As ships becalmed at eve, that layWith canvas drooping, side by side,Two towers of sail at dawn of dayAre scarce, long leagues apart, descried;When fell the night, upsprung the breeze,And all the darkling hours they plied,Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seasBy each was cleaving, side by side:E'en so,—but why the tale revealOf those whom, year by year unchanged,Brief absence joined anew to feel,Astounded, soul from soul estranged?At dead of night their sails were filled,And onward each rejoicing steered;Ah, neither blame, for neither willed,Or wist, what first with dawn appeared!To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,Brave barks! In light, in darkness too,Through winds and tides one compass guides,—To that, and your own selves, be true.But O blithe breeze, and O great seas,Though ne'er, that earliest parting past,On your wide plain they join again,Together lead them home at last!One port, methought, alike they sought,One purpose hold where'er they fare,—O bounding breeze, O rushing seas,At last, at last, unite them there!Arthur Hugh Clough.
As ships becalmed at eve, that layWith canvas drooping, side by side,Two towers of sail at dawn of dayAre scarce, long leagues apart, descried;
When fell the night, upsprung the breeze,And all the darkling hours they plied,Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seasBy each was cleaving, side by side:
E'en so,—but why the tale revealOf those whom, year by year unchanged,Brief absence joined anew to feel,Astounded, soul from soul estranged?
At dead of night their sails were filled,And onward each rejoicing steered;Ah, neither blame, for neither willed,Or wist, what first with dawn appeared!
To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,Brave barks! In light, in darkness too,Through winds and tides one compass guides,—To that, and your own selves, be true.
But O blithe breeze, and O great seas,Though ne'er, that earliest parting past,On your wide plain they join again,Together lead them home at last!
One port, methought, alike they sought,One purpose hold where'er they fare,—O bounding breeze, O rushing seas,At last, at last, unite them there!
Arthur Hugh Clough.
Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed.Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is notThe thing we planned it out ere hope was dead.And then, we women cannot choose our lot.Much must be borne which it is hard to bear;Much given away which it were sweet to keep.God help us all! who need, indeed, his care.And yet I know the Shepherd loves his sheep.My little boy begins to babble nowUpon my knee his earliest infant prayer.He has his father's eager eyes, I know;And, they say, too, his mother's sunny hair.But when he sleeps and smiles upon my knee,And I can feel his light breath come and go,I think of one (Heaven help and pity me!)Who loved me, and whom I loved, long ago;Who might have been ... ah, what I dare not think!We are all changed. God judges for us best.God help us do our duty, and not shrink,And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest.But blame us women not, if some appearToo cold at times; and some too gay and light.Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are hard to bear.Who knows the past? and who can judge us right?Ah, were we judged by what we might have been,And not by what we are,—too apt to fall!My little child,—he sleeps and smiles betweenThese thoughts and me. In heaven we shall know all!Robert Bulwer Lytton.
Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed.Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is notThe thing we planned it out ere hope was dead.And then, we women cannot choose our lot.
Much must be borne which it is hard to bear;Much given away which it were sweet to keep.God help us all! who need, indeed, his care.And yet I know the Shepherd loves his sheep.
My little boy begins to babble nowUpon my knee his earliest infant prayer.He has his father's eager eyes, I know;And, they say, too, his mother's sunny hair.
But when he sleeps and smiles upon my knee,And I can feel his light breath come and go,I think of one (Heaven help and pity me!)Who loved me, and whom I loved, long ago;
Who might have been ... ah, what I dare not think!We are all changed. God judges for us best.God help us do our duty, and not shrink,And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest.
But blame us women not, if some appearToo cold at times; and some too gay and light.Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are hard to bear.Who knows the past? and who can judge us right?
Ah, were we judged by what we might have been,And not by what we are,—too apt to fall!My little child,—he sleeps and smiles betweenThese thoughts and me. In heaven we shall know all!
Robert Bulwer Lytton.
I remember, I rememberThe house where I was born,The little window where the sunCame peeping in at morn;He never came a wink too soon,Nor brought too long a day;But now, I often wish the nightHad borne my breath away!I remember, I rememberThe roses, red and white,The violets, and the lily-cups,—Those flowers made of light!The lilacs where the robin built,And where my brother setThe laburnum on his birthday,—The tree is living yet!I remember, I rememberWhere I was used to swing,And thought the air must rush as freshTo swallows on the wing;My spirit flew in feathers then,That is so heavy now,And summer pool could hardly coolThe fever on my brow!I remember, I rememberThe fir-trees dark and high;I used to think their slender topsWere close against the sky.It was a childish ignorance,But now 'tis little joyTo know I'm farther off from heavenThan when I was a boy.Thomas Hood.
I remember, I rememberThe house where I was born,The little window where the sunCame peeping in at morn;He never came a wink too soon,Nor brought too long a day;But now, I often wish the nightHad borne my breath away!
I remember, I rememberThe roses, red and white,The violets, and the lily-cups,—Those flowers made of light!The lilacs where the robin built,And where my brother setThe laburnum on his birthday,—The tree is living yet!
I remember, I rememberWhere I was used to swing,And thought the air must rush as freshTo swallows on the wing;My spirit flew in feathers then,That is so heavy now,And summer pool could hardly coolThe fever on my brow!
I remember, I rememberThe fir-trees dark and high;I used to think their slender topsWere close against the sky.It was a childish ignorance,But now 'tis little joyTo know I'm farther off from heavenThan when I was a boy.
Thomas Hood.
All houses wherein men have lived and diedAre haunted houses. Through the open doorsThe harmless phantoms on their errands glide,With feet that make no sound upon the floors.We meet them at the doorway, on the stair,Along the passages they come and go,Impalpable impressions on the air,A sense of something moving to and fro.There are more guests at table than the hostsInvited; the illuminated hallIs thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,As silent as the pictures on the wall.The stranger at my fireside cannot seeThe forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;He but perceives what is; while unto meAll that has been is visible and clear.We have no title-deeds to house or lands;Owners and occupants of earlier datesFrom graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,And hold in mortmain still their old estates.The spirit-world around this world of senseFloats like an atmosphere, and everywhereWafts through these earthly mists and vapors denseA vital breath of more ethereal air.Our little lives are kept in equipoiseBy opposite attractions and desires!The struggle of the instinct that enjoysAnd the more noble instinct that aspires.These perturbations, this perpetual jarOf earthly wants and aspirations high,Come from the influence of an unseen star,An undiscovered planet in our sky.And as the moon from some dark gate of cloudThrows o'er the sea a floating bridge of light,Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowdInto the realm of mystery and night,—So from the world of spirits there descendsA bridge of light, connecting it with this,O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
All houses wherein men have lived and diedAre haunted houses. Through the open doorsThe harmless phantoms on their errands glide,With feet that make no sound upon the floors.
We meet them at the doorway, on the stair,Along the passages they come and go,Impalpable impressions on the air,A sense of something moving to and fro.
There are more guests at table than the hostsInvited; the illuminated hallIs thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,As silent as the pictures on the wall.
The stranger at my fireside cannot seeThe forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;He but perceives what is; while unto meAll that has been is visible and clear.
We have no title-deeds to house or lands;Owners and occupants of earlier datesFrom graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,And hold in mortmain still their old estates.
The spirit-world around this world of senseFloats like an atmosphere, and everywhereWafts through these earthly mists and vapors denseA vital breath of more ethereal air.
Our little lives are kept in equipoiseBy opposite attractions and desires!The struggle of the instinct that enjoysAnd the more noble instinct that aspires.
These perturbations, this perpetual jarOf earthly wants and aspirations high,Come from the influence of an unseen star,An undiscovered planet in our sky.
And as the moon from some dark gate of cloudThrows o'er the sea a floating bridge of light,Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowdInto the realm of mystery and night,—
So from the world of spirits there descendsA bridge of light, connecting it with this,O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
To him who in the love of nature holdsCommunion with her visible forms, she speaksA various language: for his gayer hoursShe has a voice of gladness, and a smileAnd eloquence of beauty; and she glidesInto his darker musings with a mildAnd healing sympathy, that steals awayTheir sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughtsOf the last bitter hour come like a blightOver thy spirit, and sad imagesOf the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart,Go forth under the open sky, and listTo Nature's teachings, while from all around—Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—Comes a still voice: Yet a few days, and theeThe all-beholding sun shall see no moreIn all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,Where thy pale form was laid with many tears,Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall existThy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claimThy growth, to be resolved to earth again;And, lost each human trace, surrendering upThine individual being, shalt thou goTo mix forever with the elements,—To be a brother to the insensible rock,And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swainTurns with his share and treads upon. The oakShall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.Yet not to thine eternal resting-placeShalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wishCouch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie downWith patriarchs of the infant world,—with kings,The powerful of the earth,—the wise, the good,—Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills,Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the valesStretching in pensive quietness between,—The venerable woods,—rivers that moveIn majesty, and the complaining brooksThat make the meadows green; and, poured round all,Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,—Are but the solemn decorations allOf the great tomb of man. The golden sun,The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,Are shining on the sad abodes of death,Through the still lapse of ages. All that treadThe globe are but a handful to the tribesThat slumber in its bosom. Take the wingsOf morning; traverse Barca's desert sands,Or lose thyself in the continuous woodsWhere rolls the Oregon, and hears no soundSave his own dashings,—yet the dead are there;And millions in those solitudes, since firstThe flight of years began, have laid them downIn their last sleep,—the dead reign there alone.So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdrawIn silence from the living, and no friendTake note of thy departure? All that breatheWill share thy destiny. The gay will laughWhen thou art gone, the solemn brood of carePlod on, and each one, as before, will chaseHis favorite phantom; yet all these shall leaveTheir mirth and their employments, and shall comeAnd make their bed with thee. As the long trainOf ages glide away, the sons of men—The youth in life's green spring, and he who goesIn the full strength of years, matron, and maid,And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man—Shall one by one be gathered to thy sideBy those who in their turn shall follow them.So live that when thy summons comes to joinThe innumerable caravan which movesTo that mysterious realm where each shall takeHis chamber in the silent halls of death,Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothedBy an unfaltering trust, approach thy graveLike one who wraps the drapery of his couchAbout him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.William Cullen Bryant.
To him who in the love of nature holdsCommunion with her visible forms, she speaksA various language: for his gayer hoursShe has a voice of gladness, and a smileAnd eloquence of beauty; and she glidesInto his darker musings with a mildAnd healing sympathy, that steals awayTheir sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughtsOf the last bitter hour come like a blightOver thy spirit, and sad imagesOf the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart,Go forth under the open sky, and listTo Nature's teachings, while from all around—Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—Comes a still voice: Yet a few days, and theeThe all-beholding sun shall see no moreIn all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,Where thy pale form was laid with many tears,Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall existThy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claimThy growth, to be resolved to earth again;And, lost each human trace, surrendering upThine individual being, shalt thou goTo mix forever with the elements,—To be a brother to the insensible rock,And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swainTurns with his share and treads upon. The oakShall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-placeShalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wishCouch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie downWith patriarchs of the infant world,—with kings,The powerful of the earth,—the wise, the good,—Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills,Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the valesStretching in pensive quietness between,—The venerable woods,—rivers that moveIn majesty, and the complaining brooksThat make the meadows green; and, poured round all,Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,—Are but the solemn decorations allOf the great tomb of man. The golden sun,The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,Are shining on the sad abodes of death,Through the still lapse of ages. All that treadThe globe are but a handful to the tribesThat slumber in its bosom. Take the wingsOf morning; traverse Barca's desert sands,Or lose thyself in the continuous woodsWhere rolls the Oregon, and hears no soundSave his own dashings,—yet the dead are there;And millions in those solitudes, since firstThe flight of years began, have laid them downIn their last sleep,—the dead reign there alone.So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdrawIn silence from the living, and no friendTake note of thy departure? All that breatheWill share thy destiny. The gay will laughWhen thou art gone, the solemn brood of carePlod on, and each one, as before, will chaseHis favorite phantom; yet all these shall leaveTheir mirth and their employments, and shall comeAnd make their bed with thee. As the long trainOf ages glide away, the sons of men—The youth in life's green spring, and he who goesIn the full strength of years, matron, and maid,And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man—Shall one by one be gathered to thy sideBy those who in their turn shall follow them.
So live that when thy summons comes to joinThe innumerable caravan which movesTo that mysterious realm where each shall takeHis chamber in the silent halls of death,Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothedBy an unfaltering trust, approach thy graveLike one who wraps the drapery of his couchAbout him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
William Cullen Bryant.
Over the river they beckon to me,Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side,The gleam of their snowy robes I see,But their voices are lost in the dashing tide.There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue;He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,And the pale mist hid him from mortal view.We saw not the angels who met him there,The gates of the city we could not see:Over the river, over the river,My brother stands waiting to welcome me.Over the river the boatman paleCarried another, the household pet;Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale,Darling Minnie! I see her yet.She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands,And fearlessly entered the phantom bark;We felt it glide from the silver sands,And all our sunshine grew strangely dark;We know she is safe on the farther side,Where all the ransomed and angels be:Over the river, the mystic river,My childhood's idol is waiting for me.For none return from those quiet shores,Who cross with the boatman cold and pale;We hear the dip of the golden oars,And catch a gleam of the snowy sail;And lo! they have passed from our yearning heart,They cross the stream and are gone for aye;We may not sunder the veil apartThat hides from our vision the gates of day;We only know that their barks no moreMay sail with us o'er life's stormy sea;Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.And I sit and think, when the sunset's goldIs flushing river and hill and shore,I shall one day stand by the water cold,And list for the sound of the boatman's oar;I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail,I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand,I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale,To the better shore of the spirit-land.I shall know the loved who have gone before,And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,When over the river, the peaceful river,The angel of death shall carry me.Nancy Priest Wakefield.
Over the river they beckon to me,Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side,The gleam of their snowy robes I see,But their voices are lost in the dashing tide.There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue;He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,And the pale mist hid him from mortal view.We saw not the angels who met him there,The gates of the city we could not see:Over the river, over the river,My brother stands waiting to welcome me.
Over the river the boatman paleCarried another, the household pet;Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale,Darling Minnie! I see her yet.She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands,And fearlessly entered the phantom bark;We felt it glide from the silver sands,And all our sunshine grew strangely dark;We know she is safe on the farther side,Where all the ransomed and angels be:Over the river, the mystic river,My childhood's idol is waiting for me.
For none return from those quiet shores,Who cross with the boatman cold and pale;We hear the dip of the golden oars,And catch a gleam of the snowy sail;And lo! they have passed from our yearning heart,They cross the stream and are gone for aye;We may not sunder the veil apartThat hides from our vision the gates of day;We only know that their barks no moreMay sail with us o'er life's stormy sea;Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.
And I sit and think, when the sunset's goldIs flushing river and hill and shore,I shall one day stand by the water cold,And list for the sound of the boatman's oar;I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail,I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand,I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale,To the better shore of the spirit-land.I shall know the loved who have gone before,And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,When over the river, the peaceful river,The angel of death shall carry me.
Nancy Priest Wakefield.
They are all gone into the world of light,And I alone sit lingering here!Their very memory is fair and bright,And my sad thoughts doth clear;It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,Like stars upon some gloomy grove,—Or those faint beams in which this hill is dressedAfter the sun's remove.I see them walking in an air of glory,Whose light doth trample on my days,—My days which are at best but dull and hoary,Mere glimmerings and decays.O holy hope! and high humility,—High as the heavens above!These are your walks, and you have showed them meTo kindle my cold love.Dear, beauteous death,—the jewel of the just,—Shining nowhere but in the dark!What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,Could man outlook that mark!He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know,At first sight, if the bird be flown,But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,That is to him unknown.And yet, as angels in some brighter dreamsCall to the soul when man doth sleep,So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,And into glory peep.If a star were confined into a tomb,Her captive flames must needs burn there;But when the hand that locked her up gives room,She'll shine through all the sphere.O Father of eternal life, and allCreated glories under Thee!Resume thy spirit from this world of thrallInto true liberty.Either disperse these mists, which blot and fillMy perspective still as they pass;Or else remove me hence unto that hillWhere I shall need no glass.Henry Vaughan.
They are all gone into the world of light,And I alone sit lingering here!Their very memory is fair and bright,And my sad thoughts doth clear;
It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,Like stars upon some gloomy grove,—Or those faint beams in which this hill is dressedAfter the sun's remove.
I see them walking in an air of glory,Whose light doth trample on my days,—My days which are at best but dull and hoary,Mere glimmerings and decays.
O holy hope! and high humility,—High as the heavens above!These are your walks, and you have showed them meTo kindle my cold love.
Dear, beauteous death,—the jewel of the just,—Shining nowhere but in the dark!What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,Could man outlook that mark!
He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know,At first sight, if the bird be flown,But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,That is to him unknown.
And yet, as angels in some brighter dreamsCall to the soul when man doth sleep,So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,And into glory peep.
If a star were confined into a tomb,Her captive flames must needs burn there;But when the hand that locked her up gives room,She'll shine through all the sphere.
O Father of eternal life, and allCreated glories under Thee!Resume thy spirit from this world of thrallInto true liberty.
Either disperse these mists, which blot and fillMy perspective still as they pass;Or else remove me hence unto that hillWhere I shall need no glass.
Henry Vaughan.
No bird-song floated down the hill,The tangled bank below was still;No rustle from the birchen stem,No ripple from the water's hem.The dusk of twilight round us grew,We felt the falling of the dew;For from us, ere the day was done,The wooded hills shut out the sun.But on the river's farther side,We saw the hill-tops glorified,—A tender glow, exceeding fair,A dream of day without its glare.With us the damp, the chill, the gloom;With them the sunset's rosy bloom;While dark, through willowy vistas seen,The river rolled in shade between.From out the darkness where we trod,We gazed upon those hills of God,Whose light seemed not of morn or sun;We spake not, but our thought was one.We paused, as if from that bright shoreBeckoned our dear ones gone before;And stilled our beating hearts to hearThe voices lost to mortal ear!Sudden our pathway turned from night;The hills swung open to the light;Through their green gates the sunshine showed,A long slant splendor downward flowed.Down glade and glen and bank it rolled;It bridged the shaded stream with gold;And, borne on piers of mist, alliedThe shadowy with the sunlit side!"So," prayed we, "when our feet draw nearThe river dark with mortal fear,"And the night cometh, chill with dew,O Father, let thy light break through!"So let the hills of doubt divide,To bridge with faith the sunless tide!"So let the eyes that fail on earthOn thy eternal hills look forth,"And in thy beckoning angels knowThe dear ones whom we loved below!"John Greenleaf Whittier.
No bird-song floated down the hill,The tangled bank below was still;
No rustle from the birchen stem,No ripple from the water's hem.
The dusk of twilight round us grew,We felt the falling of the dew;
For from us, ere the day was done,The wooded hills shut out the sun.
But on the river's farther side,We saw the hill-tops glorified,—
A tender glow, exceeding fair,A dream of day without its glare.
With us the damp, the chill, the gloom;With them the sunset's rosy bloom;
While dark, through willowy vistas seen,The river rolled in shade between.
From out the darkness where we trod,We gazed upon those hills of God,
Whose light seemed not of morn or sun;We spake not, but our thought was one.
We paused, as if from that bright shoreBeckoned our dear ones gone before;
And stilled our beating hearts to hearThe voices lost to mortal ear!
Sudden our pathway turned from night;The hills swung open to the light;
Through their green gates the sunshine showed,A long slant splendor downward flowed.
Down glade and glen and bank it rolled;It bridged the shaded stream with gold;
And, borne on piers of mist, alliedThe shadowy with the sunlit side!
"So," prayed we, "when our feet draw nearThe river dark with mortal fear,
"And the night cometh, chill with dew,O Father, let thy light break through!
"So let the hills of doubt divide,To bridge with faith the sunless tide!
"So let the eyes that fail on earthOn thy eternal hills look forth,
"And in thy beckoning angels knowThe dear ones whom we loved below!"
John Greenleaf Whittier.
By the waters of Life we sat together,Hand in hand, in the golden daysOf the beautiful early summer weather,When hours were anthems and speech was praise;When the heart kept time to the carol of birds,And the birds kept tune to the songs that ranThrough shimmer of flowers on grassy swards,And trees with voices Æolian.By the rivers of Life we walked together,I and my darling, unafraid;And lighter than any linnet's featherThe burdens of being on us weighed;And Love's sweet miracles o'er us threwMantles of joy outlasting Time;And up from the rosy morrows grewA sound that seemed like a marriage-chime.In the gardens of Life we roamed together;And the luscious apples were ripe and red,And the languid lilac and honeyed heatherSwooned with the fragrance which they shed.And under the trees the Angels walked,And up in the air a sense of wingsAwed us sacredly while we talkedSoftly in tender communings.In the meadows of life we strayed together,Watching the waving harvests grow;And under the benison of the FatherOur hearts like the lambs skipped to and fro.And the cowslips, hearing our low replies,Broidered fairer the emerald banks;And glad tears shone in the daisies' eyes,And the timid violet glistened thanks.Who was with us, and what was round us,Neither myself nor darling guessed;Only we knew that something crowned usOut from the heavens with crowns of rest.Only we knew that something brightLingered lovingly where we stood,Clothed with the incandescent lightOf something higher than humanhood.O the riches Love doth inherit!Ah the alchemy which doth changeDross of body and dregs of spiritInto sanctities rare and strange!My flesh is feeble, and dry, and old,My darling's beautiful hair is gray;But our elixir and precious goldLaugh at the footsteps of decay.Harms of the world have come upon us,Cups of sorrow we yet shall drain;But we have a secret which doth show usWonderful rainbows through the rain;And we hear the tread of the years go by,And the sun is setting behind the hills;But my darling does not fear to die,And I am happy in what God wills.So we sit by our household fires together,Dreaming the dreams of long ago.Then it was balmy summer weather,And now the valleys are laid in snow,Icicles hang from the slippery eaves,The wind grows cold,—it is growing late.Well, well,—we have garnered all our sheaves,I and my darling,—and we wait.Richard Realf.
By the waters of Life we sat together,Hand in hand, in the golden daysOf the beautiful early summer weather,When hours were anthems and speech was praise;When the heart kept time to the carol of birds,And the birds kept tune to the songs that ranThrough shimmer of flowers on grassy swards,And trees with voices Æolian.
By the rivers of Life we walked together,I and my darling, unafraid;And lighter than any linnet's featherThe burdens of being on us weighed;And Love's sweet miracles o'er us threwMantles of joy outlasting Time;And up from the rosy morrows grewA sound that seemed like a marriage-chime.
In the gardens of Life we roamed together;And the luscious apples were ripe and red,And the languid lilac and honeyed heatherSwooned with the fragrance which they shed.And under the trees the Angels walked,And up in the air a sense of wingsAwed us sacredly while we talkedSoftly in tender communings.
In the meadows of life we strayed together,Watching the waving harvests grow;And under the benison of the FatherOur hearts like the lambs skipped to and fro.And the cowslips, hearing our low replies,Broidered fairer the emerald banks;And glad tears shone in the daisies' eyes,And the timid violet glistened thanks.
Who was with us, and what was round us,Neither myself nor darling guessed;Only we knew that something crowned usOut from the heavens with crowns of rest.Only we knew that something brightLingered lovingly where we stood,Clothed with the incandescent lightOf something higher than humanhood.
O the riches Love doth inherit!Ah the alchemy which doth changeDross of body and dregs of spiritInto sanctities rare and strange!My flesh is feeble, and dry, and old,My darling's beautiful hair is gray;But our elixir and precious goldLaugh at the footsteps of decay.
Harms of the world have come upon us,Cups of sorrow we yet shall drain;But we have a secret which doth show usWonderful rainbows through the rain;And we hear the tread of the years go by,And the sun is setting behind the hills;But my darling does not fear to die,And I am happy in what God wills.
So we sit by our household fires together,Dreaming the dreams of long ago.Then it was balmy summer weather,And now the valleys are laid in snow,Icicles hang from the slippery eaves,The wind grows cold,—it is growing late.Well, well,—we have garnered all our sheaves,I and my darling,—and we wait.
Richard Realf.
The sunlight fills the trembling air,And balmy days their guerdons bring;The Earth again is young and fair,And amorous with musky spring.The golden nurslings of the MayIn splendor strew the spangled green,And hues of tender beauty play,Entangled where the willows lean.Mark how the rippled currents flow;What lustres on the meadows lie!And hark! the songsters come and go,And trill between the earth and sky.Who told us that the years had fled,Or borne afar our blissful youth?Such joys are all about us spread,We know the whisper was not truth.The birds that break from grass and groveSing every carol that they sungWhen first our veins were rich with love,And May her mantle round us flung.O fresh-lit dawn! immortal life!O Earth's betrothal, sweet and true,With whose delights our souls are rife,And aye their vernal vows renew!Then, darling, walk with me this morn,Let your brown tresses drink its sheen;These violets, within them worn,Of floral fays shall make you queen.What though there comes a time of painWhen autumn winds forebode decay?The days of love are born again;That fabled time is far away!And never seemed the land so fairAs now, nor birds such notes to sing,Since first within your shining hairI wove the blossoms of the spring.Edmund Clarence Stedman.
The sunlight fills the trembling air,And balmy days their guerdons bring;The Earth again is young and fair,And amorous with musky spring.
The golden nurslings of the MayIn splendor strew the spangled green,And hues of tender beauty play,Entangled where the willows lean.
Mark how the rippled currents flow;What lustres on the meadows lie!And hark! the songsters come and go,And trill between the earth and sky.
Who told us that the years had fled,Or borne afar our blissful youth?Such joys are all about us spread,We know the whisper was not truth.
The birds that break from grass and groveSing every carol that they sungWhen first our veins were rich with love,And May her mantle round us flung.
O fresh-lit dawn! immortal life!O Earth's betrothal, sweet and true,With whose delights our souls are rife,And aye their vernal vows renew!
Then, darling, walk with me this morn,Let your brown tresses drink its sheen;These violets, within them worn,Of floral fays shall make you queen.
What though there comes a time of painWhen autumn winds forebode decay?The days of love are born again;That fabled time is far away!
And never seemed the land so fairAs now, nor birds such notes to sing,Since first within your shining hairI wove the blossoms of the spring.
Edmund Clarence Stedman.
Eyes which can but ill defineShapes that rise about and near,Through the far horizon's lineStretch a vision free and clear;Memories feeble to retraceYesterday's immediate flow,Find a dear familiar faceIn each hour of Long-Ago.Follow yon majestic trainDown the slopes of old renown;Knightly forms without disdain,Sainted heads without a frown,Emperors of thought and hand,Congregate, a glorious show,Met from every age and land,In the plains of Long-Ago.As the heart of childhood bringsSomething of eternal joyFrom its own unsounded springs,Such as life can scarce destroy,So, remindful of the prime,Spirits wandering to and froRest upon the resting-timeIn the peace of Long-Ago.Youthful Hope's religious fire,When it burns no longer, leavesAshes of impure desireOn the altars it bereaves;But the light that fills the pastSheds a still diviner glow,Ever farther it is castO'er the scenes of Long-Ago.Many a growth of pain and care,Cumbering all the present hour,Yields, when once transplanted there,Healthy fruit or pleasant flower.Thoughts that hardly flourish here,Feelings long have ceased to blow,Breathe a native atmosphereIn the world of Long-Ago.On that deep-retiring shoreFrequent pearls of beauty lie,Where the passion-waves of yoreFiercely beat and mounted high;Sorrows that are sorrows still,Lose the bitter taste of woe;Nothing's altogether illIn the griefs of Long-Ago.Tombs where lonely love repines,Ghastly tenements of tears,Wear the look of happy shrinesThrough the golden mist of years;Death, to those who trust in good,Vindicates his hardest blow;O, we would not, if we could,Wake the sleep of Long-Ago!Though the doom of swift decayShocks the soul where life is strong;Though for frailer hearts the dayLingers sad and over-long;Still the weight will find a leaven,Still the spoiler's hand is slow,While the future has its Heaven,And the past its Long-Ago.Richard Monckton Milnes.
Eyes which can but ill defineShapes that rise about and near,Through the far horizon's lineStretch a vision free and clear;Memories feeble to retraceYesterday's immediate flow,Find a dear familiar faceIn each hour of Long-Ago.
Follow yon majestic trainDown the slopes of old renown;Knightly forms without disdain,Sainted heads without a frown,Emperors of thought and hand,Congregate, a glorious show,Met from every age and land,In the plains of Long-Ago.
As the heart of childhood bringsSomething of eternal joyFrom its own unsounded springs,Such as life can scarce destroy,So, remindful of the prime,Spirits wandering to and froRest upon the resting-timeIn the peace of Long-Ago.
Youthful Hope's religious fire,When it burns no longer, leavesAshes of impure desireOn the altars it bereaves;But the light that fills the pastSheds a still diviner glow,Ever farther it is castO'er the scenes of Long-Ago.
Many a growth of pain and care,Cumbering all the present hour,Yields, when once transplanted there,Healthy fruit or pleasant flower.Thoughts that hardly flourish here,Feelings long have ceased to blow,Breathe a native atmosphereIn the world of Long-Ago.
On that deep-retiring shoreFrequent pearls of beauty lie,Where the passion-waves of yoreFiercely beat and mounted high;Sorrows that are sorrows still,Lose the bitter taste of woe;Nothing's altogether illIn the griefs of Long-Ago.
Tombs where lonely love repines,Ghastly tenements of tears,Wear the look of happy shrinesThrough the golden mist of years;Death, to those who trust in good,Vindicates his hardest blow;O, we would not, if we could,Wake the sleep of Long-Ago!
Though the doom of swift decayShocks the soul where life is strong;Though for frailer hearts the dayLingers sad and over-long;Still the weight will find a leaven,Still the spoiler's hand is slow,While the future has its Heaven,And the past its Long-Ago.
Richard Monckton Milnes.
O, a dainty plant is the ivy green,That creepeth o'er ruins old!Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,In his cell so lone and cold.The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed,To pleasure his dainty whim;And the mouldering dust that years have madeIs a merry meal for him.Creeping where no life is seen,A rare old plant is the ivy green.Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,And a stanch old heart has he!How closely he twineth, how tight he clingsTo his friend, the huge oak-tree!And slyly he traileth along the ground,And his leaves he gently waves,And he joyously twines and hugs aroundThe rich mould of dead men's graves.Creeping where no life is seen,A rare old plant is the ivy green.Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,And nations have scattered been;But the stout old ivy shall never fadeFrom its hale and hearty green.The brave old plant in its lonely daysShall fatten upon the past;For the stateliest building man can raiseIs the ivy's food at last.Creeping where no life is seen,A rare old plant is the ivy green.Charles Dickens.
O, a dainty plant is the ivy green,That creepeth o'er ruins old!Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,In his cell so lone and cold.The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed,To pleasure his dainty whim;And the mouldering dust that years have madeIs a merry meal for him.Creeping where no life is seen,A rare old plant is the ivy green.
Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,And a stanch old heart has he!How closely he twineth, how tight he clingsTo his friend, the huge oak-tree!And slyly he traileth along the ground,And his leaves he gently waves,And he joyously twines and hugs aroundThe rich mould of dead men's graves.Creeping where no life is seen,A rare old plant is the ivy green.
Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,And nations have scattered been;But the stout old ivy shall never fadeFrom its hale and hearty green.The brave old plant in its lonely daysShall fatten upon the past;For the stateliest building man can raiseIs the ivy's food at last.Creeping where no life is seen,A rare old plant is the ivy green.
Charles Dickens.
Ah! my heart is weary waiting,Waiting for the May,—Waiting for the pleasant ramblesWhere the fragrant hawthorn-brambles,With the woodbine alternating,Scent the dewy way.Ah! my heart is weary waiting,Waiting for the May.Ah! my heart is sick with longing,Longing for the May,—Longing to escape from study,To the young face fair and ruddy,And the thousand charms belongingTo the summer's day.Ah! my heart is sick with longing,Longing for the May.Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,Sighing for the May,—Sighing for their sure returning,When the summer beams are burning,Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying,All the winter lay.Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,Sighing for the May.Ah! my heart is pained with throbbing,Throbbing for the May,—Throbbing for the seaside billows,Or the water-wooing willows;Where, in laughing and in sobbing,Glide the streams away.Ah! my heart, my heart is throbbing,Throbbing for the May.Waiting sad, dejected, weary,Waiting for the May:Spring goes by with wasted warnings,—Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings,—Summer comes, yet dark and drearyLife still ebbs away;Man is ever weary, weary,Waiting for the May!Denis Florence Mac-Carthy.
Ah! my heart is weary waiting,Waiting for the May,—Waiting for the pleasant ramblesWhere the fragrant hawthorn-brambles,With the woodbine alternating,Scent the dewy way.Ah! my heart is weary waiting,Waiting for the May.
Ah! my heart is sick with longing,Longing for the May,—Longing to escape from study,To the young face fair and ruddy,And the thousand charms belongingTo the summer's day.Ah! my heart is sick with longing,Longing for the May.
Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,Sighing for the May,—Sighing for their sure returning,When the summer beams are burning,Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying,All the winter lay.Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,Sighing for the May.
Ah! my heart is pained with throbbing,Throbbing for the May,—Throbbing for the seaside billows,Or the water-wooing willows;Where, in laughing and in sobbing,Glide the streams away.Ah! my heart, my heart is throbbing,Throbbing for the May.
Waiting sad, dejected, weary,Waiting for the May:Spring goes by with wasted warnings,—Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings,—Summer comes, yet dark and drearyLife still ebbs away;Man is ever weary, weary,Waiting for the May!
Denis Florence Mac-Carthy.
From Stirling castle we had seenThe mazy Forth unravelled;Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,And with the Tweed had travelled;And when we came to Clovenford,Then said my "winsome Marrow,""Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,And see the braes of Yarrow.""Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,Who have been buying, selling,Go back to Yarrow; 'tis their own,—Each maiden to her dwelling!On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!But we will downward with the Tweed,Nor turn aside to Yarrow."There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,Both lying right before us;And Dryborough, where with chiming TweedThe lintwhites sing in chorus;There's pleasant Teviot-dale, a landMade blithe with plough and harrow:Why throw away a needful dayTo go in search of Yarrow?"What's Yarrow but a river bare,That glides the dark hills under?There are a thousand such elsewhere,As worthy of your wonder."Strange words they seemed, of slight and scorn;My true-love sighed for sorrow,And looked me in the face, to thinkI thus could speak of Yarrow!"O, green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms,And sweet is Yarrow flowing!Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,But we will leave it growing.O'er hilly path and open strathWe'll wander Scotland thorough;But, though so near, we will not turnInto the dale of Yarrow."Let beeves and homebred kine partakeThe sweets of Burn-mill meadow;The swan on still St. Mary's LakeFloat double, swan and shadow!We will not see them; will not goTo-day, nor yet to-morrow;Enough, if in our hearts we knowThere's such a place as Yarrow."Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!It must, or we shall rue it:We have a vision of our own;Ah! why should we undo it?The treasured dreams of times long past,We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!For when we're there, although 'tis fair,'Twill be another Yarrow!"If care with freezing years should come,And wandering seem but folly,—Should we be loath to stir from home,And yet be melancholy,—Should life be dull, and spirits low,'Twill soothe us in our sorrow,That earth has something yet to show,—The bonny holms of Yarrow!"William Wordsworth.
From Stirling castle we had seenThe mazy Forth unravelled;Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,And with the Tweed had travelled;And when we came to Clovenford,Then said my "winsome Marrow,""Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,And see the braes of Yarrow."
"Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,Who have been buying, selling,Go back to Yarrow; 'tis their own,—Each maiden to her dwelling!On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!But we will downward with the Tweed,Nor turn aside to Yarrow.
"There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,Both lying right before us;And Dryborough, where with chiming TweedThe lintwhites sing in chorus;There's pleasant Teviot-dale, a landMade blithe with plough and harrow:Why throw away a needful dayTo go in search of Yarrow?
"What's Yarrow but a river bare,That glides the dark hills under?There are a thousand such elsewhere,As worthy of your wonder."Strange words they seemed, of slight and scorn;My true-love sighed for sorrow,And looked me in the face, to thinkI thus could speak of Yarrow!
"O, green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms,And sweet is Yarrow flowing!Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,But we will leave it growing.O'er hilly path and open strathWe'll wander Scotland thorough;But, though so near, we will not turnInto the dale of Yarrow.
"Let beeves and homebred kine partakeThe sweets of Burn-mill meadow;The swan on still St. Mary's LakeFloat double, swan and shadow!We will not see them; will not goTo-day, nor yet to-morrow;Enough, if in our hearts we knowThere's such a place as Yarrow.
"Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!It must, or we shall rue it:We have a vision of our own;Ah! why should we undo it?The treasured dreams of times long past,We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!For when we're there, although 'tis fair,'Twill be another Yarrow!
"If care with freezing years should come,And wandering seem but folly,—Should we be loath to stir from home,And yet be melancholy,—Should life be dull, and spirits low,'Twill soothe us in our sorrow,That earth has something yet to show,—The bonny holms of Yarrow!"
William Wordsworth.