By yon castle wa', at the close of the day,I heard a man sing, though his head it was gray;And as he was singing the tears down came,There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.The church is in ruins, the state is in jars;Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars;We darena weel say't, though we ken wha's to blame,There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame!My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd.It brak the sweet heart of my faithfu' auld dame—There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.Now life is a burthen that bows me down,Since I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;But till my last moments my words are the same—There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame!
By yon castle wa', at the close of the day,I heard a man sing, though his head it was gray;And as he was singing the tears down came,There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
The church is in ruins, the state is in jars;Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars;We darena weel say't, though we ken wha's to blame,There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame!
My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd.It brak the sweet heart of my faithfu' auld dame—There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
Now life is a burthen that bows me down,Since I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;But till my last moments my words are the same—There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame!
Robert Burns.
Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!Rescue my castle before the hot dayBrightens to blue from its silvery gray,(Chorus)Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say;Many's the friend there will listen and pray"God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay—(Chorus) 'Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!'"Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array:Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay,(Chorus) 'Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!'"Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay,Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay!I've better counselors; what counsel they?(Chorus) 'Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!'"
Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!Rescue my castle before the hot dayBrightens to blue from its silvery gray,(Chorus)Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say;Many's the friend there will listen and pray"God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay—(Chorus) 'Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!'"
Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array:Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay,(Chorus) 'Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!'"
Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay,Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay!I've better counselors; what counsel they?(Chorus) 'Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!'"
Robert Browning.
The weary day rins down and dies,The weary night wears through:And never an hour is fair wi' flowerAnd never a flower wi' dew.I would the day were night for me,I would the night were day:For then would I stand in my ain fair land,As now in dreams I may.O lordly flow the Loire and Seine,And loud the dark Durance:But bonnier shine the braes of TyneThan a' the fields of France;And the waves of Till that speak sae stillGleam goodlier where they glance.O weel were they that fell fightingOn dark Drumossie's day:They keep their hame ayont the faemAnd we die far away.O sound they sleep, and saft, and deep,But night and day wake we;And ever between the sea banks greenSounds loud the sundering sea.And ill we sleep, sae sair we weep,But sweet and fast sleep they;And the mool that haps them roun' and laps themIs e'en their country's clay;But the land we tread that are not deadIs strange as night by day.Strange as night in a strange man's sight,Though fair as dawn it be:For what is here that a stranger's cheerShould yet wax blithe to see?The hills stand steep, the dells lie deep,The fields are green and gold;The hill streams sing, and the hillsides ring,As ours at home of old.But hills and flowers are nane of ours,And ours are over sea:And the kind strange land whereon we stand,It wotsna what were weOr ever we came, wi' scathe and shame,To try what end might be.Scathe and shame, and a waefu' name,And a weary time and strange,Have they that seeing a weird for dreeingCan die, and cannot change.Shame and scorn may we thole that mourn,Though sair be they to dree:But ill may we bide the thoughts we hide,Mair keen than wind and sea.Ill may we thole the night's watches,And ill the weary day:And the dreams that keep the gates of sleep,A waefu' gift gie they;For the songs they sing us, the sights they bring us,The morn blaws all away.On Aikenshaw the sun blinks braw,The burn rins blithe and fain;There's naught wi' me I wadna gieTo look thereon again.On Keilder-side the wind blaws wide:There sounds nae hunting hornThat rings sae sweet as the winds that beatRound banks where Tyne is born.The Wansbeck sings with all her springs,The bents and braes give ear;But the wood that rings wi' the sang she singsI may not see nor hear;For far and far thae blithe burns are,And strange is a' thing near.The light there lightens, the day there brightens,The loud wind there lives free:Nae light comes nigh me or wind blaws by meThat I wad hear or see.But O gin I were there again,Afar ayont the faem,Cauld and dead in the sweet saft bedThat haps my sires at hame!We'll see nae mair the sea banks fair,And the sweet gray gleaming sky,And the lordly strand of Northumberland,And the goodly towers thereby;And none shall know but the winds that blowThe graves wherein we lie.
The weary day rins down and dies,The weary night wears through:And never an hour is fair wi' flowerAnd never a flower wi' dew.
I would the day were night for me,I would the night were day:For then would I stand in my ain fair land,As now in dreams I may.
O lordly flow the Loire and Seine,And loud the dark Durance:But bonnier shine the braes of TyneThan a' the fields of France;And the waves of Till that speak sae stillGleam goodlier where they glance.
O weel were they that fell fightingOn dark Drumossie's day:They keep their hame ayont the faemAnd we die far away.
O sound they sleep, and saft, and deep,But night and day wake we;And ever between the sea banks greenSounds loud the sundering sea.
And ill we sleep, sae sair we weep,But sweet and fast sleep they;And the mool that haps them roun' and laps themIs e'en their country's clay;But the land we tread that are not deadIs strange as night by day.
Strange as night in a strange man's sight,Though fair as dawn it be:For what is here that a stranger's cheerShould yet wax blithe to see?
The hills stand steep, the dells lie deep,The fields are green and gold;The hill streams sing, and the hillsides ring,As ours at home of old.
But hills and flowers are nane of ours,And ours are over sea:And the kind strange land whereon we stand,It wotsna what were weOr ever we came, wi' scathe and shame,To try what end might be.
Scathe and shame, and a waefu' name,And a weary time and strange,Have they that seeing a weird for dreeingCan die, and cannot change.
Shame and scorn may we thole that mourn,Though sair be they to dree:But ill may we bide the thoughts we hide,Mair keen than wind and sea.
Ill may we thole the night's watches,And ill the weary day:And the dreams that keep the gates of sleep,A waefu' gift gie they;For the songs they sing us, the sights they bring us,The morn blaws all away.
On Aikenshaw the sun blinks braw,The burn rins blithe and fain;There's naught wi' me I wadna gieTo look thereon again.
On Keilder-side the wind blaws wide:There sounds nae hunting hornThat rings sae sweet as the winds that beatRound banks where Tyne is born.
The Wansbeck sings with all her springs,The bents and braes give ear;But the wood that rings wi' the sang she singsI may not see nor hear;For far and far thae blithe burns are,And strange is a' thing near.
The light there lightens, the day there brightens,The loud wind there lives free:Nae light comes nigh me or wind blaws by meThat I wad hear or see.
But O gin I were there again,Afar ayont the faem,Cauld and dead in the sweet saft bedThat haps my sires at hame!
We'll see nae mair the sea banks fair,And the sweet gray gleaming sky,And the lordly strand of Northumberland,And the goodly towers thereby;And none shall know but the winds that blowThe graves wherein we lie.
Algernon Charles Swinburne.
Photo of Algernon Charles SwinburneALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
To my true king I offered free from stainCourage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain.For him, I threw lands, honors, wealth, away,And one dear hope, that was more prized than they.For him I languished in a foreign clime,Gray-haired with sorrow in my manhood's prime;Heard on Lavernia Scargill's whispering trees,And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees;Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep,Each morning started from the dream to weep;Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gaveThe resting place I asked—an early grave.Oh thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone,From that proud country which was once mine own,By those white cliffs I never more must see,By that dear language which I speak like thee,Forget all feuds, and shed one English tearO'er English dust. A broken heart lies here.
To my true king I offered free from stainCourage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain.For him, I threw lands, honors, wealth, away,And one dear hope, that was more prized than they.For him I languished in a foreign clime,Gray-haired with sorrow in my manhood's prime;Heard on Lavernia Scargill's whispering trees,And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees;Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep,Each morning started from the dream to weep;Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gaveThe resting place I asked—an early grave.Oh thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone,From that proud country which was once mine own,By those white cliffs I never more must see,By that dear language which I speak like thee,Forget all feuds, and shed one English tearO'er English dust. A broken heart lies here.
Thomas Babington Macaulay.
Three fishers went sailing out into the west,Out into the west as the sun went down;Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,And the children stood watching them out of the town;For men must work, and women must weep,And there's little to earn, and many to keep,Though the harbor bar be moaning.Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.But men must work and women must weep,Though storms be sudden and waters deep,And the harbor bar be moaning.Three corpses lay out on the shining sandsIn the morning gleam as the tide went down,And the women are weeping and wringing their hands,For those who will never come home to the town;For men must work, and women must weep,And the sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleepAnd good-by to the bar and its moaning.
Three fishers went sailing out into the west,Out into the west as the sun went down;Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,And the children stood watching them out of the town;For men must work, and women must weep,And there's little to earn, and many to keep,Though the harbor bar be moaning.
Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.But men must work and women must weep,Though storms be sudden and waters deep,And the harbor bar be moaning.
Three corpses lay out on the shining sandsIn the morning gleam as the tide went down,And the women are weeping and wringing their hands,For those who will never come home to the town;For men must work, and women must weep,And the sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleepAnd good-by to the bar and its moaning.
Charles Kingsley.
Portrait of Charles KingsleyCHARLES KINGSLEY.
Life and Thought have gone awaySide by side,Leaving door and windows wide:Careless tenants they!All within is dark as night;In the windows is no light;And no murmur at the door,So frequent on its hinge before.Close the door, the shutters close,Or thro' the windows we shall seeThe nakedness and vacancyOf the dark, deserted house.Come away: no more of mirthIs here or merry-making sound.The house was builded of the earth,n>And shall fall again to ground.Come away: for life and thoughtHere no longer dwell;But in a city glorious—A great and distant city—have boughtA mansion incorruptible.Would they could have stayed with us!
Life and Thought have gone awaySide by side,Leaving door and windows wide:Careless tenants they!
All within is dark as night;In the windows is no light;And no murmur at the door,So frequent on its hinge before.
Close the door, the shutters close,Or thro' the windows we shall seeThe nakedness and vacancyOf the dark, deserted house.
Come away: no more of mirthIs here or merry-making sound.The house was builded of the earth,n>And shall fall again to ground.
Come away: for life and thoughtHere no longer dwell;But in a city glorious—A great and distant city—have boughtA mansion incorruptible.Would they could have stayed with us!
Alfred Tennyson.
old man with cane, 18th century dress
I saw him once before,As he passed by the door,And againThe pavement stones resound,As he totters o'er the groundWith his cane.They say that in his prime,Ere the pruning knife of TimeCut him down,Not a better man was foundBy the crier on his roundThrough the town.But now he walks the streets,And he looks at all he meetsSad and wan,And he shakes his feeble head,That it seems as if he said,"They are gone."The mossy marbles restOn the lips that he has prestIn their bloom,And the names he loved to hearHave been carved for many a yearOn the tomb.My grandmamma has said—Poor old lady, she is deadLong ago—That he had a Roman nose,And his cheek was like a roseIn the snow.But now his nose is thin,And it rests upon his chinLike a staff,And a crook is in his back,And a melancholy crackIn his laugh.I know it is a sinFor me to sit and grinAt him here;But the old three cornered hat,And the breeches, and all that,Are so queer!And if I should live to beThe last leaf upon the treeIn the spring,Let them smile, as I do now,At the old forsaken boughWhere I cling.
I saw him once before,As he passed by the door,And againThe pavement stones resound,As he totters o'er the groundWith his cane.
They say that in his prime,Ere the pruning knife of TimeCut him down,Not a better man was foundBy the crier on his roundThrough the town.
But now he walks the streets,And he looks at all he meetsSad and wan,And he shakes his feeble head,That it seems as if he said,"They are gone."
The mossy marbles restOn the lips that he has prestIn their bloom,And the names he loved to hearHave been carved for many a yearOn the tomb.
My grandmamma has said—Poor old lady, she is deadLong ago—That he had a Roman nose,And his cheek was like a roseIn the snow.
But now his nose is thin,And it rests upon his chinLike a staff,And a crook is in his back,And a melancholy crackIn his laugh.
I know it is a sinFor me to sit and grinAt him here;But the old three cornered hat,And the breeches, and all that,Are so queer!
And if I should live to beThe last leaf upon the treeIn the spring,Let them smile, as I do now,At the old forsaken boughWhere I cling.
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
O that those lips had language! Life has passedWith me but roughly since I heard thee last.Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smile I see,The same that oft in childhood solaced me;Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"The meek intelligence of those dear eyes(Blest be the art that can immortalize,The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claimTo quench it) here shines on me still the same.Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,O welcome guest, though unexpected here!Who bidd'st me honor with an artless song,Affectionate, a mother lost so long.I will obey, not willingly alone,But gladly, as the precept were her own;And, while that face renews my filial grief,Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,A momentary dream, that thou art she.My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss;Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss—Ah that maternal smile! it answers—Yes.I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,And, turning from my nursery window, drewA long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!But was it such?—It was.—Where thou art gone,Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,The parting word shall pass my lips no more!Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.What ardently I wished, I long believed,And, disappointed still, was still deceived.By expectation every day beguiled,Dupe ofto-morroweven from a child.Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,I learned at last submission to my lot,But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;And where the gardener Robin, day by day,Drew me to school along the public way,Delighted with my bauble coach and wrappedIn scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap,'Tis now become a history little known,That once we called the pastoral house our own.Short-lived possession! but the record fair,That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,Still outlives many a storm, that has effacedA thousand other themes less deeply traced.Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid;Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,The biscuit; or confectionery plum;The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowedBy thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed:All this, and more endearing still than all,Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall.Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks,That humor interposed too often makes;All this still legible in memory's page,And still to be so to my latest age,Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to paySuch honors to thee as my numbers may;Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,Not scorned in Heaven, though little noticed here.Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,The violet, the pink, and jessamine,I pricked them into paper with a pin(And thou wast happier than myself the while,Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile),Could those few pleasant days again appear,Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?I would not trust my heart—the dear delightSeems so to be desired, perhaps I might,—But no—what here we call our life is such,So little to be loved, and thou so much,That I should ill requite thee to constrainThy unbound spirit into bonds again.Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed),Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,There sits quiescent on the floods, that showHer beauteous form reflected clear below,While airs impregnated with incense playAround her, fanning light her streamers gay;So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore,"Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar,"And thy loved consort on the dangerous tideOf life long since has anchored by thy side.But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,Always from port withheld, always distressed—Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed,Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost,And day by day some current's thwarting forceSets me more distant from a prosperous course.Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he!That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.My boast is not, that I deduce my birthFrom loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;But higher far my proud pretensions rise—The son of parents passed into the skies.And now, farewell—Time unrevoked has runHis wonted course, yet what I wished is done.By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,I seemed to have lived my childhood o'er again;To have renewed the joys that once were mine,Without the sin of violating thine;And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,And I can view this mimic show of thee,Time has but half succeeded in his theft—Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.
O that those lips had language! Life has passedWith me but roughly since I heard thee last.Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smile I see,The same that oft in childhood solaced me;Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"The meek intelligence of those dear eyes(Blest be the art that can immortalize,The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claimTo quench it) here shines on me still the same.Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,O welcome guest, though unexpected here!Who bidd'st me honor with an artless song,Affectionate, a mother lost so long.I will obey, not willingly alone,But gladly, as the precept were her own;And, while that face renews my filial grief,Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,A momentary dream, that thou art she.My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss;Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss—Ah that maternal smile! it answers—Yes.I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,And, turning from my nursery window, drewA long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!But was it such?—It was.—Where thou art gone,Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,The parting word shall pass my lips no more!Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.What ardently I wished, I long believed,And, disappointed still, was still deceived.By expectation every day beguiled,Dupe ofto-morroweven from a child.Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,I learned at last submission to my lot,But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;And where the gardener Robin, day by day,Drew me to school along the public way,Delighted with my bauble coach and wrappedIn scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap,'Tis now become a history little known,That once we called the pastoral house our own.Short-lived possession! but the record fair,That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,Still outlives many a storm, that has effacedA thousand other themes less deeply traced.Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid;Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,The biscuit; or confectionery plum;The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowedBy thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed:All this, and more endearing still than all,Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall.Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks,That humor interposed too often makes;All this still legible in memory's page,And still to be so to my latest age,Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to paySuch honors to thee as my numbers may;Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,Not scorned in Heaven, though little noticed here.Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,The violet, the pink, and jessamine,I pricked them into paper with a pin(And thou wast happier than myself the while,Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile),Could those few pleasant days again appear,Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?I would not trust my heart—the dear delightSeems so to be desired, perhaps I might,—But no—what here we call our life is such,So little to be loved, and thou so much,That I should ill requite thee to constrainThy unbound spirit into bonds again.Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed),Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,There sits quiescent on the floods, that showHer beauteous form reflected clear below,While airs impregnated with incense playAround her, fanning light her streamers gay;So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore,"Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar,"And thy loved consort on the dangerous tideOf life long since has anchored by thy side.But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,Always from port withheld, always distressed—Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed,Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost,And day by day some current's thwarting forceSets me more distant from a prosperous course.Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he!That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.My boast is not, that I deduce my birthFrom loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;But higher far my proud pretensions rise—The son of parents passed into the skies.And now, farewell—Time unrevoked has runHis wonted course, yet what I wished is done.By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,I seemed to have lived my childhood o'er again;To have renewed the joys that once were mine,Without the sin of violating thine;And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,And I can view this mimic show of thee,Time has but half succeeded in his theft—Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.
William Cowper.
In heavenly love abiding,No change my heart shall fear,And safe is such confiding,For nothing changes here.The storm may roar without me,My heart may low be laid;But God is round about me,And can I be dismayed?Wherever He may guide me,No want shall turn me back;My Shepherd is beside me,And nothing can I lack.His wisdom ever waketh,His sight is never dim,He knows the way He taketh,And I will walk with Him.Green pastures are before me,Which yet I have not seen;Bright skies will soon be o'er me,Where darkest clouds have been.My hope I cannot measure,My path to life is free;My Father has my treasure,And He will walk with me.
In heavenly love abiding,No change my heart shall fear,And safe is such confiding,For nothing changes here.The storm may roar without me,My heart may low be laid;But God is round about me,And can I be dismayed?
Wherever He may guide me,No want shall turn me back;My Shepherd is beside me,And nothing can I lack.His wisdom ever waketh,His sight is never dim,He knows the way He taketh,And I will walk with Him.
Green pastures are before me,Which yet I have not seen;Bright skies will soon be o'er me,Where darkest clouds have been.My hope I cannot measure,My path to life is free;My Father has my treasure,And He will walk with me.
Anna H. Waring.
Deep on the convent roof the snowsAre sparkling to the moon:My breath to heaven like vapor goes:May my soul follow soon!The shadows of the convent towersSlant down the snowy sward,Still creeping with the creeping hoursThat lead me to my Lord:Make Thou my spirit pure and clearAs are the frosty skies,Or this first snowdrop of the yearThat in my bosom lies.As these white robes are soiled and dark,To yonder shining ground,As this pale taper's earthly spark,To yonder argent round;So shows my soul before the Lamb,My spirit before Thee,So in mine earthly house I am,To that I hope to be.Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far,Thro' all yon starlight keen,Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star,In raiment white and clean.He lifts me to the golden doors;The flashes come and go;All heaven bursts her starry floors,And strews her lights below,And deepens on and up! the gatesRoll back, and far withinFor me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,To make me pure of sin.The sabbaths of eternity,One sabbath deep and wide—A light upon the shining sea—The Bridegroom with his bride!
Deep on the convent roof the snowsAre sparkling to the moon:My breath to heaven like vapor goes:May my soul follow soon!The shadows of the convent towersSlant down the snowy sward,Still creeping with the creeping hoursThat lead me to my Lord:Make Thou my spirit pure and clearAs are the frosty skies,Or this first snowdrop of the yearThat in my bosom lies.
As these white robes are soiled and dark,To yonder shining ground,As this pale taper's earthly spark,To yonder argent round;So shows my soul before the Lamb,My spirit before Thee,So in mine earthly house I am,To that I hope to be.Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far,Thro' all yon starlight keen,Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star,In raiment white and clean.
He lifts me to the golden doors;The flashes come and go;All heaven bursts her starry floors,And strews her lights below,And deepens on and up! the gatesRoll back, and far withinFor me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,To make me pure of sin.The sabbaths of eternity,One sabbath deep and wide—A light upon the shining sea—The Bridegroom with his bride!
Alfred Tennyson.
But ten slow mornings past, and on the eleventhHer father laid the letter in her hand,And closed the hand upon it, and she died.So that day there was dole in Astolat.But when the next sun brake from underground,Then, those two brethren slowly with bent browsAccompanying, the sad chariot-bierPast like a shadow thro' the field, that shoneFull summer, to that stream whereon the barge,Palled all its length in blackest samite, lay.There sat the lifelong creature of the house,Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck,Winking his eyes, and twisted all his face.So those two brethren from the chariot tookAnd on the black decks laid her in her bed,Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hungThe silken case with braided blazonings,And kissed her quiet brows, and saying to her"Sister, farewell for ever," and again"Farewell, sweet sister," parted all in tears.Then rose the dumb old servitor, and the dead,Steered by the dumb, went upward with the flood—In her right hand the lily, in her leftThe letter—all her bright hair streaming down—And all the coverlid was cloth of goldDrawn to her waist, and she herself in whiteAll but her face, and that clear-featured faceWas lovely, for she did not seem as dead,But fast asleep, and lay as tho' she smiled.
But ten slow mornings past, and on the eleventhHer father laid the letter in her hand,And closed the hand upon it, and she died.So that day there was dole in Astolat.But when the next sun brake from underground,Then, those two brethren slowly with bent browsAccompanying, the sad chariot-bierPast like a shadow thro' the field, that shoneFull summer, to that stream whereon the barge,Palled all its length in blackest samite, lay.There sat the lifelong creature of the house,Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck,Winking his eyes, and twisted all his face.So those two brethren from the chariot tookAnd on the black decks laid her in her bed,Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hungThe silken case with braided blazonings,And kissed her quiet brows, and saying to her"Sister, farewell for ever," and again"Farewell, sweet sister," parted all in tears.Then rose the dumb old servitor, and the dead,Steered by the dumb, went upward with the flood—In her right hand the lily, in her leftThe letter—all her bright hair streaming down—And all the coverlid was cloth of goldDrawn to her waist, and she herself in whiteAll but her face, and that clear-featured faceWas lovely, for she did not seem as dead,But fast asleep, and lay as tho' she smiled.
Alfred Tennyson.
From "Launcelot and Elaine," The Idyls of the King.
woman on a bier in a boat garlanded with flowersELAINE.
My good blade carves the casques of men,My tough lance thrusteth sure,My strength is as the strength of ten,Because my heart is pure.The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,The hard brands shiver on the steel,The splintered spear shafts crack and fly,The horse and rider reel;They reel, they roll in clanging lists,And when the tide of combat standsPerfume and flowers fall in showers,That lightly rain from ladies' hands.How sweet are looks that ladies bendOn whom their favors fall!For them I battle to the end,To save from shame and thrall;But all my heart is drawn above,My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine;I never felt the kiss of love,Nor maiden's hand in mine.More bounteous aspects on me beam,Me mightier transports move and thrill;So keep I fair thro' faith and prayerA virgin heart in work and will.When down the stormy crescent goes,A light before me swims,Between dark stems the forest glows,I hear a noise of hymns:Then by some secret shrine I ride;I hear a voice, but none are there;The stalls are void, the doors are wide,The tapers burning fair.Fair gleams the snowy altar cloth,The silver vessels sparkle clean,The shrill bell rings, the censer swings,And solemn chants resound between.Sometimes on lonely mountain meresI find a magic bark,I leap on board: no helmsman steers;I float till all is dark.A gentle sound, an awful light!Three angels bear the holy Grail:With folded feet, in stoles of white,On sleeping wings they sail.Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!My spirit beats her mortal bars,As down dark tides the glory slides,And starlike mingles with the stars.When on my goodly charger borneThro' dreaming towns I go,The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,The streets are dumb with snow.The tempest crackles on the leads,And, ringing, springs from brand and mail;But o'er the dark a glory spreads,And gilds the driving hail.I leave the plain, I climb the height;No branchy thicket shelter yields;But blessed forms in whistling stormsFly o'er waste fens and windy fields.A maiden knight—to me is givenSuch hope, I know not fear;I yearn to breathe the airs of heavenThat often meet me here.I muse on joy that will not cease,Pure spaces clothed in living beams,Pure lilies of eternal peace,Whose odors haunt my dreams;And, stricken by an angel's hand,This mortal armor that I wear,This weight and size, this heart and eyes,Are touched, are turned to finest air.The clouds are broken in the sky,And thro' the mountain wallsA rolling organ harmonySwells up, and shakes and falls.Then move the trees, the copses nod,Wings flutter, voices hover clear:"O just and faithful Knight of God!Ride on! the prize is near."So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;By bridge and ford, by park and pale,All armed I ride, whate'er betide,Until I find the holy Grail.
My good blade carves the casques of men,My tough lance thrusteth sure,My strength is as the strength of ten,Because my heart is pure.The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,The hard brands shiver on the steel,The splintered spear shafts crack and fly,The horse and rider reel;They reel, they roll in clanging lists,And when the tide of combat standsPerfume and flowers fall in showers,That lightly rain from ladies' hands.
How sweet are looks that ladies bendOn whom their favors fall!For them I battle to the end,To save from shame and thrall;But all my heart is drawn above,My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine;I never felt the kiss of love,Nor maiden's hand in mine.More bounteous aspects on me beam,Me mightier transports move and thrill;So keep I fair thro' faith and prayerA virgin heart in work and will.
When down the stormy crescent goes,A light before me swims,Between dark stems the forest glows,I hear a noise of hymns:Then by some secret shrine I ride;I hear a voice, but none are there;The stalls are void, the doors are wide,The tapers burning fair.Fair gleams the snowy altar cloth,The silver vessels sparkle clean,The shrill bell rings, the censer swings,And solemn chants resound between.
Sometimes on lonely mountain meresI find a magic bark,I leap on board: no helmsman steers;I float till all is dark.A gentle sound, an awful light!Three angels bear the holy Grail:With folded feet, in stoles of white,On sleeping wings they sail.Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!My spirit beats her mortal bars,As down dark tides the glory slides,And starlike mingles with the stars.
When on my goodly charger borneThro' dreaming towns I go,The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,The streets are dumb with snow.The tempest crackles on the leads,And, ringing, springs from brand and mail;But o'er the dark a glory spreads,And gilds the driving hail.I leave the plain, I climb the height;No branchy thicket shelter yields;But blessed forms in whistling stormsFly o'er waste fens and windy fields.
A maiden knight—to me is givenSuch hope, I know not fear;I yearn to breathe the airs of heavenThat often meet me here.I muse on joy that will not cease,Pure spaces clothed in living beams,Pure lilies of eternal peace,Whose odors haunt my dreams;And, stricken by an angel's hand,This mortal armor that I wear,This weight and size, this heart and eyes,Are touched, are turned to finest air.
The clouds are broken in the sky,And thro' the mountain wallsA rolling organ harmonySwells up, and shakes and falls.Then move the trees, the copses nod,Wings flutter, voices hover clear:"O just and faithful Knight of God!Ride on! the prize is near."So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;By bridge and ford, by park and pale,All armed I ride, whate'er betide,Until I find the holy Grail.
Alfred Tennyson.
But I was first of all the kings who drewThe knighthood-errant of this realm and allThe realms together under me, their Head,In that fair order of my Table Round,A glorious company, the flower of men,To serve as models for the mighty world,And be the fair beginning of a time.I made them lay their hands in mine and swearTo reverence the King, as if he wereTheir conscience, and their conscience as their King,To break the heathen and uphold the Christ,To ride abroad redressing human wrongs,To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it,To lead sweet lives in purest chastity,To love one maiden only, cleave to her,And worship her by years of noble deeds,Until they won her; for indeed I knewOf no more subtle master under heavenThan is the maiden passion for a maid,Not only to keep down the base in man,But teach high thoughts, and amiable wordsAnd courtliness, and the desire of fame,And love of truth, and all that makes a man.
But I was first of all the kings who drewThe knighthood-errant of this realm and allThe realms together under me, their Head,In that fair order of my Table Round,A glorious company, the flower of men,To serve as models for the mighty world,And be the fair beginning of a time.I made them lay their hands in mine and swearTo reverence the King, as if he wereTheir conscience, and their conscience as their King,To break the heathen and uphold the Christ,To ride abroad redressing human wrongs,To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it,To lead sweet lives in purest chastity,To love one maiden only, cleave to her,And worship her by years of noble deeds,Until they won her; for indeed I knewOf no more subtle master under heavenThan is the maiden passion for a maid,Not only to keep down the base in man,But teach high thoughts, and amiable wordsAnd courtliness, and the desire of fame,And love of truth, and all that makes a man.
Alfred Tennyson.
From "Guinevere," The Idylls of the King.
Grow old along with me!The best is yet to be,The last of life, for which the first was made;Our times are in His handWho saith "A whole I planned,Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!"
Grow old along with me!The best is yet to be,The last of life, for which the first was made;Our times are in His handWho saith "A whole I planned,Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!"
Robert Browning.
From "Rabbi Ben Ezra."
Such a starved bank of mossTill, that May morn,Blue ran the flash across:Violets were born!Sky—what a scowl of cloudTill, near and far,Ray on ray split the shroud:Splendid, a star!World—how it walled aboutLife with disgraceTill God's own smile came out:That was thy face!
Such a starved bank of mossTill, that May morn,Blue ran the flash across:Violets were born!
Sky—what a scowl of cloudTill, near and far,Ray on ray split the shroud:Splendid, a star!
World—how it walled aboutLife with disgraceTill God's own smile came out:That was thy face!
Robert Browning.
Not as all other women areIs she that to my soul is dear;Her glorious fancies come from far,Beneath the silver evening star,And yet her heart is ever near.Great feelings hath she of her own,Which lesser souls may never know;God giveth them to her alone,And sweet they are as any toneWherewith the wind may choose to blow.She is most fair, and thereuntoHer life doth rightly harmonize;Feeling or thought that was not trueNe'er made less beautiful the blueUnclouded heaven of her eyes.She is a woman: one in whomThe springtime of her childish yearsHath never lost its fresh perfume,Though knowing well that life hath roomFor many blights and many tears.I love her with a love as stillAs a broad river's peaceful might,Which, by high tower and lowly mill,Seems wandering its own wayward will,And yet doth ever flow aright.And, on its full, deep breast serene,Like quiet isles my duties lie;It flows around them and between,And makes them fresh and fair and green,Sweet homes wherein to live and die.
Not as all other women areIs she that to my soul is dear;Her glorious fancies come from far,Beneath the silver evening star,And yet her heart is ever near.
Great feelings hath she of her own,Which lesser souls may never know;God giveth them to her alone,And sweet they are as any toneWherewith the wind may choose to blow.
She is most fair, and thereuntoHer life doth rightly harmonize;Feeling or thought that was not trueNe'er made less beautiful the blueUnclouded heaven of her eyes.
She is a woman: one in whomThe springtime of her childish yearsHath never lost its fresh perfume,Though knowing well that life hath roomFor many blights and many tears.
I love her with a love as stillAs a broad river's peaceful might,Which, by high tower and lowly mill,Seems wandering its own wayward will,And yet doth ever flow aright.
And, on its full, deep breast serene,Like quiet isles my duties lie;It flows around them and between,And makes them fresh and fair and green,Sweet homes wherein to live and die.
James Russell Lowell.
Hear what Highland Nora said,—"The Earlie's son I will not wed,Should all the race of nature die,And none be left but he and I.For all the gold, for all the gear,And all the lands both far and near,That ever valor lost or won,I would not wed the Earlie's son.""A maiden's vows," old Callum spoke,"Are lightly made, and lightly broke;The heather on the mountain's heightBegins to bloom in purple light;The frost wind soon shall sweep awayThat luster deep from glen and brae;Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,May blithely wed the Earlie's son."—"The swan," she said, "the lake's clear breastMay barter for the eagle's nest;The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn,Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn;Our kilted clans, when blood is high,Before their foes may turn and fly;But I, were all these marvels done,Would never wed the Earlie's son."Still in the water lily's shadeHer wonted nest the wild swan made;Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river;To shun the clash of foeman's steel,No Highland brogue has turned the heel:But Nora's heart is lost and won,—She's wedded to the Earlie's son!
Hear what Highland Nora said,—"The Earlie's son I will not wed,Should all the race of nature die,And none be left but he and I.For all the gold, for all the gear,And all the lands both far and near,That ever valor lost or won,I would not wed the Earlie's son."
"A maiden's vows," old Callum spoke,"Are lightly made, and lightly broke;The heather on the mountain's heightBegins to bloom in purple light;The frost wind soon shall sweep awayThat luster deep from glen and brae;Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,May blithely wed the Earlie's son."—
"The swan," she said, "the lake's clear breastMay barter for the eagle's nest;The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn,Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn;Our kilted clans, when blood is high,Before their foes may turn and fly;But I, were all these marvels done,Would never wed the Earlie's son."
Still in the water lily's shadeHer wonted nest the wild swan made;Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river;To shun the clash of foeman's steel,No Highland brogue has turned the heel:But Nora's heart is lost and won,—She's wedded to the Earlie's son!
Sir Walter Scott.