spray of vocal dew.
It seemed a single harper sweptOur wild wood’s inner chords and wakedA spirit that for yearning achedEre men desired and joyed or wept.Or now a legion ravishingMusician rivals did uniteIn love of sweetness high to singThe subtle song that rivals light;From breast of earth to breast of sky:And they were secret, they were nigh:A hand the magic might disperse;The magic swung my universe.
Yet sharpened breath forbade to dream,Where all was visionary gleam;Where Seasons, as with cymbals, clashed;And feelings, passing joy and woe,Churned, gurgled, spouted, interflashed,Nor either was the one we know:Nor pregnant of the heart containedIn us were they, that griefless plained,That plaining soared; and through the heartStruck to one note the wide apart:—A passion surgent from despair;A paining bliss in fervid cold;Off the last vital edge of air,Leaping heavenward of the lofty-souled,For rapture of a wine of tears;As had a star among the spheresCaught up our earth to some mid-heightOf double life to ear and sight,She giving voice to thought that shinesKeen-brilliant of her deepest mines;While steely drips the rillet clinked,And hoar with crust the cowslips swelled.
Then was the lyre of Earth beheld,Then heard by me: it holds me linked;Across the years to dead-ebb shoresI stand on, my blood-thrill restores.But would I conjure into meThose issue notes, I must reviewWhat serious breath the woodland drew;The low throb of expectancy;How the white mother-muteness pressedOn leaf and meadow-herb; how shook,Nigh speech of mouth, the sparkle-crestSeen spinning on the bracken crook.
GEORGE MEREDITH
With Life and Death I walked when Love appeared,And made them on each side a shadow seem.Through wooded vales the land of dawn we neared,Where down smooth rapids whirls the helmless dreamTo fall on daylight; and night puts awayHer darker veil for grey.
With Life and Death I walked when Love appeared,And made them on each side a shadow seem.Through wooded vales the land of dawn we neared,Where down smooth rapids whirls the helmless dreamTo fall on daylight; and night puts awayHer darker veil for grey.
With Life and Death I walked when Love appeared,And made them on each side a shadow seem.Through wooded vales the land of dawn we neared,Where down smooth rapids whirls the helmless dreamTo fall on daylight; and night puts awayHer darker veil for grey.
In that grey veil green grassblades brushed we by;We came where woods breathed sharp, and overheadRocks raised clear horns on a transforming sky:Around, save for those shapes, with him who ledAnd linked them, desert varied by no signOf other life than mine.
In that grey veil green grassblades brushed we by;We came where woods breathed sharp, and overheadRocks raised clear horns on a transforming sky:Around, save for those shapes, with him who ledAnd linked them, desert varied by no signOf other life than mine.
In that grey veil green grassblades brushed we by;We came where woods breathed sharp, and overheadRocks raised clear horns on a transforming sky:Around, save for those shapes, with him who ledAnd linked them, desert varied by no signOf other life than mine.
By this the dark-winged planet, raying wide,From the mild pearl-glow to the rose upborne,Drew in his fires, less faint than far descried,Pure-fronted on a stronger wave of morn:And those two shapes the splendour interweaved,Hung web-like, sank and heaved.
By this the dark-winged planet, raying wide,From the mild pearl-glow to the rose upborne,Drew in his fires, less faint than far descried,Pure-fronted on a stronger wave of morn:And those two shapes the splendour interweaved,Hung web-like, sank and heaved.
By this the dark-winged planet, raying wide,From the mild pearl-glow to the rose upborne,Drew in his fires, less faint than far descried,Pure-fronted on a stronger wave of morn:And those two shapes the splendour interweaved,Hung web-like, sank and heaved.
Love took my hand when hidden stood the sunTo fling his robe on shoulder-heights of snow.Then said: There lie they, Life and Death in one.Whichever is, the other is: but know,It is thy craving self that thou dost see,Not in them seeing me.
Love took my hand when hidden stood the sunTo fling his robe on shoulder-heights of snow.Then said: There lie they, Life and Death in one.Whichever is, the other is: but know,It is thy craving self that thou dost see,Not in them seeing me.
Love took my hand when hidden stood the sunTo fling his robe on shoulder-heights of snow.Then said: There lie they, Life and Death in one.Whichever is, the other is: but know,It is thy craving self that thou dost see,Not in them seeing me.
Shall man into the mystery of breath,From his quick breathing pulse a pathway spy?Or learn the secret of the shrouded death,By lifting up the lid of a white eye?Cleave thou thy way with fathering desireOf fire to reach to fire.
Shall man into the mystery of breath,From his quick breathing pulse a pathway spy?Or learn the secret of the shrouded death,By lifting up the lid of a white eye?Cleave thou thy way with fathering desireOf fire to reach to fire.
Shall man into the mystery of breath,From his quick breathing pulse a pathway spy?Or learn the secret of the shrouded death,By lifting up the lid of a white eye?Cleave thou thy way with fathering desireOf fire to reach to fire.
Look now where Colour, the soul’s bridegroom, makesThe house of heaven splendid for the bride.To him as leaps a fountain she awakes,In knotting arms, yet boundless: him beside,She holds the flower to heaven, and by his powerBrings heaven to the flower.
Look now where Colour, the soul’s bridegroom, makesThe house of heaven splendid for the bride.To him as leaps a fountain she awakes,In knotting arms, yet boundless: him beside,She holds the flower to heaven, and by his powerBrings heaven to the flower.
Look now where Colour, the soul’s bridegroom, makesThe house of heaven splendid for the bride.To him as leaps a fountain she awakes,In knotting arms, yet boundless: him beside,She holds the flower to heaven, and by his powerBrings heaven to the flower.
He gives her homeliness in desert air,And sovereignty in spaciousness; he leadsThrough widening chambers of surprise to whereThrobs rapture near an end that aye recedes,Because his touch is infinite and lendsA yonder to all ends.
He gives her homeliness in desert air,And sovereignty in spaciousness; he leadsThrough widening chambers of surprise to whereThrobs rapture near an end that aye recedes,Because his touch is infinite and lendsA yonder to all ends.
He gives her homeliness in desert air,And sovereignty in spaciousness; he leadsThrough widening chambers of surprise to whereThrobs rapture near an end that aye recedes,Because his touch is infinite and lendsA yonder to all ends.
Death begs of Life his blush; Life Death persuadesTo keep long day with his caresses graced.He is the heart of light, the wing of shades,The crown of beauty; never soul embracedOf him can harbour unfaith; soul of himPossessed walks never dim.
Death begs of Life his blush; Life Death persuadesTo keep long day with his caresses graced.He is the heart of light, the wing of shades,The crown of beauty; never soul embracedOf him can harbour unfaith; soul of himPossessed walks never dim.
Death begs of Life his blush; Life Death persuadesTo keep long day with his caresses graced.He is the heart of light, the wing of shades,The crown of beauty; never soul embracedOf him can harbour unfaith; soul of himPossessed walks never dim.
Love eyed his rosy memories: he sang:O bloom of dawn, breathed up from the gold sheafHeld springing beneath Orient! that dost hangThe space of dewdrops running over leaf;Thy fleetingness is bigger in the ghostThan Time with all his host!
Love eyed his rosy memories: he sang:O bloom of dawn, breathed up from the gold sheafHeld springing beneath Orient! that dost hangThe space of dewdrops running over leaf;Thy fleetingness is bigger in the ghostThan Time with all his host!
Love eyed his rosy memories: he sang:O bloom of dawn, breathed up from the gold sheafHeld springing beneath Orient! that dost hangThe space of dewdrops running over leaf;Thy fleetingness is bigger in the ghostThan Time with all his host!
Of thee to say behold, has said adieu:But love remembers how the sky was green,And how the grasses glimmered lightest blue;How saint-like grey took fervour: how the screenOf cloud grew violet; how thy moment cameBetween a blush and flame.
Of thee to say behold, has said adieu:But love remembers how the sky was green,And how the grasses glimmered lightest blue;How saint-like grey took fervour: how the screenOf cloud grew violet; how thy moment cameBetween a blush and flame.
Of thee to say behold, has said adieu:But love remembers how the sky was green,And how the grasses glimmered lightest blue;How saint-like grey took fervour: how the screenOf cloud grew violet; how thy moment cameBetween a blush and flame.
Love saw the emissary eglantineBreak wave round thy white feet above the gloom;Lay finger on thy star; thy raiment lineWith cherub wing and limb; wed thy soft bloom,Gold-quivering like sunrays in thistle-down,Earth under rolling brown.
Love saw the emissary eglantineBreak wave round thy white feet above the gloom;Lay finger on thy star; thy raiment lineWith cherub wing and limb; wed thy soft bloom,Gold-quivering like sunrays in thistle-down,Earth under rolling brown.
Love saw the emissary eglantineBreak wave round thy white feet above the gloom;Lay finger on thy star; thy raiment lineWith cherub wing and limb; wed thy soft bloom,Gold-quivering like sunrays in thistle-down,Earth under rolling brown.
They do not look through love to look on thee,Grave heavenliness! nor know they joy of sight,Who deem the wave of rapt desire must beIts wrecking and last issue of delight.Dead seasons quicken in one petal-spotOf colour unforgot.
They do not look through love to look on thee,Grave heavenliness! nor know they joy of sight,Who deem the wave of rapt desire must beIts wrecking and last issue of delight.Dead seasons quicken in one petal-spotOf colour unforgot.
They do not look through love to look on thee,Grave heavenliness! nor know they joy of sight,Who deem the wave of rapt desire must beIts wrecking and last issue of delight.Dead seasons quicken in one petal-spotOf colour unforgot.
This way have men come out of brutishnessTo spell the letters of the sky and readA reflex upon earth else meaningless.With thee, O fount of the Untimed! to lead;Drink they of thee, thee eyeing, they unagedShall on through brave wars waged.
This way have men come out of brutishnessTo spell the letters of the sky and readA reflex upon earth else meaningless.With thee, O fount of the Untimed! to lead;Drink they of thee, thee eyeing, they unagedShall on through brave wars waged.
This way have men come out of brutishnessTo spell the letters of the sky and readA reflex upon earth else meaningless.With thee, O fount of the Untimed! to lead;Drink they of thee, thee eyeing, they unagedShall on through brave wars waged.
More gardens will they win than any lost;The vile plucked out of them, the unlovely slain.Not forfeiting the beast with which they are crossed,To stature of the Gods will they attain.They shall uplift their Earth to meet her Lord,Themselves the attuning chord!
More gardens will they win than any lost;The vile plucked out of them, the unlovely slain.Not forfeiting the beast with which they are crossed,To stature of the Gods will they attain.They shall uplift their Earth to meet her Lord,Themselves the attuning chord!
More gardens will they win than any lost;The vile plucked out of them, the unlovely slain.Not forfeiting the beast with which they are crossed,To stature of the Gods will they attain.They shall uplift their Earth to meet her Lord,Themselves the attuning chord!
The song had ceased; my vision with the song.Then of those Shadows, which one made descentBeside me I knew not: but Life ere longCame on me in the public ways and bentEyes deeper than of old: Death met I too,And saw the dawn glow through
The song had ceased; my vision with the song.Then of those Shadows, which one made descentBeside me I knew not: but Life ere longCame on me in the public ways and bentEyes deeper than of old: Death met I too,And saw the dawn glow through
The song had ceased; my vision with the song.Then of those Shadows, which one made descentBeside me I knew not: but Life ere longCame on me in the public ways and bentEyes deeper than of old: Death met I too,And saw the dawn glow through
SEBASTIAN EVANS
Lonely o’er the dying emberI the past recall,And remember in DecemberApril buds and August skies,As the shadows fall and rise,As the shadows rise and fall.Quicker now they lift and flickerOn the dreary wall;Aye, and quicker still and thickerThrong the fitful fantasies,As the shadows fall and rise,As the shadows rise and fall.Dimmer now they shoot and shimmerOn the dreary wall,Dimmer, dimmer, still they glimmerTill the light in darkness dies,And the other shadows rise,And the other shadows fall.
Lonely o’er the dying emberI the past recall,And remember in DecemberApril buds and August skies,As the shadows fall and rise,As the shadows rise and fall.Quicker now they lift and flickerOn the dreary wall;Aye, and quicker still and thickerThrong the fitful fantasies,As the shadows fall and rise,As the shadows rise and fall.Dimmer now they shoot and shimmerOn the dreary wall,Dimmer, dimmer, still they glimmerTill the light in darkness dies,And the other shadows rise,And the other shadows fall.
Lonely o’er the dying emberI the past recall,And remember in DecemberApril buds and August skies,As the shadows fall and rise,As the shadows rise and fall.
Quicker now they lift and flickerOn the dreary wall;Aye, and quicker still and thickerThrong the fitful fantasies,As the shadows fall and rise,As the shadows rise and fall.
Dimmer now they shoot and shimmerOn the dreary wall,Dimmer, dimmer, still they glimmerTill the light in darkness dies,And the other shadows rise,And the other shadows fall.
EBENEZER JONES
When the world is burning,Fired within, yet turningRound with face unscathed;Ere fierce flames, uprushing,O’er all lands leap, crushing,Till earth fall, fire-swathed;Up against the meadows,Gently through the shadows,Gentle flames will glide,Small, and blue, and golden.Though by bard beholden,When in calm dreams folden,—Calm his dreams will bide.Where the dance is sweeping,Through the greensward peeping,Shall the soft lights start;Laughing maids, unstaying,Deeming it trick-playing,High their robes upswaying,O’er the lights shall dart;And the woodland haunterShall not cease to saunterWhen, far down some glade,Of the great world’s burning,One soft flame upturningSeems, to his discerning,Crocus in the shade.
When the world is burning,Fired within, yet turningRound with face unscathed;Ere fierce flames, uprushing,O’er all lands leap, crushing,Till earth fall, fire-swathed;Up against the meadows,Gently through the shadows,Gentle flames will glide,Small, and blue, and golden.Though by bard beholden,When in calm dreams folden,—Calm his dreams will bide.Where the dance is sweeping,Through the greensward peeping,Shall the soft lights start;Laughing maids, unstaying,Deeming it trick-playing,High their robes upswaying,O’er the lights shall dart;And the woodland haunterShall not cease to saunterWhen, far down some glade,Of the great world’s burning,One soft flame upturningSeems, to his discerning,Crocus in the shade.
When the world is burning,Fired within, yet turningRound with face unscathed;Ere fierce flames, uprushing,O’er all lands leap, crushing,Till earth fall, fire-swathed;Up against the meadows,Gently through the shadows,Gentle flames will glide,Small, and blue, and golden.Though by bard beholden,When in calm dreams folden,—Calm his dreams will bide.
Where the dance is sweeping,Through the greensward peeping,Shall the soft lights start;Laughing maids, unstaying,Deeming it trick-playing,High their robes upswaying,O’er the lights shall dart;And the woodland haunterShall not cease to saunterWhen, far down some glade,Of the great world’s burning,One soft flame upturningSeems, to his discerning,Crocus in the shade.
Lone o’er the moors I stray’d;With basely timid mind,Because by some betray’dDenouncing human-kind;I heard the lonely wind,And wickedly did mournI could not share its loneliness,And all things human scorn.And bitter were the tears,I cursed as they fell;And bitterer the sneersI strove not to repel:With blindly mutter’d yell,I cried unto mine heart,—“Thou shalt beat the world in falsehoodAnd stab it ere we part.”My hand I backward draveAs one who seeks a knife;When startlingly did craveTo quell that hand’s wild strifeSome other hand; all rifeWith kindness, clasp’d it hardOn mine, quick frequent claspingsThat would not be debarr’d.I dared not turn my gazeTo the creature of the hand;And no sound did it raise,Its nature to disbandOf mystery; vast, and grand,The moors around me spread,And I thought, some angel messagePerchance their God may have sped.But it press’d another press,So full of earnest prayer,While o’er it fell a tressOf cool soft human hair,I fear’d not;—I did dareTurn round, ’twas Hannah there!Oh! to no one out of heavenCould I what pass’d declare.We wander’d o’er the moorThrough all that blessed day;And we drank its waters pure,And felt the world away;In many a dell we lay,And we twined flower-crowns bright;And I fed her with moor-berriesAnd bless’d her glad eye-light.And still that earnest prayerThat saved me many stings,Was oft a silent sayerOf countless loving things;—I’ll ring it all with rings,Each ring a jewell’d band;For heaven shouldn’t purchaseThat little sister hand.
Lone o’er the moors I stray’d;With basely timid mind,Because by some betray’dDenouncing human-kind;I heard the lonely wind,And wickedly did mournI could not share its loneliness,And all things human scorn.And bitter were the tears,I cursed as they fell;And bitterer the sneersI strove not to repel:With blindly mutter’d yell,I cried unto mine heart,—“Thou shalt beat the world in falsehoodAnd stab it ere we part.”My hand I backward draveAs one who seeks a knife;When startlingly did craveTo quell that hand’s wild strifeSome other hand; all rifeWith kindness, clasp’d it hardOn mine, quick frequent claspingsThat would not be debarr’d.I dared not turn my gazeTo the creature of the hand;And no sound did it raise,Its nature to disbandOf mystery; vast, and grand,The moors around me spread,And I thought, some angel messagePerchance their God may have sped.But it press’d another press,So full of earnest prayer,While o’er it fell a tressOf cool soft human hair,I fear’d not;—I did dareTurn round, ’twas Hannah there!Oh! to no one out of heavenCould I what pass’d declare.We wander’d o’er the moorThrough all that blessed day;And we drank its waters pure,And felt the world away;In many a dell we lay,And we twined flower-crowns bright;And I fed her with moor-berriesAnd bless’d her glad eye-light.And still that earnest prayerThat saved me many stings,Was oft a silent sayerOf countless loving things;—I’ll ring it all with rings,Each ring a jewell’d band;For heaven shouldn’t purchaseThat little sister hand.
Lone o’er the moors I stray’d;With basely timid mind,Because by some betray’dDenouncing human-kind;I heard the lonely wind,And wickedly did mournI could not share its loneliness,And all things human scorn.
And bitter were the tears,I cursed as they fell;And bitterer the sneersI strove not to repel:With blindly mutter’d yell,I cried unto mine heart,—“Thou shalt beat the world in falsehoodAnd stab it ere we part.”
My hand I backward draveAs one who seeks a knife;When startlingly did craveTo quell that hand’s wild strifeSome other hand; all rifeWith kindness, clasp’d it hardOn mine, quick frequent claspingsThat would not be debarr’d.
I dared not turn my gazeTo the creature of the hand;And no sound did it raise,Its nature to disbandOf mystery; vast, and grand,The moors around me spread,And I thought, some angel messagePerchance their God may have sped.
But it press’d another press,So full of earnest prayer,While o’er it fell a tressOf cool soft human hair,I fear’d not;—I did dareTurn round, ’twas Hannah there!Oh! to no one out of heavenCould I what pass’d declare.
We wander’d o’er the moorThrough all that blessed day;And we drank its waters pure,And felt the world away;In many a dell we lay,And we twined flower-crowns bright;And I fed her with moor-berriesAnd bless’d her glad eye-light.
And still that earnest prayerThat saved me many stings,Was oft a silent sayerOf countless loving things;—I’ll ring it all with rings,Each ring a jewell’d band;For heaven shouldn’t purchaseThat little sister hand.