"Who bears upon his baby brow the roundAnd top of sovereignty."
"Who bears upon his baby brow the roundAnd top of sovereignty."
"Who bears upon his baby brow the roundAnd top of sovereignty."
Look at me with thy large brown eyes,Philip, my king!For round thee the purple shadow liesOf babyhood's royal dignities.Lay on my neck thy tiny handWith Love's invisible sceptre laden;I am thine Esther, to commandTill thou shalt find thy queen-handmaiden,Philip, my king!O, the day when thou goest a-wooing,Philip, my king!When those beautiful lips 'gin suing,And, some gentle heart's bars undoing,Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and thereSittest love-glorified!—Rule kindly,Tenderly over thy kingdom fair;For we that love, ah! we love so blindly,Philip, my king!Up from thy sweet mouth,—up to thy brow,Philip, my king!The spirit that there lies sleeping nowMay rise like a giant, and make men bowAs to one Heaven-chosen amongst his peers.My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairerLet me behold thee in future years!Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer,Philip, my king;—A wreath not of gold, but palm. One day,Philip, my king,Thou too must tread, as we trod, a wayThorny, and cruel, and cold, and gray;Rebels within thee and foes withoutWill snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious,Martyr, yet monarch; till angels shout,As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious,"Philip, the king!"Dinah Maria Mulock Craik.
Look at me with thy large brown eyes,Philip, my king!For round thee the purple shadow liesOf babyhood's royal dignities.Lay on my neck thy tiny handWith Love's invisible sceptre laden;I am thine Esther, to commandTill thou shalt find thy queen-handmaiden,Philip, my king!
O, the day when thou goest a-wooing,Philip, my king!When those beautiful lips 'gin suing,And, some gentle heart's bars undoing,Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and thereSittest love-glorified!—Rule kindly,Tenderly over thy kingdom fair;For we that love, ah! we love so blindly,Philip, my king!
Up from thy sweet mouth,—up to thy brow,Philip, my king!The spirit that there lies sleeping nowMay rise like a giant, and make men bowAs to one Heaven-chosen amongst his peers.My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairerLet me behold thee in future years!Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer,Philip, my king;—
A wreath not of gold, but palm. One day,Philip, my king,Thou too must tread, as we trod, a wayThorny, and cruel, and cold, and gray;Rebels within thee and foes withoutWill snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious,Martyr, yet monarch; till angels shout,As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious,"Philip, the king!"
Dinah Maria Mulock Craik.
"Ho, sailor of the sea!How's my boy,—my boy?""What's your boy's name, good wife,And in what ship sailed he?""My boy John,—He that went to sea,—What care I for the ship, sailor?My boy's my boy to me."You come back from sea,And not know my John?I might as well have asked some landsman,Yonder down in the town.There's not an ass in all the parishBut knows my John."How's my boy,—my boy?And unless you let me know,I'll swear you are no sailor,Blue jacket or no,—Brass buttons or no, sailor,Anchor and crown or no,—Sure his ship was the 'Jolly Briton'"—"Speak low, woman, speak low!""And why should I speak low, sailor,About my own boy John?If I was loud as I am proudI'd sing him over the town!Why should I speak low, sailor?""That good ship went down.""How's my boy,—my boy?What care I for the ship, sailor?I was never aboard her.Be she afloat or be she aground,Sinking or swimming, I'll be boundHer owners can afford her!I say, how's my John?""Every man on board went down,Every man aboard her.""How's my boy,—my boy?What care I for the men, sailor?I'm not their mother,—How's my boy,—my boy?Tell me of him and no other!How's my boy,—my boy?"Sydney Dobell.
"Ho, sailor of the sea!How's my boy,—my boy?""What's your boy's name, good wife,And in what ship sailed he?"
"My boy John,—He that went to sea,—What care I for the ship, sailor?My boy's my boy to me.
"You come back from sea,And not know my John?I might as well have asked some landsman,Yonder down in the town.There's not an ass in all the parishBut knows my John.
"How's my boy,—my boy?And unless you let me know,I'll swear you are no sailor,Blue jacket or no,—Brass buttons or no, sailor,Anchor and crown or no,—Sure his ship was the 'Jolly Briton'"—"Speak low, woman, speak low!"
"And why should I speak low, sailor,About my own boy John?If I was loud as I am proudI'd sing him over the town!Why should I speak low, sailor?""That good ship went down."
"How's my boy,—my boy?What care I for the ship, sailor?I was never aboard her.Be she afloat or be she aground,Sinking or swimming, I'll be boundHer owners can afford her!I say, how's my John?""Every man on board went down,Every man aboard her."
"How's my boy,—my boy?What care I for the men, sailor?I'm not their mother,—How's my boy,—my boy?Tell me of him and no other!How's my boy,—my boy?"
Sydney Dobell.
Between the dark and the daylight,When the night is beginning to lower,Comes a pause in the day's occupationsThat is known as the children's hour,I hear in the chamber above meThe patter of little feet,The sound of a door that is opened,And voices soft and sweet.From my study I see in the lamplight,Descending the broad hall-stair,Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,And Edith with golden hair.A whisper, and then a silence;Yet I know by their merry eyesThey are plotting and planning togetherTo take me by surprise.A sudden rush from the stairway,A sudden raid from the hall:By three doors left unguardedThey enter my castle wall.They climb up into my turretO'er the arms and back of my chair;If I try to escape, they surround me:They seem to be everywhere.They almost devour me with kisses;Their arms about me entwine,Till I think of the Bishop of BingenIn his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine.Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti!Because you have scaled the wall,Such an old mustache as I amIs not a match for you all?I have you fast in my fortress,And will not let you depart,But put you down into the dungeonIn the round tower of my heart.And there will I keep you forever,—Yes, forever and a day,Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,And moulder in dust away.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Between the dark and the daylight,When the night is beginning to lower,Comes a pause in the day's occupationsThat is known as the children's hour,
I hear in the chamber above meThe patter of little feet,The sound of a door that is opened,And voices soft and sweet.
From my study I see in the lamplight,Descending the broad hall-stair,Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,And Edith with golden hair.
A whisper, and then a silence;Yet I know by their merry eyesThey are plotting and planning togetherTo take me by surprise.
A sudden rush from the stairway,A sudden raid from the hall:By three doors left unguardedThey enter my castle wall.
They climb up into my turretO'er the arms and back of my chair;If I try to escape, they surround me:They seem to be everywhere.
They almost devour me with kisses;Their arms about me entwine,Till I think of the Bishop of BingenIn his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine.
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti!Because you have scaled the wall,Such an old mustache as I amIs not a match for you all?
I have you fast in my fortress,And will not let you depart,But put you down into the dungeonIn the round tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you forever,—Yes, forever and a day,Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,And moulder in dust away.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
I cannot make him dead!His fair sunshiny headIs ever bounding round my study chair;Yet when my eyes, now dimWith tears, I turn to him,The vision vanishes,—he is not there!I walk my parlor floor,And through the open doorI hear a footfall on the chamber stair;I'm stepping toward the hallTo give the boy a call;And then bethink me that—he is not there!I thread the crowded street;A satchelled lad I meet,With the same beaming eyes and colored hair;And, as he's running by,Follow him with my eye,Scarcely believing that—he is not there!I know his face is hidUnder the coffin lid;Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair;My hand that marble felt;O'er it in prayer I knelt;Yet my heart whispers that—he is not there!I cannot make him dead!When passing by the bed,So long watched over with parental care,My spirit and my eyeSeek him inquiringly,Before the thought comes that—he is not there!When, at the cool gray breakOf day, from sleep I wake,With my first breathing of the morning airMy soul goes up, with joy,To Him who gave my boy;Then comes the sad thought that—he is not there!When at the day's calm close,Before we seek repose,I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer;Whate'er I may be saying,I am in spirit prayingFor our boy's spirit, though—he is not there!Not there!—Where, then, is he?The form I used to seeWas but the raiment that he used to wear.The grave, that now doth pressUpon that cast-off dress,Is but his wardrobe locked;—he is not there!He lives!—In all the pastHe lives; nor, to the last,Of seeing him again will I despair;In dreams I see him now;And on his angel browI see it written, "Thou shalt see methere!"Yes, we all live to God!Father, thy chastening rodSo help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,That in the spirit-land,Meeting at thy right hand,'Twill be our heaven to find that—he is there!John Pierpont.
I cannot make him dead!His fair sunshiny headIs ever bounding round my study chair;Yet when my eyes, now dimWith tears, I turn to him,The vision vanishes,—he is not there!
I walk my parlor floor,And through the open doorI hear a footfall on the chamber stair;I'm stepping toward the hallTo give the boy a call;And then bethink me that—he is not there!
I thread the crowded street;A satchelled lad I meet,With the same beaming eyes and colored hair;And, as he's running by,Follow him with my eye,Scarcely believing that—he is not there!
I know his face is hidUnder the coffin lid;Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair;My hand that marble felt;O'er it in prayer I knelt;Yet my heart whispers that—he is not there!
I cannot make him dead!When passing by the bed,So long watched over with parental care,My spirit and my eyeSeek him inquiringly,Before the thought comes that—he is not there!
When, at the cool gray breakOf day, from sleep I wake,With my first breathing of the morning airMy soul goes up, with joy,To Him who gave my boy;Then comes the sad thought that—he is not there!
When at the day's calm close,Before we seek repose,I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer;Whate'er I may be saying,I am in spirit prayingFor our boy's spirit, though—he is not there!
Not there!—Where, then, is he?The form I used to seeWas but the raiment that he used to wear.The grave, that now doth pressUpon that cast-off dress,Is but his wardrobe locked;—he is not there!
He lives!—In all the pastHe lives; nor, to the last,Of seeing him again will I despair;In dreams I see him now;And on his angel browI see it written, "Thou shalt see methere!"
Yes, we all live to God!Father, thy chastening rodSo help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,That in the spirit-land,Meeting at thy right hand,'Twill be our heaven to find that—he is there!
John Pierpont.
I'm wearin' awa', John,Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John,I'm wearin' awa'To 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 lastIn the land o' the leal.Sae dear's that joy was bought, John,Sae free the battle fought, John,That sinfu' man e'er broughtTo the land o' the leal.Oh! dry your glist'ning e'e, John,My saul langs to be free, John,And angels beckon meTo the land o' the leal.Oh! haud ye leal and true, John,Your day it's wearin' thro', John,And I'll welcome youTo the land o' the leal.Now fare ye weel, my ain John,This warld's cares are vain, John,We'll meet, and we'll be fain,In the land o' the leal.Lady Nairne.
I'm wearin' awa', John,Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John,I'm wearin' awa'To 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 lastIn the land o' the leal.
Sae dear's that joy was bought, John,Sae free the battle fought, John,That sinfu' man e'er broughtTo the land o' the leal.Oh! dry your glist'ning e'e, John,My saul langs to be free, John,And angels beckon meTo the land o' the leal.
Oh! haud ye leal and true, John,Your day it's wearin' thro', John,And I'll welcome youTo the land o' the leal.Now fare ye weel, my ain John,This warld's cares are vain, John,We'll meet, and we'll be fain,In the land o' the leal.
Lady Nairne.
I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,Where we sat side by sideOn a bright May mornin' long ago,When first you were my bride;The corn was springin' fresh and green,And the lark sang loud and high;And the red was on your lip, Mary,And the love-light in your eye.The place is little changed, Mary;The day is bright as then;The lark's loud song is in my ear,And the corn is green again;But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,And your breath, warm on my cheek;And I still keep list'nin' for the wordsYou never more will speak.'Tis but a step down yonder lane,And the little church stands near,—The church where we were wed, Mary;I see the spire from here.But the graveyard lies between, Mary,And my step might break your rest,—For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep,With your baby on your breast.I'm very lonely now, Mary,—For the poor make no new friends;But, oh! they love the better stillThe few our Father sends!And you were all I had, Mary,—My blessin' and my pride:There's nothing left to care for now,Since my poor Mary died.Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,That still kept hoping on,When the trust in God had left my soul,And my arm's young strength was gone;There was comfort ever on your lip,And the kind look on your brow,—I bless you, Mary, for that same,Though you cannot hear me now.I thank you for the patient smileWhen your heart was fit to break,—When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there,And you hid it for my sake;I bless you for the pleasant word,When your heart was sad and sore,—Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,Where grief can't reach you more!I'm biddin' you a long farewell,My Mary,—kind and true!But I'll not forget you, darling,In the land I'm goin' to;They say there's bread and work for all,And the sun shines always there,—But I'll not forget old Ireland,Were it fifty times as fair!And often in those grand old woodsI'll sit, and shut my eyes,And my heart will travel back againTo the place where Mary lies;And I'll think I see the little stileWhere we sat side by side,And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn,When first you were my bride.Lady Dufferin.
I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,Where we sat side by sideOn a bright May mornin' long ago,When first you were my bride;The corn was springin' fresh and green,And the lark sang loud and high;And the red was on your lip, Mary,And the love-light in your eye.
The place is little changed, Mary;The day is bright as then;The lark's loud song is in my ear,And the corn is green again;But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,And your breath, warm on my cheek;And I still keep list'nin' for the wordsYou never more will speak.
'Tis but a step down yonder lane,And the little church stands near,—The church where we were wed, Mary;I see the spire from here.But the graveyard lies between, Mary,And my step might break your rest,—For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep,With your baby on your breast.
I'm very lonely now, Mary,—For the poor make no new friends;But, oh! they love the better stillThe few our Father sends!And you were all I had, Mary,—My blessin' and my pride:There's nothing left to care for now,Since my poor Mary died.
Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,That still kept hoping on,When the trust in God had left my soul,And my arm's young strength was gone;There was comfort ever on your lip,And the kind look on your brow,—I bless you, Mary, for that same,Though you cannot hear me now.
I thank you for the patient smileWhen your heart was fit to break,—When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there,And you hid it for my sake;I bless you for the pleasant word,When your heart was sad and sore,—Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,Where grief can't reach you more!
I'm biddin' you a long farewell,My Mary,—kind and true!But I'll not forget you, darling,In the land I'm goin' to;They say there's bread and work for all,And the sun shines always there,—But I'll not forget old Ireland,Were it fifty times as fair!
And often in those grand old woodsI'll sit, and shut my eyes,And my heart will travel back againTo the place where Mary lies;And I'll think I see the little stileWhere we sat side by side,And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn,When first you were my bride.
Lady Dufferin.
We watched her breathing through the night,Her breathing soft and low,As in her breast the wave of lifeKept heaving to and fro.So silently we seemed to speak,So slowly moved about,As we had lent her half our powersTo eke her living out.Our very hopes belied our fears,Our fears our hopes belied,—We thought her dying when she slept,And sleeping when she died.For when the morn came, dim and sad,And chill with early showers,Her quiet eyelids closed,—she hadAnother morn than ours.Thomas Hood.
We watched her breathing through the night,Her breathing soft and low,As in her breast the wave of lifeKept heaving to and fro.
So silently we seemed to speak,So slowly moved about,As we had lent her half our powersTo eke her living out.
Our very hopes belied our fears,Our fears our hopes belied,—We thought her dying when she slept,And sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came, dim and sad,And chill with early showers,Her quiet eyelids closed,—she hadAnother morn than ours.
Thomas Hood.
Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead,—Sit and watch by her side an hour.That is her book-shelf, this her bed;She plucked that piece of geranium flower,Beginning to die, too, in the glass.Little has yet been changed, I think,—The shutters are shut, no light may pass,Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.Sixteen years old when she died!Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name,—It was not her time to love: beside,Her life had many a hope and aim,Duties enough and little cares;And now was quiet, now astir,—Till God's hand beckoned unawares,And the sweet white brow is all of her.Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope?What! your soul was pure and true;The good stars met in your horoscope,Made you of spirit, fire, and dew,—And just because I was thrice as old,And our paths in the world diverged so wide,Each was naught to each, must I be told?We were fellow-mortals,—naught beside?No, indeed! for God aboveIs great to grant, as mighty to make,And creates the love to reward the love,—I claim you still, for my own love's sake!Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet,Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few,—Much is to learn and much to forgetEre the time be come for taking you.But the time will come—at last it will—When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say,In the lower earth, in the years long still,That body and soul so pure and gay?Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,And your mouth of your own geranium's red,—And what you would do with me, in fine,In the new life come in the old one's stead.I have lived, I shall say, so much since then,Given up myself so many times,Gained me the gains of various men,Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,Either I missed or itself missed me,—And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!What is the issue? let us see!I loved you, Evelyn, all the while;My heart seemed full as it could hold,—There was space and to spare for the frank young smile,And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold.So hush,—I will give you this leaf to keep,—See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand.There, that is our secret! go to sleep;You will wake, and remember, and understand.Robert Browning.
Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead,—Sit and watch by her side an hour.That is her book-shelf, this her bed;She plucked that piece of geranium flower,Beginning to die, too, in the glass.Little has yet been changed, I think,—The shutters are shut, no light may pass,Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.
Sixteen years old when she died!Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name,—It was not her time to love: beside,Her life had many a hope and aim,Duties enough and little cares;And now was quiet, now astir,—Till God's hand beckoned unawares,And the sweet white brow is all of her.
Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope?What! your soul was pure and true;The good stars met in your horoscope,Made you of spirit, fire, and dew,—And just because I was thrice as old,And our paths in the world diverged so wide,Each was naught to each, must I be told?We were fellow-mortals,—naught beside?
No, indeed! for God aboveIs great to grant, as mighty to make,And creates the love to reward the love,—I claim you still, for my own love's sake!Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet,Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few,—Much is to learn and much to forgetEre the time be come for taking you.
But the time will come—at last it will—When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say,In the lower earth, in the years long still,That body and soul so pure and gay?Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,And your mouth of your own geranium's red,—And what you would do with me, in fine,In the new life come in the old one's stead.
I have lived, I shall say, so much since then,Given up myself so many times,Gained me the gains of various men,Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,Either I missed or itself missed me,—And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!What is the issue? let us see!
I loved you, Evelyn, all the while;My heart seemed full as it could hold,—There was space and to spare for the frank young smile,And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold.So hush,—I will give you this leaf to keep,—See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand.There, that is our secret! go to sleep;You will wake, and remember, and understand.
Robert Browning.
Weave no more the marriage-chain!All unmated is the lover;Death has ta'en the place of Pain;Love doth call on Love in vain:Life and years of hope are over!No more want of marriage-bell!No more need of bridal favor!Where is she to wear them well?You beside the lover tell!Gone,—with all the love he gave her!Paler than the stone she lies;Colder than the winter's morning!Wherefore did she thus despise(She with pity in her eyes)Mother's care and lover's warning?Youth and beauty,—shall they notLast beyond a brief to-morrow?No: a prayer, and then forgot!This the truest lover's lot;This the sum of human sorrow!Bryan Waller Procter.
Weave no more the marriage-chain!All unmated is the lover;Death has ta'en the place of Pain;Love doth call on Love in vain:Life and years of hope are over!
No more want of marriage-bell!No more need of bridal favor!Where is she to wear them well?You beside the lover tell!Gone,—with all the love he gave her!
Paler than the stone she lies;Colder than the winter's morning!Wherefore did she thus despise(She with pity in her eyes)Mother's care and lover's warning?
Youth and beauty,—shall they notLast beyond a brief to-morrow?No: a prayer, and then forgot!This the truest lover's lot;This the sum of human sorrow!
Bryan Waller Procter.
She died in beauty,—like a roseBlown from its parent stem;She died in beauty,—like a pearlDropped from some diadem.She died in beauty,—like a layAlong a moonlit lake;She died in beauty,—like the songOf birds amid the brake.She died in beauty,—like the snowOn flowers dissolved away;She died in beauty,—like a starLost on the brow of day.She lives in glory,—like night's gemsSet round the silver moon;She lives in glory,—like the sunAmid the blue of June.Charles Doyne Sillery.
She died in beauty,—like a roseBlown from its parent stem;She died in beauty,—like a pearlDropped from some diadem.
She died in beauty,—like a layAlong a moonlit lake;She died in beauty,—like the songOf birds amid the brake.
She died in beauty,—like the snowOn flowers dissolved away;She died in beauty,—like a starLost on the brow of day.
She lives in glory,—like night's gemsSet round the silver moon;She lives in glory,—like the sunAmid the blue of June.
Charles Doyne Sillery.
She was not fair, nor full of grace,Nor crowned with thought or aught beside;Nor wealth had she, of mind or face,To win our love or raise our pride;No lover's thought her cheek did touch;No poet's dream was round her thrown;And yet we miss her,—ah, too much,Now—she hath flown!We miss her when the morning calls,As one that mingled in our mirth;We miss her when the evening falls,—A trifle wanted on the earth!Some fancy small, or subtile thought,Is checked ere to its blossom grown;Some chain is broken that we wrought,Now—she hath flown!No solid good, nor hope defined,Is marred now she has sunk in night;And yet the strong immortal MindIs stopped in its triumphant flight!Perhaps some grain lost to its sphereMight cast the great Sun from his throne;For all we know is—"She was here,"And—"She hath flown!"Bryan Waller Procter.
She was not fair, nor full of grace,Nor crowned with thought or aught beside;Nor wealth had she, of mind or face,To win our love or raise our pride;No lover's thought her cheek did touch;No poet's dream was round her thrown;And yet we miss her,—ah, too much,Now—she hath flown!
We miss her when the morning calls,As one that mingled in our mirth;We miss her when the evening falls,—A trifle wanted on the earth!Some fancy small, or subtile thought,Is checked ere to its blossom grown;Some chain is broken that we wrought,Now—she hath flown!
No solid good, nor hope defined,Is marred now she has sunk in night;And yet the strong immortal MindIs stopped in its triumphant flight!Perhaps some grain lost to its sphereMight cast the great Sun from his throne;For all we know is—"She was here,"And—"She hath flown!"
Bryan Waller Procter.
Ye banks, and braes, and streams aroundThe castle o' Montgomery,Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,Your waters never drumlie!There simmer first unfald her robes,And there the langest tarry!For there I took the last fareweelO' my sweet Highland Mary.How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk!How rich the hawthorn blossom!As, underneath their fragrant shade,I clasped her to my bosom!The golden hours, on angel wings,Flew o'er me and my dearie;For dear to me as light and lifeWas my sweet Highland Mary.Wi' monie a vow and locked embraceOur parting was fu' tender;And pledging aft to meet again,We tore ourselves asunder;But oh! fell death's untimely frost,That nipt my flower sae early!Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,That wraps my Highland Mary!O pale, pale now, those rosy lipsI aft hae kissed sae fondly!And closed for aye the sparkling glanceThat dwelt on me sae kindly!And mouldering now in silent dustThat heart that lo'ed me dearly!But still within my bosom's coreShall live my Highland Mary.Robert Burns.
Ye banks, and braes, and streams aroundThe castle o' Montgomery,Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,Your waters never drumlie!There simmer first unfald her robes,And there the langest tarry!For there I took the last fareweelO' my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk!How rich the hawthorn blossom!As, underneath their fragrant shade,I clasped her to my bosom!The golden hours, on angel wings,Flew o'er me and my dearie;For dear to me as light and lifeWas my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' monie a vow and locked embraceOur parting was fu' tender;And pledging aft to meet again,We tore ourselves asunder;But oh! fell death's untimely frost,That nipt my flower sae early!Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,That wraps my Highland Mary!
O pale, pale now, those rosy lipsI aft hae kissed sae fondly!And closed for aye the sparkling glanceThat dwelt on me sae kindly!And mouldering now in silent dustThat heart that lo'ed me dearly!But still within my bosom's coreShall live my Highland Mary.
Robert Burns.
Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas,In the old likeness that I knew,I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas,Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.Never a scornful word should grieve ye,I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do,—Sweet as your smile on me shone ever,Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.O to call back the days that are not!My eyes were blinded, your words were few;Do you know the truth now up in heaven,Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?I never was worthy of you, Douglas,Not half worthy the like of you;Now all men beside seem to me like shadows,—I loveyou, Douglas, tender and true.Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas,Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew,As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas,Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.Dinah Maria Mulock Craik.
Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas,In the old likeness that I knew,I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas,Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.
Never a scornful word should grieve ye,I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do,—Sweet as your smile on me shone ever,Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.
O to call back the days that are not!My eyes were blinded, your words were few;Do you know the truth now up in heaven,Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?
I never was worthy of you, Douglas,Not half worthy the like of you;Now all men beside seem to me like shadows,—I loveyou, Douglas, tender and true.
Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas,Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew,As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas,Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.
Dinah Maria Mulock Craik.
Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,The darling of our crew;No more he'll hear the tempest howling,—For death has broached him to.His form was of the manliest beauty;His heart was kind and soft;Faithful below, he did his duty;But now he's gone aloft.Tom never from his word departed,—His virtues were so rare;His friends were many and true-hearted;His Poll was kind and fair.And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,—Ah, many's the time and oft!But mirth is turned to melancholy,For Tom is gone aloft.Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,When He, who all commands,Shall give, to call life's crew together,The word to pipe all hands.Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches,In vain Tom's life has doffed;For, though his body's under hatches,His soul is gone aloft.Charles Dibdin.
Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,The darling of our crew;No more he'll hear the tempest howling,—For death has broached him to.His form was of the manliest beauty;His heart was kind and soft;Faithful below, he did his duty;But now he's gone aloft.
Tom never from his word departed,—His virtues were so rare;His friends were many and true-hearted;His Poll was kind and fair.And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,—Ah, many's the time and oft!But mirth is turned to melancholy,For Tom is gone aloft.
Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,When He, who all commands,Shall give, to call life's crew together,The word to pipe all hands.Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches,In vain Tom's life has doffed;For, though his body's under hatches,His soul is gone aloft.
Charles Dibdin.
Green be the turf above thee,Friend of my better days!None knew thee but to love thee,Nor named thee but to praise.Tears fell, when thou wert dying,From eyes unused to weep,And long, where thou art lying,Will tears the cold turf steep.When hearts whose truth was proven,Like thine, are laid in earth,There should a wreath be wovenTo tell the world their worth;And I, who woke each morrowTo clasp thy hand in mine,Who shared thy joy and sorrow,Whose weal and woe were thine,—It should be mine to braid itAround thy faded brow,But I've in vain essayed it,And feel I cannot now.While memory bids me weep thee,Nor thoughts nor words are free,The grief is fixed too deeplyThat mourns a man like thee.Fitz-Greene Halleck.
Green be the turf above thee,Friend of my better days!None knew thee but to love thee,Nor named thee but to praise.
Tears fell, when thou wert dying,From eyes unused to weep,And long, where thou art lying,Will tears the cold turf steep.
When hearts whose truth was proven,Like thine, are laid in earth,There should a wreath be wovenTo tell the world their worth;
And I, who woke each morrowTo clasp thy hand in mine,Who shared thy joy and sorrow,Whose weal and woe were thine,—
It should be mine to braid itAround thy faded brow,But I've in vain essayed it,And feel I cannot now.
While memory bids me weep thee,Nor thoughts nor words are free,The grief is fixed too deeplyThat mourns a man like thee.
Fitz-Greene Halleck.
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,And lovers are round her sighing;But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,For her heart in his grave is lying!She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,Every note which he loved awaking;Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,How the heart of the minstrel is breaking!He had lived for his love, for his country he died,They were all that to life had entwined him;Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,Nor long will his love stay behind him.Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,When they promise a glorious morrow;They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west,From her own loved island of sorrow!Thomas Moore.
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,And lovers are round her sighing;But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,For her heart in his grave is lying!
She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,Every note which he loved awaking;Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,How the heart of the minstrel is breaking!
He had lived for his love, for his country he died,They were all that to life had entwined him;Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,Nor long will his love stay behind him.
Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,When they promise a glorious morrow;They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west,From her own loved island of sorrow!
Thomas Moore.
O sing unto my roundelay!O, drop the briny tear with me!Dance no more at holiday;Like a running river be.My love is dead,Gone to his death bed,All under the willow tree.Black his hair as the winter night,White his neck as the summer snow,Ruddy his face as the morning light;Cold he lies in the grave below.My love is dead,Gone to his death bed,All under the willow tree.Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note;Quick in dance as thought can be;Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;O, he lies by the willow tree!My love is dead,Gone to his death bed,All under the willow tree.Hark! the raven flaps his wingIn the briered dell below;Hark! the death-owl loud doth singTo the nightmares as they go.My love is dead,Gone to his death bed,All under the willow tree.See! the white moon shines on high;Whiter is my true-love's shroud,Whiter than the morning sky,Whiter than the evening cloud.My love is dead,Gone to his death bed,All under the willow tree.Here, upon my true-love's graveShall the barren flowers be laid,Nor one holy saint to saveAll the coldness of a maid.My love is dead,Gone to his death bed,All under the willow tree.With my hands I'll bind the briersRound his holy corse to gre;Ouphant fairy, light your fires;Here my body still shall be.My love is dead,Gone to his death bed,All under the willow tree.Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,Drain my heart's blood all away;Life and all its good I scorn,Dance by night, or feast by day.My love is dead,Gone to his death bed,All under the willow tree.Water-witches, crowned with reytes,Bear me to your lethal tide.I die! I come! my true-love waits.Thus the damsel spake, and died.Thomas Chatterton.
O sing unto my roundelay!O, drop the briny tear with me!Dance no more at holiday;Like a running river be.My love is dead,Gone to his death bed,All under the willow tree.
Black his hair as the winter night,White his neck as the summer snow,Ruddy his face as the morning light;Cold he lies in the grave below.My love is dead,Gone to his death bed,All under the willow tree.
Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note;Quick in dance as thought can be;Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;O, he lies by the willow tree!My love is dead,Gone to his death bed,All under the willow tree.
Hark! the raven flaps his wingIn the briered dell below;Hark! the death-owl loud doth singTo the nightmares as they go.My love is dead,Gone to his death bed,All under the willow tree.
See! the white moon shines on high;Whiter is my true-love's shroud,Whiter than the morning sky,Whiter than the evening cloud.My love is dead,Gone to his death bed,All under the willow tree.
Here, upon my true-love's graveShall the barren flowers be laid,Nor one holy saint to saveAll the coldness of a maid.My love is dead,Gone to his death bed,All under the willow tree.
With my hands I'll bind the briersRound his holy corse to gre;Ouphant fairy, light your fires;Here my body still shall be.My love is dead,Gone to his death bed,All under the willow tree.
Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,Drain my heart's blood all away;Life and all its good I scorn,Dance by night, or feast by day.My love is dead,Gone to his death bed,All under the willow tree.
Water-witches, crowned with reytes,Bear me to your lethal tide.I die! I come! my true-love waits.Thus the damsel spake, and died.
Thomas Chatterton.
Farewell! since nevermore for theeThe sun comes up our earthly skies,Less bright henceforth shall sunshine beTo some fond hearts and saddened eyes.There are who for thy last long sleepShall sleep as sweetly nevermore,Shall weep because thou canst not weep,And grieve that all thy griefs are o'er.Sad thrift of love! the loving breast,On which the aching head was thrown,Gave up the weary head to rest,But kept the aching for its own.Thomas K. Hervey.
Farewell! since nevermore for theeThe sun comes up our earthly skies,Less bright henceforth shall sunshine beTo some fond hearts and saddened eyes.
There are who for thy last long sleepShall sleep as sweetly nevermore,Shall weep because thou canst not weep,And grieve that all thy griefs are o'er.
Sad thrift of love! the loving breast,On which the aching head was thrown,Gave up the weary head to rest,But kept the aching for its own.
Thomas K. Hervey.
They grew in beauty, side by side,They filled one home with glee,—Their graves are severed far and wide,By mount, and stream, and sea.The same fond mother bent at nightO'er each fair sleeping brow;She had each folded flower in sight,—Where are those dreamers now?One, 'midst the forests of the West,By a dark stream is laid,—The Indian knows his place of rest,Far in the cedar shade.The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one;He lies where pearls lie deep;He was the loved of all, yet noneO'er his low bed may weep.One sleeps where southern vines are dressedAbove the noble slain;He wrapped his colors round his breast,On a blood-red field of Spain.And one,—o'er her the myrtle showersIts leaves, by soft winds fanned;She faded 'midst Italian flowers,The last of that bright band.And parted thus they rest, who playedBeneath the same green tree;Whose voices mingled as they prayedAround one parent knee!They that with smiles lit up the hall,And cheered with song the hearth,—Alas for love! ifthouwert all,And naught beyond, O earth!Felicia Hemans.
They grew in beauty, side by side,They filled one home with glee,—Their graves are severed far and wide,By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at nightO'er each fair sleeping brow;She had each folded flower in sight,—Where are those dreamers now?
One, 'midst the forests of the West,By a dark stream is laid,—The Indian knows his place of rest,Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one;He lies where pearls lie deep;He was the loved of all, yet noneO'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are dressedAbove the noble slain;He wrapped his colors round his breast,On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one,—o'er her the myrtle showersIts leaves, by soft winds fanned;She faded 'midst Italian flowers,The last of that bright band.
And parted thus they rest, who playedBeneath the same green tree;Whose voices mingled as they prayedAround one parent knee!
They that with smiles lit up the hall,And cheered with song the hearth,—Alas for love! ifthouwert all,And naught beyond, O earth!
Felicia Hemans.
At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill,And naught but the nightingale's song in the grove,'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar,While his harp rang symphonious, a hermit began;No more with himself or with nature at war,He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man:"Ah! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe,Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall?For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthrall.But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,—Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn!O, soothe him whose pleasures like thine pass away!Full quickly they pass,—but they never return."Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky,The moon, half extinguished, her crescent displays;But lately I marked when majestic on highShe shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursueThe path that conducts thee to splendor again!But man's faded glory what change shall renew?Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain!"'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more.I mourn,—but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;For morn is approaching your charms to restore,Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew.Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn,—Kind nature the embryo blossom will save;But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn?O, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave?"'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed,That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind,My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to shade,Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.'O pity, great Father of light,' then I cried,'Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee!Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride;From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free.'"And darkness and doubt are now flying away:No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn.So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray,The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.See truth, love, and mercy in triumph descending,And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending,And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb."James Beattie.
At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill,And naught but the nightingale's song in the grove,'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar,While his harp rang symphonious, a hermit began;No more with himself or with nature at war,He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man:
"Ah! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe,Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall?For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthrall.But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,—Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn!O, soothe him whose pleasures like thine pass away!Full quickly they pass,—but they never return.
"Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky,The moon, half extinguished, her crescent displays;But lately I marked when majestic on highShe shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursueThe path that conducts thee to splendor again!But man's faded glory what change shall renew?Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain!
"'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more.I mourn,—but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;For morn is approaching your charms to restore,Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew.Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn,—Kind nature the embryo blossom will save;But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn?O, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave?
"'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed,That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind,My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to shade,Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.'O pity, great Father of light,' then I cried,'Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee!Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride;From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free.'
"And darkness and doubt are now flying away:No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn.So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray,The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.See truth, love, and mercy in triumph descending,And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending,And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb."
James Beattie.