THIS is a spray the Bird clung to,Making it blossom with pleasure,Ere the high tree-top she sprung to,Fit for her nest and her treasure.O, what a hope beyond measureWas the poor spray’s, which the flying feet hung to,—So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!This is a heart the Queen leant on,Thrill’d in a minute erratic,Ere the true bosom she bent on,Meet for love’s regal dalmatic.O, what a fancy ecstaticWas the poor heart’s, ere the wanderer went on—Love to be saved for it, proffer’d to, spent on!
THIS is a spray the Bird clung to,Making it blossom with pleasure,Ere the high tree-top she sprung to,Fit for her nest and her treasure.O, what a hope beyond measureWas the poor spray’s, which the flying feet hung to,—So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!This is a heart the Queen leant on,Thrill’d in a minute erratic,Ere the true bosom she bent on,Meet for love’s regal dalmatic.O, what a fancy ecstaticWas the poor heart’s, ere the wanderer went on—Love to be saved for it, proffer’d to, spent on!
THIS is a spray the Bird clung to,Making it blossom with pleasure,Ere the high tree-top she sprung to,Fit for her nest and her treasure.O, what a hope beyond measureWas the poor spray’s, which the flying feet hung to,—So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!
This is a heart the Queen leant on,Thrill’d in a minute erratic,Ere the true bosom she bent on,Meet for love’s regal dalmatic.O, what a fancy ecstaticWas the poor heart’s, ere the wanderer went on—Love to be saved for it, proffer’d to, spent on!
729.
OTO be in EnglandNow that April’s there,And whoever wakes in EnglandSees, some morning, unaware,That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheafRound the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,While the chaffinch sings on the orchard boughIn England—now!And after April, when May follows,And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!Hark, where my blossom’d pear-tree in the hedgeLeans to the field and scatters on the cloverBlossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge—That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,Lest you should think he never could recaptureThe first fine careless rapture!And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,All will be gay when noontide wakes anewThe buttercups, the little children’s dower—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
OTO be in EnglandNow that April’s there,And whoever wakes in EnglandSees, some morning, unaware,That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheafRound the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,While the chaffinch sings on the orchard boughIn England—now!And after April, when May follows,And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!Hark, where my blossom’d pear-tree in the hedgeLeans to the field and scatters on the cloverBlossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge—That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,Lest you should think he never could recaptureThe first fine careless rapture!And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,All will be gay when noontide wakes anewThe buttercups, the little children’s dower—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
OTO be in EnglandNow that April’s there,And whoever wakes in EnglandSees, some morning, unaware,That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheafRound the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,While the chaffinch sings on the orchard boughIn England—now!
And after April, when May follows,And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!Hark, where my blossom’d pear-tree in the hedgeLeans to the field and scatters on the cloverBlossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge—That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,Lest you should think he never could recaptureThe first fine careless rapture!And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,All will be gay when noontide wakes anewThe buttercups, the little children’s dower—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
730.
NOBLY, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away;Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;Bluish ’mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;In the dimmest North-east distance dawn’d Gibraltar grand and gray;‘Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?’—say,Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,While Jove’s planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.
NOBLY, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away;Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;Bluish ’mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;In the dimmest North-east distance dawn’d Gibraltar grand and gray;‘Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?’—say,Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,While Jove’s planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.
NOBLY, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away;Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;Bluish ’mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;In the dimmest North-east distance dawn’d Gibraltar grand and gray;‘Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?’—say,Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,While Jove’s planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.
1812-1890
731.
OI hae come from far away,From a warm land far away,A southern land across the sea,With sailor-lads about the mast,Merry and canny, and kind to me.And I hae been to yon townTo try my luck in yon town;Nort, and Mysie, Elspie too.Right braw we were to pass the gate,Wi’ gowden clasps on girdles blue.Mysie smiled wi’ miminy mouth,Innocent mouth, miminy mouth;
OI hae come from far away,From a warm land far away,A southern land across the sea,With sailor-lads about the mast,Merry and canny, and kind to me.And I hae been to yon townTo try my luck in yon town;Nort, and Mysie, Elspie too.Right braw we were to pass the gate,Wi’ gowden clasps on girdles blue.Mysie smiled wi’ miminy mouth,Innocent mouth, miminy mouth;
OI hae come from far away,From a warm land far away,A southern land across the sea,With sailor-lads about the mast,Merry and canny, and kind to me.
And I hae been to yon townTo try my luck in yon town;Nort, and Mysie, Elspie too.Right braw we were to pass the gate,Wi’ gowden clasps on girdles blue.
Mysie smiled wi’ miminy mouth,Innocent mouth, miminy mouth;
731.miminy] prim, demure.
731.miminy] prim, demure.
ELSPIE wore a scarlet gown,Nort’s grey eyes were unco’ gleg.My Castile comb was like a crown.We walk’d abreast all up the street,Into the market up the street;Our hair with marigolds was wound,Our bodices with love-knots laced,Our merchandise with tansy bound.Nort had chickens, I had cocks,Gamesome cocks, loud-crowing cocks;Mysie ducks, and Elspie drakes,—For a wee groat or a pound;We lost nae time wi’ gives and takes.—Lost nae time, for well we knew,In our sleeves full well we knew,When the gloaming came that night,Duck nor drake, nor hen nor cockWould be found by candle-light.And when our chaffering all was done,All was paid for, sold and done,We drew a glove on ilka hand,We sweetly curtsied, each to each,And deftly danced a saraband.The market-lassies look’d and laugh’d,Left their gear, and look’d and laugh’d;They made as they would join the game,But soon their mithers, wild and wud,With whack and screech they stopp’d the same.
ELSPIE wore a scarlet gown,Nort’s grey eyes were unco’ gleg.My Castile comb was like a crown.We walk’d abreast all up the street,Into the market up the street;Our hair with marigolds was wound,Our bodices with love-knots laced,Our merchandise with tansy bound.Nort had chickens, I had cocks,Gamesome cocks, loud-crowing cocks;Mysie ducks, and Elspie drakes,—For a wee groat or a pound;We lost nae time wi’ gives and takes.—Lost nae time, for well we knew,In our sleeves full well we knew,When the gloaming came that night,Duck nor drake, nor hen nor cockWould be found by candle-light.And when our chaffering all was done,All was paid for, sold and done,We drew a glove on ilka hand,We sweetly curtsied, each to each,And deftly danced a saraband.The market-lassies look’d and laugh’d,Left their gear, and look’d and laugh’d;They made as they would join the game,But soon their mithers, wild and wud,With whack and screech they stopp’d the same.
ELSPIE wore a scarlet gown,Nort’s grey eyes were unco’ gleg.My Castile comb was like a crown.
We walk’d abreast all up the street,Into the market up the street;Our hair with marigolds was wound,Our bodices with love-knots laced,Our merchandise with tansy bound.
Nort had chickens, I had cocks,Gamesome cocks, loud-crowing cocks;Mysie ducks, and Elspie drakes,—For a wee groat or a pound;We lost nae time wi’ gives and takes.
—Lost nae time, for well we knew,In our sleeves full well we knew,When the gloaming came that night,Duck nor drake, nor hen nor cockWould be found by candle-light.
And when our chaffering all was done,All was paid for, sold and done,We drew a glove on ilka hand,We sweetly curtsied, each to each,And deftly danced a saraband.
The market-lassies look’d and laugh’d,Left their gear, and look’d and laugh’d;They made as they would join the game,But soon their mithers, wild and wud,With whack and screech they stopp’d the same.
gleg] bright, sharp. wud] mad.
gleg] bright, sharp. wud] mad.
Sae loud the tongues o’ randies grew,The flytin’ and the skirlin’ grew,At all the windows in the place,Wi’ spoons or knives, wi’ needle or awl,Was thrust out every hand and face.And down each stair they throng’d anon,Gentle, semple, throng’d anon:Souter and tailor, frowsy Nan,The ancient widow young again,Simpering behind her fan.Without a choice, against their will,Doited, dazed, against their will,The market lassie and her mither,The farmer and his husbandman,Hand in hand dance a’ thegither.Slow at first, but faster soon,Still increasing, wild and fast,Hoods and mantles, hats and hose,Blindly doff’d and cast away,Left them naked, heads and toes.They would have torn us limb from limb,Dainty limb from dainty limb;But never one of them could winAcross the line that I had drawnWith bleeding thumb a-widdershin.But there was Jeff the provost’s son,Jeff the provost’s only son;
Sae loud the tongues o’ randies grew,The flytin’ and the skirlin’ grew,At all the windows in the place,Wi’ spoons or knives, wi’ needle or awl,Was thrust out every hand and face.And down each stair they throng’d anon,Gentle, semple, throng’d anon:Souter and tailor, frowsy Nan,The ancient widow young again,Simpering behind her fan.Without a choice, against their will,Doited, dazed, against their will,The market lassie and her mither,The farmer and his husbandman,Hand in hand dance a’ thegither.Slow at first, but faster soon,Still increasing, wild and fast,Hoods and mantles, hats and hose,Blindly doff’d and cast away,Left them naked, heads and toes.They would have torn us limb from limb,Dainty limb from dainty limb;But never one of them could winAcross the line that I had drawnWith bleeding thumb a-widdershin.But there was Jeff the provost’s son,Jeff the provost’s only son;
Sae loud the tongues o’ randies grew,The flytin’ and the skirlin’ grew,At all the windows in the place,Wi’ spoons or knives, wi’ needle or awl,Was thrust out every hand and face.
And down each stair they throng’d anon,Gentle, semple, throng’d anon:Souter and tailor, frowsy Nan,The ancient widow young again,Simpering behind her fan.
Without a choice, against their will,Doited, dazed, against their will,The market lassie and her mither,The farmer and his husbandman,Hand in hand dance a’ thegither.
Slow at first, but faster soon,Still increasing, wild and fast,Hoods and mantles, hats and hose,Blindly doff’d and cast away,Left them naked, heads and toes.
They would have torn us limb from limb,Dainty limb from dainty limb;But never one of them could winAcross the line that I had drawnWith bleeding thumb a-widdershin.
But there was Jeff the provost’s son,Jeff the provost’s only son;
randies] viragoes. flytin’] scolding. skirlin’] shrieking. souter] cobbler. doited] mazed. a-widdershin] the wrong way of the sun: or E. to W. through N.
randies] viragoes. flytin’] scolding. skirlin’] shrieking. souter] cobbler. doited] mazed. a-widdershin] the wrong way of the sun: or E. to W. through N.
THERE was Father Auld himsel’,The Lombard frae the hostelry,And the lawyer Peter Fell.All goodly men we singled out,Waled them well, and singled out,And drew them by the left hand in;Mysie the priest, and Elspie wonThe Lombard, Nort the lawyer carle,I mysel’ the provost’s son.Then, with cantrip kisses seven,Three times round with kisses seven,Warp’d and woven there spun weArms and legs and flaming hair,Like a whirlwind on the sea.Like a wind that sucks the sea,Over and in and on the sea,Good sooth it was a mad delight;And every man of all the fourShut his eyes and laugh’d outright.Laugh’d as long as they had breath,Laugh’d while they had sense or breath;And close about us coil’d a mistOf gnats and midges, wasps and flies,Like the whirlwind shaft it rist.Drawn up I was right off my feet,Into the mist and off my feet;And, dancing on each chimney-top,I saw a thousand darling impsKeeping time with skip and hop.
THERE was Father Auld himsel’,The Lombard frae the hostelry,And the lawyer Peter Fell.All goodly men we singled out,Waled them well, and singled out,And drew them by the left hand in;Mysie the priest, and Elspie wonThe Lombard, Nort the lawyer carle,I mysel’ the provost’s son.Then, with cantrip kisses seven,Three times round with kisses seven,Warp’d and woven there spun weArms and legs and flaming hair,Like a whirlwind on the sea.Like a wind that sucks the sea,Over and in and on the sea,Good sooth it was a mad delight;And every man of all the fourShut his eyes and laugh’d outright.Laugh’d as long as they had breath,Laugh’d while they had sense or breath;And close about us coil’d a mistOf gnats and midges, wasps and flies,Like the whirlwind shaft it rist.Drawn up I was right off my feet,Into the mist and off my feet;And, dancing on each chimney-top,I saw a thousand darling impsKeeping time with skip and hop.
THERE was Father Auld himsel’,The Lombard frae the hostelry,And the lawyer Peter Fell.
All goodly men we singled out,Waled them well, and singled out,And drew them by the left hand in;Mysie the priest, and Elspie wonThe Lombard, Nort the lawyer carle,I mysel’ the provost’s son.
Then, with cantrip kisses seven,Three times round with kisses seven,Warp’d and woven there spun weArms and legs and flaming hair,Like a whirlwind on the sea.
Like a wind that sucks the sea,Over and in and on the sea,Good sooth it was a mad delight;And every man of all the fourShut his eyes and laugh’d outright.
Laugh’d as long as they had breath,Laugh’d while they had sense or breath;And close about us coil’d a mistOf gnats and midges, wasps and flies,Like the whirlwind shaft it rist.
Drawn up I was right off my feet,Into the mist and off my feet;And, dancing on each chimney-top,I saw a thousand darling impsKeeping time with skip and hop.
waled] chose. cantrip] magic.
waled] chose. cantrip] magic.
AND on the provost’s brave ridge-tile,On the provost’s grand ridge-tile,The Blackamoor first to master meI saw, I saw that winsome smile,The mouth that did my heart beguile,And spoke the great Word over me,In the land beyond the sea.I call’d his name, I call’d aloud,Alas! I call’d on him aloud;And then he fill’d his hand with stour,And threw it towards me in the air;My mouse flew out, I lost my pow’r!My lusty strength, my power were gone;Power was gone, and all was gone.He will not let me love him more!Of bell and whip and horse’s tailHe cares not if I find a store.But I am proud if he is fierce!I am as proud as he is fierce;I’ll turn about and backward go,If I meet again that Blackamoor,And he’ll help us then, for he shall knowI seek another paramour.And we’ll gang once more to yon town,Wi’ better luck to yon town;We’ll walk in silk and cramoisie,And I shall wed the provost’s sonMy lady of the town I’ll be!
AND on the provost’s brave ridge-tile,On the provost’s grand ridge-tile,The Blackamoor first to master meI saw, I saw that winsome smile,The mouth that did my heart beguile,And spoke the great Word over me,In the land beyond the sea.I call’d his name, I call’d aloud,Alas! I call’d on him aloud;And then he fill’d his hand with stour,And threw it towards me in the air;My mouse flew out, I lost my pow’r!My lusty strength, my power were gone;Power was gone, and all was gone.He will not let me love him more!Of bell and whip and horse’s tailHe cares not if I find a store.But I am proud if he is fierce!I am as proud as he is fierce;I’ll turn about and backward go,If I meet again that Blackamoor,And he’ll help us then, for he shall knowI seek another paramour.And we’ll gang once more to yon town,Wi’ better luck to yon town;We’ll walk in silk and cramoisie,And I shall wed the provost’s sonMy lady of the town I’ll be!
AND on the provost’s brave ridge-tile,On the provost’s grand ridge-tile,The Blackamoor first to master meI saw, I saw that winsome smile,The mouth that did my heart beguile,And spoke the great Word over me,In the land beyond the sea.
I call’d his name, I call’d aloud,Alas! I call’d on him aloud;And then he fill’d his hand with stour,And threw it towards me in the air;My mouse flew out, I lost my pow’r!
My lusty strength, my power were gone;Power was gone, and all was gone.He will not let me love him more!Of bell and whip and horse’s tailHe cares not if I find a store.
But I am proud if he is fierce!I am as proud as he is fierce;I’ll turn about and backward go,If I meet again that Blackamoor,And he’ll help us then, for he shall knowI seek another paramour.
And we’ll gang once more to yon town,Wi’ better luck to yon town;We’ll walk in silk and cramoisie,And I shall wed the provost’s sonMy lady of the town I’ll be!
stour] dust. cramoisie] crimson.
stour] dust. cramoisie] crimson.
FOR I was born a crown’d king’s child,Born and nursed a king’s child,King o’ a land ayont the sea,Where the Blackamoor kiss’d me first,And taught me art and glamourie.Each one in her wame shall hideHer hairy mouse, her wary mouse.Fed on madwort and agramie,—Wear amber beads between her breasts,And blind-worm’s skin about her knee.The Lombard shall be Elspie’s man,Elspie’s gowden husband-man;Nort shall take the lawyer’s hand;The priest shall swear another vow:We’ll dance again the saraband!
FOR I was born a crown’d king’s child,Born and nursed a king’s child,King o’ a land ayont the sea,Where the Blackamoor kiss’d me first,And taught me art and glamourie.Each one in her wame shall hideHer hairy mouse, her wary mouse.Fed on madwort and agramie,—Wear amber beads between her breasts,And blind-worm’s skin about her knee.The Lombard shall be Elspie’s man,Elspie’s gowden husband-man;Nort shall take the lawyer’s hand;The priest shall swear another vow:We’ll dance again the saraband!
FOR I was born a crown’d king’s child,Born and nursed a king’s child,King o’ a land ayont the sea,Where the Blackamoor kiss’d me first,And taught me art and glamourie.
Each one in her wame shall hideHer hairy mouse, her wary mouse.Fed on madwort and agramie,—Wear amber beads between her breasts,And blind-worm’s skin about her knee.
The Lombard shall be Elspie’s man,Elspie’s gowden husband-man;Nort shall take the lawyer’s hand;The priest shall swear another vow:We’ll dance again the saraband!
ayont] beyond. glamourie] wizardry.
ayont] beyond. glamourie] wizardry.
1814-1902
732.
SOFTLY, O midnight Hours!Move softly o’er the bowersWhere lies in happy sleep a girl so fair!For ye have power, men say,Our hearts in sleep to sway,And cage cold fancies in a moonlight snare.Round ivory neck and armEnclasp a separate charm;Hang o’er her poised, but breathe nor sigh nor prayerSilently ye may smile,But hold your breath the while,And let the wind sweep back your cloudy hair!Bend down your glittering urns,Ere yet the dawn returns,And star with dew the lawn her feet shall tread;Upon the air rain balm,Bid all the woods be calm,Ambrosial dreams with healthful slumbers wed;That so the Maiden mayWith smiles your care repay,When from her couch she lifts her golden head;Waking with earliest birds,Ere yet the misty herdsLeave warm ’mid the gray grass their dusky bed.
SOFTLY, O midnight Hours!Move softly o’er the bowersWhere lies in happy sleep a girl so fair!For ye have power, men say,Our hearts in sleep to sway,And cage cold fancies in a moonlight snare.Round ivory neck and armEnclasp a separate charm;Hang o’er her poised, but breathe nor sigh nor prayerSilently ye may smile,But hold your breath the while,And let the wind sweep back your cloudy hair!Bend down your glittering urns,Ere yet the dawn returns,And star with dew the lawn her feet shall tread;Upon the air rain balm,Bid all the woods be calm,Ambrosial dreams with healthful slumbers wed;That so the Maiden mayWith smiles your care repay,When from her couch she lifts her golden head;Waking with earliest birds,Ere yet the misty herdsLeave warm ’mid the gray grass their dusky bed.
SOFTLY, O midnight Hours!Move softly o’er the bowersWhere lies in happy sleep a girl so fair!For ye have power, men say,Our hearts in sleep to sway,And cage cold fancies in a moonlight snare.Round ivory neck and armEnclasp a separate charm;Hang o’er her poised, but breathe nor sigh nor prayerSilently ye may smile,But hold your breath the while,And let the wind sweep back your cloudy hair!Bend down your glittering urns,Ere yet the dawn returns,And star with dew the lawn her feet shall tread;Upon the air rain balm,Bid all the woods be calm,Ambrosial dreams with healthful slumbers wed;That so the Maiden mayWith smiles your care repay,When from her couch she lifts her golden head;Waking with earliest birds,Ere yet the misty herdsLeave warm ’mid the gray grass their dusky bed.
733.
COUNT each affliction, whether light or grave,God’s messenger sent down to thee; do thouWith courtesy receive him; rise and bow;And, ere his shadow pass thy threshold, cravePermission first his heavenly feet to lave;Then lay before him all thou hast; allowNo cloud of passion to usurp thy brow,Or mar thy hospitality; no waveOf mortal tumult to obliterateThe soul’s marmoreal calmness: Grief should be,Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate;Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free;Strong to consume small troubles; to commendGreat thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to the end.
COUNT each affliction, whether light or grave,God’s messenger sent down to thee; do thouWith courtesy receive him; rise and bow;And, ere his shadow pass thy threshold, cravePermission first his heavenly feet to lave;Then lay before him all thou hast; allowNo cloud of passion to usurp thy brow,Or mar thy hospitality; no waveOf mortal tumult to obliterateThe soul’s marmoreal calmness: Grief should be,Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate;Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free;Strong to consume small troubles; to commendGreat thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to the end.
COUNT each affliction, whether light or grave,God’s messenger sent down to thee; do thouWith courtesy receive him; rise and bow;And, ere his shadow pass thy threshold, cravePermission first his heavenly feet to lave;Then lay before him all thou hast; allowNo cloud of passion to usurp thy brow,Or mar thy hospitality; no waveOf mortal tumult to obliterateThe soul’s marmoreal calmness: Grief should be,Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate;Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free;Strong to consume small troubles; to commendGreat thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to the end.
1815-?
734.
FROM THE IRISH OF THOMAS LAVELLE
ON the deck of Patrick Lynch’s boat I sat in woful plight,Through my sighing all the weary day and weeping all the night;Were it not that full of sorrow from my people forth I go,By the blessèd sun! ’tis royally I’d sing thy praise, Mayo!When I dwelt at home in plenty, and my gold did much abound,In the company of fair young maids the Spanish ale went round—’Tis a bitter change from those gay days that now I’m forced to goAnd must leave my bones in Santa Cruz, far from my own Mayo.They are alter’d girls in Irrul now; ’tis proud they’re grown and high,With their hair-bags and their top-knots, for I pass their buckles by—But it’s little now I heed their airs, for God will have it so,That I must depart for foreign lands and leave my sweet Mayo.’Tis my grief that Patrick Loughlin is not Earl of Irrul still,And that Brian Duff no longer rules as Lord upon the hill:And that Colonel Hugh McGrady should be lying dead and low,And I sailing, sailing swiftly from the county of Mayo.
ON the deck of Patrick Lynch’s boat I sat in woful plight,Through my sighing all the weary day and weeping all the night;Were it not that full of sorrow from my people forth I go,By the blessèd sun! ’tis royally I’d sing thy praise, Mayo!When I dwelt at home in plenty, and my gold did much abound,In the company of fair young maids the Spanish ale went round—’Tis a bitter change from those gay days that now I’m forced to goAnd must leave my bones in Santa Cruz, far from my own Mayo.They are alter’d girls in Irrul now; ’tis proud they’re grown and high,With their hair-bags and their top-knots, for I pass their buckles by—But it’s little now I heed their airs, for God will have it so,That I must depart for foreign lands and leave my sweet Mayo.’Tis my grief that Patrick Loughlin is not Earl of Irrul still,And that Brian Duff no longer rules as Lord upon the hill:And that Colonel Hugh McGrady should be lying dead and low,And I sailing, sailing swiftly from the county of Mayo.
ON the deck of Patrick Lynch’s boat I sat in woful plight,Through my sighing all the weary day and weeping all the night;Were it not that full of sorrow from my people forth I go,By the blessèd sun! ’tis royally I’d sing thy praise, Mayo!
When I dwelt at home in plenty, and my gold did much abound,In the company of fair young maids the Spanish ale went round—’Tis a bitter change from those gay days that now I’m forced to goAnd must leave my bones in Santa Cruz, far from my own Mayo.
They are alter’d girls in Irrul now; ’tis proud they’re grown and high,With their hair-bags and their top-knots, for I pass their buckles by—But it’s little now I heed their airs, for God will have it so,That I must depart for foreign lands and leave my sweet Mayo.
’Tis my grief that Patrick Loughlin is not Earl of Irrul still,And that Brian Duff no longer rules as Lord upon the hill:And that Colonel Hugh McGrady should be lying dead and low,And I sailing, sailing swiftly from the county of Mayo.
1818-1848
735.
THE linnet in the rocky dells,The moor-lark in the air,The bee among the heather bellsThat hide my lady fair:The wild deer browse above her breast;The wild birds raise their brood;And they, her smiles of love caress’d,Have left her solitude!I ween that when the grave’s dark wallDid first her form retain,They thought their hearts could ne’er recallThe light of joy again.They thought the tide of grief would flowUncheck’d through future years;But where is all their anguish now,And where are all their tears?Well, let them fight for honour’s breath,Or pleasure’s shade pursue—The dweller in the land of deathIs changed and careless too.And if their eyes should watch and weepTill sorrow’s source were dry,She would not, in her tranquil sleep,Return a single sigh!Blow, west wind, by the lonely mound:And murmur, summer streams!There is no need of other soundTo soothe my lady’s dreams.
THE linnet in the rocky dells,The moor-lark in the air,The bee among the heather bellsThat hide my lady fair:The wild deer browse above her breast;The wild birds raise their brood;And they, her smiles of love caress’d,Have left her solitude!I ween that when the grave’s dark wallDid first her form retain,They thought their hearts could ne’er recallThe light of joy again.They thought the tide of grief would flowUncheck’d through future years;But where is all their anguish now,And where are all their tears?Well, let them fight for honour’s breath,Or pleasure’s shade pursue—The dweller in the land of deathIs changed and careless too.And if their eyes should watch and weepTill sorrow’s source were dry,She would not, in her tranquil sleep,Return a single sigh!Blow, west wind, by the lonely mound:And murmur, summer streams!There is no need of other soundTo soothe my lady’s dreams.
THE linnet in the rocky dells,The moor-lark in the air,The bee among the heather bellsThat hide my lady fair:
The wild deer browse above her breast;The wild birds raise their brood;And they, her smiles of love caress’d,Have left her solitude!
I ween that when the grave’s dark wallDid first her form retain,They thought their hearts could ne’er recallThe light of joy again.
They thought the tide of grief would flowUncheck’d through future years;But where is all their anguish now,And where are all their tears?
Well, let them fight for honour’s breath,Or pleasure’s shade pursue—The dweller in the land of deathIs changed and careless too.
And if their eyes should watch and weepTill sorrow’s source were dry,She would not, in her tranquil sleep,Return a single sigh!
Blow, west wind, by the lonely mound:And murmur, summer streams!There is no need of other soundTo soothe my lady’s dreams.
736.
COLD in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,Sever’d at last by Time’s all-severing wave?Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hoverOver the mountains, on that northern shore,Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves coverThy noble heart for ever, ever more?Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild DecembersFrom those brown hills have melted into spring:Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembersAfter such years of change and suffering!Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,While the world’s tide is bearing me along;Other desires and other hopes beset me,Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!No later light has lighten’d up my heaven,No second morn has ever shone for me;All my life’s bliss from thy dear life was given,All my life’s bliss is in the grave with thee.But when the days of golden dreams had perish’d,And even Despair was powerless to destroy;Then did I learn how existence could be cherish’d,Strengthen’d and fed without the aid of joy.Then did I check the tears of useless passion—Wean’d my young soul from yearning after thine;Sternly denied its burning wish to hastenDown to that tomb already more than mine.And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain;Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,How could I seek the empty world again?
COLD in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,Sever’d at last by Time’s all-severing wave?Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hoverOver the mountains, on that northern shore,Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves coverThy noble heart for ever, ever more?Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild DecembersFrom those brown hills have melted into spring:Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembersAfter such years of change and suffering!Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,While the world’s tide is bearing me along;Other desires and other hopes beset me,Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!No later light has lighten’d up my heaven,No second morn has ever shone for me;All my life’s bliss from thy dear life was given,All my life’s bliss is in the grave with thee.But when the days of golden dreams had perish’d,And even Despair was powerless to destroy;Then did I learn how existence could be cherish’d,Strengthen’d and fed without the aid of joy.Then did I check the tears of useless passion—Wean’d my young soul from yearning after thine;Sternly denied its burning wish to hastenDown to that tomb already more than mine.And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain;Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,How could I seek the empty world again?
COLD in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,Sever’d at last by Time’s all-severing wave?
Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hoverOver the mountains, on that northern shore,Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves coverThy noble heart for ever, ever more?
Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild DecembersFrom those brown hills have melted into spring:Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembersAfter such years of change and suffering!
Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,While the world’s tide is bearing me along;Other desires and other hopes beset me,Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!
No later light has lighten’d up my heaven,No second morn has ever shone for me;All my life’s bliss from thy dear life was given,All my life’s bliss is in the grave with thee.
But when the days of golden dreams had perish’d,And even Despair was powerless to destroy;Then did I learn how existence could be cherish’d,Strengthen’d and fed without the aid of joy.
Then did I check the tears of useless passion—Wean’d my young soul from yearning after thine;Sternly denied its burning wish to hastenDown to that tomb already more than mine.
And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain;Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,How could I seek the empty world again?
737.
STILL let my tyrants know, I am not doom’d to wearYear after year in gloom and desolate despair;A messenger of Hope comes every night to me,And offers for short life, eternal liberty.He comes with Western winds, with evening’s wandering airs,With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars:Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire,And visions rise, and change, that kill me with desire.Desire for nothing known in my maturer years,When Joy grew mad with awe, at counting future tears:When, if my spirit’s sky was full of flashes warm,I knew not whence they came, from sun or thunder-storm.But first, a hush of peace—a soundless calm descends;The struggle of distress and fierce impatience ends.Mute music soothes my breast—unutter’d harmonyThat I could never dream, till Earth was lost to me.Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals;My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels;Its wings are almost free—its home, its harbour found,Measuring the gulf, it stoops, and dares the final bound.O dreadful is the check—intense the agony—When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see;When the pulse begins to throb—the brain to think again—The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less;The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will bless;And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly shine,If it but herald Death, the vision is divine.
STILL let my tyrants know, I am not doom’d to wearYear after year in gloom and desolate despair;A messenger of Hope comes every night to me,And offers for short life, eternal liberty.He comes with Western winds, with evening’s wandering airs,With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars:Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire,And visions rise, and change, that kill me with desire.Desire for nothing known in my maturer years,When Joy grew mad with awe, at counting future tears:When, if my spirit’s sky was full of flashes warm,I knew not whence they came, from sun or thunder-storm.But first, a hush of peace—a soundless calm descends;The struggle of distress and fierce impatience ends.Mute music soothes my breast—unutter’d harmonyThat I could never dream, till Earth was lost to me.Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals;My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels;Its wings are almost free—its home, its harbour found,Measuring the gulf, it stoops, and dares the final bound.O dreadful is the check—intense the agony—When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see;When the pulse begins to throb—the brain to think again—The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less;The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will bless;And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly shine,If it but herald Death, the vision is divine.
STILL let my tyrants know, I am not doom’d to wearYear after year in gloom and desolate despair;A messenger of Hope comes every night to me,And offers for short life, eternal liberty.
He comes with Western winds, with evening’s wandering airs,With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars:Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire,And visions rise, and change, that kill me with desire.
Desire for nothing known in my maturer years,When Joy grew mad with awe, at counting future tears:When, if my spirit’s sky was full of flashes warm,I knew not whence they came, from sun or thunder-storm.
But first, a hush of peace—a soundless calm descends;The struggle of distress and fierce impatience ends.Mute music soothes my breast—unutter’d harmonyThat I could never dream, till Earth was lost to me.
Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals;My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels;Its wings are almost free—its home, its harbour found,Measuring the gulf, it stoops, and dares the final bound.
O dreadful is the check—intense the agony—When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see;When the pulse begins to throb—the brain to think again—The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.
Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less;The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will bless;And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly shine,If it but herald Death, the vision is divine.
738.
NO coward soul is mine,No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere:I see Heaven’s glories shine,And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.O God within my breast,Almighty, ever-present Deity!Life—that in me has rest,As I—undying Life—have power in Thee!Vain are the thousand creedsThat move men’s hearts: unutterably vain;Worthless as wither’d weeds,Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,To waken doubt in oneHolding so fast by Thine infinity;So surely anchor’d onThe steadfast rock of immortality.With wide-embracing loveThy Spirit animates eternal years,Pervades and broods above,Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.Though earth and man were gone,And suns and universes cease to be,And Thou were left alone,Every existence would exist in Thee.There is not room for Death,Nor atom that his might could render void:Thou—Thou art Being and Breath,And what Thou art may never be destroyed.
NO coward soul is mine,No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere:I see Heaven’s glories shine,And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.O God within my breast,Almighty, ever-present Deity!Life—that in me has rest,As I—undying Life—have power in Thee!Vain are the thousand creedsThat move men’s hearts: unutterably vain;Worthless as wither’d weeds,Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,To waken doubt in oneHolding so fast by Thine infinity;So surely anchor’d onThe steadfast rock of immortality.With wide-embracing loveThy Spirit animates eternal years,Pervades and broods above,Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.Though earth and man were gone,And suns and universes cease to be,And Thou were left alone,Every existence would exist in Thee.There is not room for Death,Nor atom that his might could render void:Thou—Thou art Being and Breath,And what Thou art may never be destroyed.
NO coward soul is mine,No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere:I see Heaven’s glories shine,And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.
O God within my breast,Almighty, ever-present Deity!Life—that in me has rest,As I—undying Life—have power in Thee!
Vain are the thousand creedsThat move men’s hearts: unutterably vain;Worthless as wither’d weeds,Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,
To waken doubt in oneHolding so fast by Thine infinity;So surely anchor’d onThe steadfast rock of immortality.
With wide-embracing loveThy Spirit animates eternal years,Pervades and broods above,Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.
Though earth and man were gone,And suns and universes cease to be,And Thou were left alone,Every existence would exist in Thee.
There is not room for Death,Nor atom that his might could render void:Thou—Thou art Being and Breath,And what Thou art may never be destroyed.
1819-1875
739.
AIRLY Beacon, Airly Beacon;O the pleasant sight to seeShires and towns from Airly Beacon,While my love climb’d up to me!Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;O the happy hours we layDeep in fern on Airly Beacon,Courting through the summer’s day!Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;O the weary haunt for me,All alone on Airly Beacon,With his baby on my knee!
AIRLY Beacon, Airly Beacon;O the pleasant sight to seeShires and towns from Airly Beacon,While my love climb’d up to me!Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;O the happy hours we layDeep in fern on Airly Beacon,Courting through the summer’s day!Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;O the weary haunt for me,All alone on Airly Beacon,With his baby on my knee!
AIRLY Beacon, Airly Beacon;O the pleasant sight to seeShires and towns from Airly Beacon,While my love climb’d up to me!
Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;O the happy hours we layDeep in fern on Airly Beacon,Courting through the summer’s day!
Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;O the weary haunt for me,All alone on Airly Beacon,With his baby on my knee!
740.
‘OMARY, go and call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,Across the sands of Dee.’The western wind was wild and dark with foam,And all alone went she.The western tide crept up along the sand,And o’er and o’er the sand,And round and round the sand,As far as eye could see.The rolling mist came down and hid the land:And never home came she.‘O is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—A tress of golden hair,A drownèd maiden’s hair,Above the nets at sea?’Was never salmon yet that shone so fairAmong the stakes of Dee.They row’d her in across the rolling foam,The cruel crawling foam,The cruel hungry foam,To her grave beside the sea.But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,Across the sands of Dee.
‘OMARY, go and call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,Across the sands of Dee.’The western wind was wild and dark with foam,And all alone went she.The western tide crept up along the sand,And o’er and o’er the sand,And round and round the sand,As far as eye could see.The rolling mist came down and hid the land:And never home came she.‘O is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—A tress of golden hair,A drownèd maiden’s hair,Above the nets at sea?’Was never salmon yet that shone so fairAmong the stakes of Dee.They row’d her in across the rolling foam,The cruel crawling foam,The cruel hungry foam,To her grave beside the sea.But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,Across the sands of Dee.
‘OMARY, go and call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,Across the sands of Dee.’The western wind was wild and dark with foam,And all alone went she.
The western tide crept up along the sand,And o’er and o’er the sand,And round and round the sand,As far as eye could see.The rolling mist came down and hid the land:And never home came she.
‘O is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—A tress of golden hair,A drownèd maiden’s hair,Above the nets at sea?’Was never salmon yet that shone so fairAmong the stakes of Dee.
They row’d her in across the rolling foam,The cruel crawling foam,The cruel hungry foam,To her grave beside the sea.But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,Across the sands of Dee.
1819-1861
741.
SAY not the struggle naught availeth,The labour and the wounds are vain,The enemy faints not, nor faileth,And as things have been they remain.If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;It may be, in yon smoke conceal’d,Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers,And, but for you, possess the field.For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,Seem here no painful inch to gain,Far back, through creeks and inlets making,Comes silent, flooding in, the main.And not by eastern windows only,When daylight comes, comes in the light;In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly!But westward, look, the land is bright!
SAY not the struggle naught availeth,The labour and the wounds are vain,The enemy faints not, nor faileth,And as things have been they remain.If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;It may be, in yon smoke conceal’d,Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers,And, but for you, possess the field.For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,Seem here no painful inch to gain,Far back, through creeks and inlets making,Comes silent, flooding in, the main.And not by eastern windows only,When daylight comes, comes in the light;In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly!But westward, look, the land is bright!
SAY not the struggle naught availeth,The labour and the wounds are vain,The enemy faints not, nor faileth,And as things have been they remain.
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;It may be, in yon smoke conceal’d,Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers,And, but for you, possess the field.
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,Seem here no painful inch to gain,Far back, through creeks and inlets making,Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only,When daylight comes, comes in the light;In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly!But westward, look, the land is bright!
1819-1892
742.
AT the last, tenderly,From the walls of the powerful, fortress’d house,From the clasp of the knitted locks—from the keep of the well-closed doors,Let me be wafted.Let me glide noiselessly forth;With the key of softness unlock the locks—with a whisperSet ope the doors, O soul!Tenderly! be not impatient!(Strong is your hold, O mortal flesh!Strong is your hold, O love!)
AT the last, tenderly,From the walls of the powerful, fortress’d house,From the clasp of the knitted locks—from the keep of the well-closed doors,Let me be wafted.Let me glide noiselessly forth;With the key of softness unlock the locks—with a whisperSet ope the doors, O soul!Tenderly! be not impatient!(Strong is your hold, O mortal flesh!Strong is your hold, O love!)
AT the last, tenderly,From the walls of the powerful, fortress’d house,From the clasp of the knitted locks—from the keep of the well-closed doors,Let me be wafted.
Let me glide noiselessly forth;With the key of softness unlock the locks—with a whisperSet ope the doors, O soul!
Tenderly! be not impatient!(Strong is your hold, O mortal flesh!Strong is your hold, O love!)
743.
OCAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;But O heart! heart! heart!O the bleeding drops of red!Where on the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores crowding,For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;Here, Captain! dear father!This arm beneath your head!It is some dream that on the deckYou’ve fallen cold and dead.My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells!But I, with mournful tread,Walk the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.
OCAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;But O heart! heart! heart!O the bleeding drops of red!Where on the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores crowding,For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;Here, Captain! dear father!This arm beneath your head!It is some dream that on the deckYou’ve fallen cold and dead.My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells!But I, with mournful tread,Walk the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.
OCAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;But O heart! heart! heart!O the bleeding drops of red!Where on the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores crowding,For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;Here, Captain! dear father!This arm beneath your head!It is some dream that on the deckYou’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells!But I, with mournful tread,Walk the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.
1819-1900
744.
TRUST thou thy Love: if she be proud, is she not sweet?Trust thou thy Love: if she be mute, is she not pure?Lay thou thy soul full in her hands, low at her feet;Fail, Sun and Breath!—yet, for thy peace, She shall endure.
TRUST thou thy Love: if she be proud, is she not sweet?Trust thou thy Love: if she be mute, is she not pure?Lay thou thy soul full in her hands, low at her feet;Fail, Sun and Breath!—yet, for thy peace, She shall endure.
TRUST thou thy Love: if she be proud, is she not sweet?Trust thou thy Love: if she be mute, is she not pure?Lay thou thy soul full in her hands, low at her feet;Fail, Sun and Breath!—yet, for thy peace, She shall endure.
1820-1860
745.
WHEN the world is burning,Fired within, yet turningRound with face unscathed;Ere fierce flames, uprushing,O’er all lands leap, crushing,Till earth fall, fire-swathed;Up amidst the meadows,Gently through the shadows,Gentle flames will glide,Small, and blue, and golden.Though by bard beholden,When in calm dreams folden,—Calm his dreams will bide.Where the dance is sweeping,Through the greensward peeping,Shall the soft lights start;Laughing maids, unstaying,Deeming it trick-playing,High their robes upswaying,O’er the lights shall dart;And the woodland haunterShall not cease to saunterWhen, far down some glade,Of the great world’s burning,One soft flame upturningSeems, to his discerning,Crocus in the shade.
WHEN the world is burning,Fired within, yet turningRound with face unscathed;Ere fierce flames, uprushing,O’er all lands leap, crushing,Till earth fall, fire-swathed;Up amidst the meadows,Gently through the shadows,Gentle flames will glide,Small, and blue, and golden.Though by bard beholden,When in calm dreams folden,—Calm his dreams will bide.Where the dance is sweeping,Through the greensward peeping,Shall the soft lights start;Laughing maids, unstaying,Deeming it trick-playing,High their robes upswaying,O’er the lights shall dart;And the woodland haunterShall not cease to saunterWhen, far down some glade,Of the great world’s burning,One soft flame upturningSeems, to his discerning,Crocus in the shade.
WHEN the world is burning,Fired within, yet turningRound with face unscathed;Ere fierce flames, uprushing,O’er all lands leap, crushing,Till earth fall, fire-swathed;Up amidst the meadows,Gently through the shadows,Gentle flames will glide,Small, and blue, and golden.Though by bard beholden,When in calm dreams folden,—Calm his dreams will bide.
Where the dance is sweeping,Through the greensward peeping,Shall the soft lights start;Laughing maids, unstaying,Deeming it trick-playing,High their robes upswaying,O’er the lights shall dart;And the woodland haunterShall not cease to saunterWhen, far down some glade,Of the great world’s burning,One soft flame upturningSeems, to his discerning,Crocus in the shade.
1821-1895
746.
BEATING Heart! we come againWhere my Love reposes:This is Mabel’s window-pane;These are Mabel’s roses.Is she nested? Does she kneelIn the twilight stilly,Lily clad from throat to heel,She, my virgin Lily?Soon the wan, the wistful stars,Fading, will forsake her;Elves of light, on beamy bars,Whisper then, and wake her.Let this friendly pebble pleadAt her flowery grating;If she hear me will she heed?Mabel, I am waiting.Mabel will be deck’d anon,Zoned in bride’s apparel;Happy zone! O hark to yonPassion-shaken carol!Sing thy song, thou trancèd thrush,Pipe thy best, thy clearest;—Hush, her lattice moves, O hush—Dearest Mabel!—dearest ...
BEATING Heart! we come againWhere my Love reposes:This is Mabel’s window-pane;These are Mabel’s roses.Is she nested? Does she kneelIn the twilight stilly,Lily clad from throat to heel,She, my virgin Lily?Soon the wan, the wistful stars,Fading, will forsake her;Elves of light, on beamy bars,Whisper then, and wake her.Let this friendly pebble pleadAt her flowery grating;If she hear me will she heed?Mabel, I am waiting.Mabel will be deck’d anon,Zoned in bride’s apparel;Happy zone! O hark to yonPassion-shaken carol!Sing thy song, thou trancèd thrush,Pipe thy best, thy clearest;—Hush, her lattice moves, O hush—Dearest Mabel!—dearest ...
BEATING Heart! we come againWhere my Love reposes:This is Mabel’s window-pane;These are Mabel’s roses.
Is she nested? Does she kneelIn the twilight stilly,Lily clad from throat to heel,She, my virgin Lily?
Soon the wan, the wistful stars,Fading, will forsake her;Elves of light, on beamy bars,Whisper then, and wake her.
Let this friendly pebble pleadAt her flowery grating;If she hear me will she heed?Mabel, I am waiting.
Mabel will be deck’d anon,Zoned in bride’s apparel;Happy zone! O hark to yonPassion-shaken carol!
Sing thy song, thou trancèd thrush,Pipe thy best, thy clearest;—Hush, her lattice moves, O hush—Dearest Mabel!—dearest ...
1822-1888
747.
COME, dear children, let us away;Down and away below.Now my brothers call from the bay;Now the great winds shoreward blow;Now the salt tides seaward flow;Now the wild white horses play,Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.Children dear, let us away.This way, this way!Call her once before you go.Call once yet.In a voice that she will know:‘Margaret! Margaret!’Children’s voices should be dear(Call once more) to a mother’s ear;Children’s voices, wild with pain.Surely she will come again.Call her once and come away.This way, this way!‘Mother dear, we cannot stay.’The wild white horses foam and fret.Margaret! Margaret!Come, dear children, come away down.Call no more.One last look at the white-wall’d town,And the little grey church on the windy shore.Then come down.She will not come though you call all day.Come away, come away.Children dear, was it yesterdayWe heard the sweet bells over the bay?In the caverns where we lay,Through the surf and through the swell,The far-off sound of a silver bell?Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,Where the winds are all asleep;Where the spent lights quiver and gleam;Where the salt weed sways in the stream;Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round,Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground;Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,Dry their mail, and bask in the brine;Where great whales come sailing by,Sail and sail, with unshut eye,Round the world for ever and aye?When did music come this way?Children dear, was it yesterday?Children dear, was it yesterday(Call yet once) that she went away?Once she sate with you and me,On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,And the youngest sate on her knee.She comb’d its bright hair, and she tended it well,When down swung the sound of the far-off bell.She sigh’d, she look’d up through the clear green sea.She said, ‘I must go, for my kinsfolk prayIn the little grey church on the shore to-day.’Twill be Easter-time in the world—ah me!And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee.’I said, ‘Go up, dear heart, through the waves.Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves.’She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.Children dear, was it yesterday?Children dear, were we long alone?‘The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.Long prayers,’ I said, ‘in the world they say.Come,’ I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay.We went up the beach, by the sandy downWhere the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall’d town.Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still,To the little grey church on the windy hill.From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers,But we stood without in the cold-blowing airs.We climb’d on the graves, on the stones worn with rains,And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes.She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear:‘Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here.Dear heart,’ I said, ‘we are long alone.The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.’But, ah! she gave me never a look,For her eyes were seal’d to the holy book.Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door.Come away, children, call no more.Come away, come down, call no more.Down, down, down;Down to the depths of the sea.She sits at her wheel in the humming town,Singing most joyfully.Hark what she sings: ‘O joy, O joy,For the humming street, and the child with its toy.For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well.For the wheel where I spun,And the blessed light of the sun.’And so she sings her fill,Singing most joyfully,Till the shuttle falls from her hand,And the whizzing wheel stands still.She steals to the window, and looks at the sand;And over the sand at the sea;And her eyes are set in a stare;And anon there breaks a sigh,And anon there drops a tear,From a sorrow-clouded eye,And a heart sorrow-laden,A long, long sighFor the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden,And the gleam of her golden hair.Come away, away, children.Come children, come down.The hoarse wind blows colder;Lights shine in the town.She will start from her slumberWhen gusts shake the door;She will hear the winds howling,Will hear the waves roar.We shall see, while above usThe waves roar and whirl,A ceiling of amber,A pavement of pearl.Singing, ‘Here came a mortal,But faithless was she:And alone dwell for everThe kings of the sea.’But, children, at midnight,When soft the winds blow;When clear falls the moonlight;When spring-tides are low:When sweet airs come seawardFrom heaths starr’d with broom;And high rocks throw mildlyOn the blanch’d sands a gloom:Up the still, glistening beaches,Up the creeks we will hie;Over banks of bright seaweedThe ebb-tide leaves dry.We will gaze, from the sand-hills,At the white, sleeping town;At the church on the hill-side—And then come back down.Singing, ‘There dwells a loved one,But cruel is she.She left lonely for everThe kings of the sea.’
COME, dear children, let us away;Down and away below.Now my brothers call from the bay;Now the great winds shoreward blow;Now the salt tides seaward flow;Now the wild white horses play,Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.Children dear, let us away.This way, this way!Call her once before you go.Call once yet.In a voice that she will know:‘Margaret! Margaret!’Children’s voices should be dear(Call once more) to a mother’s ear;Children’s voices, wild with pain.Surely she will come again.Call her once and come away.This way, this way!‘Mother dear, we cannot stay.’The wild white horses foam and fret.Margaret! Margaret!Come, dear children, come away down.Call no more.One last look at the white-wall’d town,And the little grey church on the windy shore.Then come down.She will not come though you call all day.Come away, come away.Children dear, was it yesterdayWe heard the sweet bells over the bay?In the caverns where we lay,Through the surf and through the swell,The far-off sound of a silver bell?Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,Where the winds are all asleep;Where the spent lights quiver and gleam;Where the salt weed sways in the stream;Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round,Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground;Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,Dry their mail, and bask in the brine;Where great whales come sailing by,Sail and sail, with unshut eye,Round the world for ever and aye?When did music come this way?Children dear, was it yesterday?Children dear, was it yesterday(Call yet once) that she went away?Once she sate with you and me,On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,And the youngest sate on her knee.She comb’d its bright hair, and she tended it well,When down swung the sound of the far-off bell.She sigh’d, she look’d up through the clear green sea.She said, ‘I must go, for my kinsfolk prayIn the little grey church on the shore to-day.’Twill be Easter-time in the world—ah me!And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee.’I said, ‘Go up, dear heart, through the waves.Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves.’She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.Children dear, was it yesterday?Children dear, were we long alone?‘The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.Long prayers,’ I said, ‘in the world they say.Come,’ I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay.We went up the beach, by the sandy downWhere the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall’d town.Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still,To the little grey church on the windy hill.From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers,But we stood without in the cold-blowing airs.We climb’d on the graves, on the stones worn with rains,And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes.She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear:‘Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here.Dear heart,’ I said, ‘we are long alone.The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.’But, ah! she gave me never a look,For her eyes were seal’d to the holy book.Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door.Come away, children, call no more.Come away, come down, call no more.Down, down, down;Down to the depths of the sea.She sits at her wheel in the humming town,Singing most joyfully.Hark what she sings: ‘O joy, O joy,For the humming street, and the child with its toy.For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well.For the wheel where I spun,And the blessed light of the sun.’And so she sings her fill,Singing most joyfully,Till the shuttle falls from her hand,And the whizzing wheel stands still.She steals to the window, and looks at the sand;And over the sand at the sea;And her eyes are set in a stare;And anon there breaks a sigh,And anon there drops a tear,From a sorrow-clouded eye,And a heart sorrow-laden,A long, long sighFor the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden,And the gleam of her golden hair.Come away, away, children.Come children, come down.The hoarse wind blows colder;Lights shine in the town.She will start from her slumberWhen gusts shake the door;She will hear the winds howling,Will hear the waves roar.We shall see, while above usThe waves roar and whirl,A ceiling of amber,A pavement of pearl.Singing, ‘Here came a mortal,But faithless was she:And alone dwell for everThe kings of the sea.’But, children, at midnight,When soft the winds blow;When clear falls the moonlight;When spring-tides are low:When sweet airs come seawardFrom heaths starr’d with broom;And high rocks throw mildlyOn the blanch’d sands a gloom:Up the still, glistening beaches,Up the creeks we will hie;Over banks of bright seaweedThe ebb-tide leaves dry.We will gaze, from the sand-hills,At the white, sleeping town;At the church on the hill-side—And then come back down.Singing, ‘There dwells a loved one,But cruel is she.She left lonely for everThe kings of the sea.’
COME, dear children, let us away;Down and away below.Now my brothers call from the bay;Now the great winds shoreward blow;Now the salt tides seaward flow;Now the wild white horses play,Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.Children dear, let us away.This way, this way!
Call her once before you go.Call once yet.In a voice that she will know:‘Margaret! Margaret!’Children’s voices should be dear(Call once more) to a mother’s ear;Children’s voices, wild with pain.Surely she will come again.Call her once and come away.This way, this way!‘Mother dear, we cannot stay.’The wild white horses foam and fret.Margaret! Margaret!
Come, dear children, come away down.Call no more.One last look at the white-wall’d town,And the little grey church on the windy shore.Then come down.She will not come though you call all day.Come away, come away.Children dear, was it yesterdayWe heard the sweet bells over the bay?In the caverns where we lay,Through the surf and through the swell,The far-off sound of a silver bell?Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,Where the winds are all asleep;Where the spent lights quiver and gleam;Where the salt weed sways in the stream;Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round,Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground;Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,Dry their mail, and bask in the brine;Where great whales come sailing by,Sail and sail, with unshut eye,Round the world for ever and aye?When did music come this way?Children dear, was it yesterday?
Children dear, was it yesterday(Call yet once) that she went away?Once she sate with you and me,On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,And the youngest sate on her knee.She comb’d its bright hair, and she tended it well,When down swung the sound of the far-off bell.She sigh’d, she look’d up through the clear green sea.She said, ‘I must go, for my kinsfolk prayIn the little grey church on the shore to-day.’Twill be Easter-time in the world—ah me!And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee.’I said, ‘Go up, dear heart, through the waves.Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves.’She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.Children dear, was it yesterday?
Children dear, were we long alone?‘The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.Long prayers,’ I said, ‘in the world they say.Come,’ I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay.We went up the beach, by the sandy downWhere the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall’d town.Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still,To the little grey church on the windy hill.From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers,But we stood without in the cold-blowing airs.We climb’d on the graves, on the stones worn with rains,And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes.She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear:‘Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here.Dear heart,’ I said, ‘we are long alone.The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.’But, ah! she gave me never a look,For her eyes were seal’d to the holy book.Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door.Come away, children, call no more.Come away, come down, call no more.
Down, down, down;Down to the depths of the sea.She sits at her wheel in the humming town,Singing most joyfully.Hark what she sings: ‘O joy, O joy,For the humming street, and the child with its toy.For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well.For the wheel where I spun,And the blessed light of the sun.’And so she sings her fill,Singing most joyfully,Till the shuttle falls from her hand,And the whizzing wheel stands still.She steals to the window, and looks at the sand;And over the sand at the sea;And her eyes are set in a stare;And anon there breaks a sigh,And anon there drops a tear,From a sorrow-clouded eye,And a heart sorrow-laden,A long, long sighFor the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden,And the gleam of her golden hair.
Come away, away, children.Come children, come down.The hoarse wind blows colder;Lights shine in the town.She will start from her slumberWhen gusts shake the door;She will hear the winds howling,Will hear the waves roar.We shall see, while above usThe waves roar and whirl,A ceiling of amber,A pavement of pearl.Singing, ‘Here came a mortal,But faithless was she:And alone dwell for everThe kings of the sea.’
But, children, at midnight,When soft the winds blow;When clear falls the moonlight;When spring-tides are low:When sweet airs come seawardFrom heaths starr’d with broom;And high rocks throw mildlyOn the blanch’d sands a gloom:Up the still, glistening beaches,Up the creeks we will hie;Over banks of bright seaweedThe ebb-tide leaves dry.We will gaze, from the sand-hills,At the white, sleeping town;At the church on the hill-side—And then come back down.Singing, ‘There dwells a loved one,But cruel is she.She left lonely for everThe kings of the sea.’
748.