HOW fares it with the happy dead?For here the man is more and more;But he forgets the days beforeGod shut the doorways of his head.The days have vanish’d, tone and tint,And yet perhaps the hoarding senseGives out at times (he knows not whence)A little flash, a mystic hint;And in the long harmonious years(If Death so taste Lethean springs)May some dim touch of earthly thingsSurprise thee ranging with thy peers.If such a dreamy touch should fall,O turn thee round, resolve the doubt;My guardian angel will speak outIn that high place, and tell thee all.
HOW fares it with the happy dead?For here the man is more and more;But he forgets the days beforeGod shut the doorways of his head.The days have vanish’d, tone and tint,And yet perhaps the hoarding senseGives out at times (he knows not whence)A little flash, a mystic hint;And in the long harmonious years(If Death so taste Lethean springs)May some dim touch of earthly thingsSurprise thee ranging with thy peers.If such a dreamy touch should fall,O turn thee round, resolve the doubt;My guardian angel will speak outIn that high place, and tell thee all.
HOW fares it with the happy dead?For here the man is more and more;But he forgets the days beforeGod shut the doorways of his head.
The days have vanish’d, tone and tint,And yet perhaps the hoarding senseGives out at times (he knows not whence)A little flash, a mystic hint;
And in the long harmonious years(If Death so taste Lethean springs)May some dim touch of earthly thingsSurprise thee ranging with thy peers.
If such a dreamy touch should fall,O turn thee round, resolve the doubt;My guardian angel will speak outIn that high place, and tell thee all.
THE wish, that of the living wholeNo life may fail beyond the grave,Derives it not from what we haveThe likest God within the soul?Are God and Nature then at strife,That Nature lends such evil dreams?So careful of the type she seems,So careless of the single life;That I, considering everywhereHer secret meaning in her deeds,And finding that of fifty seedsShe often brings but one to bear,I falter where I firmly trod,And falling with my weight of caresUpon the great world’s altar-stairsThat slope thro’ darkness up to God,I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope,And gather dust and chaff, and callTo what I feel is Lord of all,And faintly trust the larger hope.
THE wish, that of the living wholeNo life may fail beyond the grave,Derives it not from what we haveThe likest God within the soul?Are God and Nature then at strife,That Nature lends such evil dreams?So careful of the type she seems,So careless of the single life;That I, considering everywhereHer secret meaning in her deeds,And finding that of fifty seedsShe often brings but one to bear,I falter where I firmly trod,And falling with my weight of caresUpon the great world’s altar-stairsThat slope thro’ darkness up to God,I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope,And gather dust and chaff, and callTo what I feel is Lord of all,And faintly trust the larger hope.
THE wish, that of the living wholeNo life may fail beyond the grave,Derives it not from what we haveThe likest God within the soul?
Are God and Nature then at strife,That Nature lends such evil dreams?So careful of the type she seems,So careless of the single life;
That I, considering everywhereHer secret meaning in her deeds,And finding that of fifty seedsShe often brings but one to bear,
I falter where I firmly trod,And falling with my weight of caresUpon the great world’s altar-stairsThat slope thro’ darkness up to God,
I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope,And gather dust and chaff, and callTo what I feel is Lord of all,And faintly trust the larger hope.
‘SO careful of the type?’ but no.From scarpèd cliff and quarried stoneShe cries, ‘A thousand types are goneI care for nothing, all shall go.Thou makest thine appeal to me:I bring to life, I bring to death:The spirit does but mean the breath:I know no more.’ And he, shall he,Man, her last work, who seem’d so fair,Such splendid purpose in his eyes,Who roll’d the psalm to wintry skies,Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer,Who trusted God was love indeedAnd love Creation’s final law—Tho’ Nature, red in tooth and clawWith ravine, shriek’d against his creed—Who loved, who suffer’d countless ills,Who battled for the True, the Just,Be blown about the desert dust,Or seal’d within the iron hills?No more? A monster then, a dream,A discord. Dragons of the prime,That tare each other in their slime,Were mellow music matched with him.O life as futile, then as frail!O for thy voice to soothe and bless!What hope of answer, or redress?Behind the veil, behind the veil.
‘SO careful of the type?’ but no.From scarpèd cliff and quarried stoneShe cries, ‘A thousand types are goneI care for nothing, all shall go.Thou makest thine appeal to me:I bring to life, I bring to death:The spirit does but mean the breath:I know no more.’ And he, shall he,Man, her last work, who seem’d so fair,Such splendid purpose in his eyes,Who roll’d the psalm to wintry skies,Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer,Who trusted God was love indeedAnd love Creation’s final law—Tho’ Nature, red in tooth and clawWith ravine, shriek’d against his creed—Who loved, who suffer’d countless ills,Who battled for the True, the Just,Be blown about the desert dust,Or seal’d within the iron hills?No more? A monster then, a dream,A discord. Dragons of the prime,That tare each other in their slime,Were mellow music matched with him.O life as futile, then as frail!O for thy voice to soothe and bless!What hope of answer, or redress?Behind the veil, behind the veil.
‘SO careful of the type?’ but no.From scarpèd cliff and quarried stoneShe cries, ‘A thousand types are goneI care for nothing, all shall go.
Thou makest thine appeal to me:I bring to life, I bring to death:The spirit does but mean the breath:I know no more.’ And he, shall he,
Man, her last work, who seem’d so fair,Such splendid purpose in his eyes,Who roll’d the psalm to wintry skies,Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer,
Who trusted God was love indeedAnd love Creation’s final law—Tho’ Nature, red in tooth and clawWith ravine, shriek’d against his creed—
Who loved, who suffer’d countless ills,Who battled for the True, the Just,Be blown about the desert dust,Or seal’d within the iron hills?
No more? A monster then, a dream,A discord. Dragons of the prime,That tare each other in their slime,Were mellow music matched with him.
O life as futile, then as frail!O for thy voice to soothe and bless!What hope of answer, or redress?Behind the veil, behind the veil.
UNWATCH’d, the garden bough shall sway,The tender blossom flutter down;Unloved, that beech will gather brown,This maple burn itself away;Unloved, the sunflower, shining fair,Ray round with flames her disk of seed,And many a rose-carnation feedWith summer spice the humming air;Unloved, by many a sandy bar,The brook shall babble down the plain,At noon or when the lesser wainIs twisting round the polar star;Uncared for, gird the windy grove,And flood the haunts of hern and crake;Or into silver arrows breakThe sailing moon in creek and cove;Till from the garden and the wildA fresh association blow,And year by year the landscape growFamiliar to the stranger’s child;As year by year the labourer tillsHis wonted glebe, or lops the glades;And year by year our memory fadesFrom all the circle of the hills.
UNWATCH’d, the garden bough shall sway,The tender blossom flutter down;Unloved, that beech will gather brown,This maple burn itself away;Unloved, the sunflower, shining fair,Ray round with flames her disk of seed,And many a rose-carnation feedWith summer spice the humming air;Unloved, by many a sandy bar,The brook shall babble down the plain,At noon or when the lesser wainIs twisting round the polar star;Uncared for, gird the windy grove,And flood the haunts of hern and crake;Or into silver arrows breakThe sailing moon in creek and cove;Till from the garden and the wildA fresh association blow,And year by year the landscape growFamiliar to the stranger’s child;As year by year the labourer tillsHis wonted glebe, or lops the glades;And year by year our memory fadesFrom all the circle of the hills.
UNWATCH’d, the garden bough shall sway,The tender blossom flutter down;Unloved, that beech will gather brown,This maple burn itself away;Unloved, the sunflower, shining fair,Ray round with flames her disk of seed,And many a rose-carnation feedWith summer spice the humming air;
Unloved, by many a sandy bar,The brook shall babble down the plain,At noon or when the lesser wainIs twisting round the polar star;
Uncared for, gird the windy grove,And flood the haunts of hern and crake;Or into silver arrows breakThe sailing moon in creek and cove;
Till from the garden and the wildA fresh association blow,And year by year the landscape growFamiliar to the stranger’s child;
As year by year the labourer tillsHis wonted glebe, or lops the glades;And year by year our memory fadesFrom all the circle of the hills.
NOW fades the last long streak of snow,Now burgeons every maze of quickAbout the flowering squares, and thickBy ashen roots the violets blow.Now rings the woodland loud and long,The distance takes a lovelier hue,And drown’d in yonder living blueThe lark becomes a sightless song.Now dance the lights on lawn and lea,The flocks are whiter down the vale,And milkier every milky sailOn winding stream or distant sea;Where now the seamew pipes, or divesIn yonder greening gleam, and flyThe happy birds, that change their skyTo build and brood; that live their livesFrom land to land; and in my breastSpring wakens too; and my regretBecomes an April violet,And buds and blossoms like the rest.
NOW fades the last long streak of snow,Now burgeons every maze of quickAbout the flowering squares, and thickBy ashen roots the violets blow.Now rings the woodland loud and long,The distance takes a lovelier hue,And drown’d in yonder living blueThe lark becomes a sightless song.Now dance the lights on lawn and lea,The flocks are whiter down the vale,And milkier every milky sailOn winding stream or distant sea;Where now the seamew pipes, or divesIn yonder greening gleam, and flyThe happy birds, that change their skyTo build and brood; that live their livesFrom land to land; and in my breastSpring wakens too; and my regretBecomes an April violet,And buds and blossoms like the rest.
NOW fades the last long streak of snow,Now burgeons every maze of quickAbout the flowering squares, and thickBy ashen roots the violets blow.
Now rings the woodland loud and long,The distance takes a lovelier hue,And drown’d in yonder living blueThe lark becomes a sightless song.
Now dance the lights on lawn and lea,The flocks are whiter down the vale,And milkier every milky sailOn winding stream or distant sea;
Where now the seamew pipes, or divesIn yonder greening gleam, and flyThe happy birds, that change their skyTo build and brood; that live their lives
From land to land; and in my breastSpring wakens too; and my regretBecomes an April violet,And buds and blossoms like the rest.
LOVE is and was my Lord and King,And in his presence I attendTo hear the tidings of my friend,Which every hour his couriers bring.Love is and was my King and Lord,And will be, tho’ as yet I keepWithin his court on earth, and sleepEncompass’d by his faithful guard,And hear at times a sentinelWho moves about from place to place,And whispers to the worlds of space,In the deep night, that all is well.
LOVE is and was my Lord and King,And in his presence I attendTo hear the tidings of my friend,Which every hour his couriers bring.Love is and was my King and Lord,And will be, tho’ as yet I keepWithin his court on earth, and sleepEncompass’d by his faithful guard,And hear at times a sentinelWho moves about from place to place,And whispers to the worlds of space,In the deep night, that all is well.
LOVE is and was my Lord and King,And in his presence I attendTo hear the tidings of my friend,Which every hour his couriers bring.
Love is and was my King and Lord,And will be, tho’ as yet I keepWithin his court on earth, and sleepEncompass’d by his faithful guard,
And hear at times a sentinelWho moves about from place to place,And whispers to the worlds of space,In the deep night, that all is well.
708.
COME into the garden, Maud,For the black bat, Night, has flown,Come into the garden, Maud,I am here at the gate alone;And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,And the musk of the roses blown.For a breeze of morning moves,And the planet of Love is on high,Beginning to faint in the light that she lovesOn a bed of daffodil sky,To faint in the light of the sun she loves,To faint in his light, and to die.All night have the roses heardThe flute, violin, bassoon;All night has the casement jessamine stirr’dTo the dancers dancing in tune;Till a silence fell with the waking bird,And a hush with the setting moon.I said to the lily, ‘There is but oneWith whom she has heart to be gay.When will the dancers leave her alone?She is weary of dance and play.’Now half to the setting moon are gone,And half to the rising day;Low on the sand and loud on the stoneThe last wheel echoes away.I said to the rose, ‘The brief night goesIn babble and revel and wine.O young lord-lover, what sighs are thoseFor one that will never be thine?But mine, but mine,’ so I sware to the rose,‘For ever and ever, mine.’And the soul of the rose went into my blood,As the music clash’d in the hall;And long by the garden lake I stood,For I heard your rivulet fallFrom the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,Our wood, that is dearer than all;From the meadow your walks have left so sweetThat whenever a March-wind sighsHe sets the jewel-print of your feetIn violets blue as your eyes,To the woody hollows in which we meetAnd the valleys of Paradise.The slender acacia would not shakeOne long milk-bloom on the tree;The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;But the rose was awake all night for your sake,Knowing your promise to me;The lilies and roses were all awake,They sigh’d for the dawn and thee.Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,Come hither, the dances are done,In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,Queen lily and rose in one;Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls.To the flowers, and be their sun.There has fallen a splendid tearFrom the passion-flower at the gate.She is coming, my dove, my dear;She is coming, my life, my fate;The red rose cries, ‘She is near, she is near;’And the white rose weeps, ‘She is late,’The larkspur listens, ‘I hear, I hear;’And the lily whispers, ‘I wait.’She is coming, my own, my sweet;Were it ever so airy a tread,My heart would hear her and beat,Were it earth in an earthy bed;My dust would hear her and beat,Had I lain for a century dead;Would start and tremble under her feet,And blossom in purple and red.
COME into the garden, Maud,For the black bat, Night, has flown,Come into the garden, Maud,I am here at the gate alone;And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,And the musk of the roses blown.For a breeze of morning moves,And the planet of Love is on high,Beginning to faint in the light that she lovesOn a bed of daffodil sky,To faint in the light of the sun she loves,To faint in his light, and to die.All night have the roses heardThe flute, violin, bassoon;All night has the casement jessamine stirr’dTo the dancers dancing in tune;Till a silence fell with the waking bird,And a hush with the setting moon.I said to the lily, ‘There is but oneWith whom she has heart to be gay.When will the dancers leave her alone?She is weary of dance and play.’Now half to the setting moon are gone,And half to the rising day;Low on the sand and loud on the stoneThe last wheel echoes away.I said to the rose, ‘The brief night goesIn babble and revel and wine.O young lord-lover, what sighs are thoseFor one that will never be thine?But mine, but mine,’ so I sware to the rose,‘For ever and ever, mine.’And the soul of the rose went into my blood,As the music clash’d in the hall;And long by the garden lake I stood,For I heard your rivulet fallFrom the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,Our wood, that is dearer than all;From the meadow your walks have left so sweetThat whenever a March-wind sighsHe sets the jewel-print of your feetIn violets blue as your eyes,To the woody hollows in which we meetAnd the valleys of Paradise.The slender acacia would not shakeOne long milk-bloom on the tree;The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;But the rose was awake all night for your sake,Knowing your promise to me;The lilies and roses were all awake,They sigh’d for the dawn and thee.Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,Come hither, the dances are done,In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,Queen lily and rose in one;Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls.To the flowers, and be their sun.There has fallen a splendid tearFrom the passion-flower at the gate.She is coming, my dove, my dear;She is coming, my life, my fate;The red rose cries, ‘She is near, she is near;’And the white rose weeps, ‘She is late,’The larkspur listens, ‘I hear, I hear;’And the lily whispers, ‘I wait.’She is coming, my own, my sweet;Were it ever so airy a tread,My heart would hear her and beat,Were it earth in an earthy bed;My dust would hear her and beat,Had I lain for a century dead;Would start and tremble under her feet,And blossom in purple and red.
COME into the garden, Maud,For the black bat, Night, has flown,Come into the garden, Maud,I am here at the gate alone;And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,And the musk of the roses blown.
For a breeze of morning moves,And the planet of Love is on high,Beginning to faint in the light that she lovesOn a bed of daffodil sky,To faint in the light of the sun she loves,To faint in his light, and to die.
All night have the roses heardThe flute, violin, bassoon;All night has the casement jessamine stirr’dTo the dancers dancing in tune;Till a silence fell with the waking bird,And a hush with the setting moon.
I said to the lily, ‘There is but oneWith whom she has heart to be gay.When will the dancers leave her alone?She is weary of dance and play.’Now half to the setting moon are gone,And half to the rising day;Low on the sand and loud on the stoneThe last wheel echoes away.
I said to the rose, ‘The brief night goesIn babble and revel and wine.
O young lord-lover, what sighs are thoseFor one that will never be thine?But mine, but mine,’ so I sware to the rose,‘For ever and ever, mine.’
And the soul of the rose went into my blood,As the music clash’d in the hall;And long by the garden lake I stood,For I heard your rivulet fallFrom the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,Our wood, that is dearer than all;
From the meadow your walks have left so sweetThat whenever a March-wind sighsHe sets the jewel-print of your feetIn violets blue as your eyes,To the woody hollows in which we meetAnd the valleys of Paradise.
The slender acacia would not shakeOne long milk-bloom on the tree;The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;But the rose was awake all night for your sake,Knowing your promise to me;The lilies and roses were all awake,They sigh’d for the dawn and thee.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,Come hither, the dances are done,In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,Queen lily and rose in one;Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls.To the flowers, and be their sun.
There has fallen a splendid tearFrom the passion-flower at the gate.She is coming, my dove, my dear;She is coming, my life, my fate;The red rose cries, ‘She is near, she is near;’And the white rose weeps, ‘She is late,’The larkspur listens, ‘I hear, I hear;’And the lily whispers, ‘I wait.’
She is coming, my own, my sweet;Were it ever so airy a tread,My heart would hear her and beat,Were it earth in an earthy bed;My dust would hear her and beat,Had I lain for a century dead;Would start and tremble under her feet,And blossom in purple and red.
709.
OTHAT ’twere possibleAfter long grief and painTo find the arms of my true loveRound me once again!...A shadow flits before me,Not thou, but like to thee:Ah, Christ! that it were possibleFor one short hour to seeThe souls we loved, that they might tell usWhat and where they be!
OTHAT ’twere possibleAfter long grief and painTo find the arms of my true loveRound me once again!...A shadow flits before me,Not thou, but like to thee:Ah, Christ! that it were possibleFor one short hour to seeThe souls we loved, that they might tell usWhat and where they be!
OTHAT ’twere possibleAfter long grief and painTo find the arms of my true loveRound me once again!...
A shadow flits before me,Not thou, but like to thee:Ah, Christ! that it were possibleFor one short hour to seeThe souls we loved, that they might tell usWhat and where they be!
1809-1885
710.
THEY seem’d, to those who saw them meet,The casual friends of every day;Her smile was undisturb’d and sweet,His courtesy was free and gay.But yet if one the other’s nameIn some unguarded moment heard,The heart you thought so calm and tameWould struggle like a captured bird:And letters of mere formal phraseWere blister’d with repeated tears,—And this was not the work of days,But had gone on for years and years!Alas, that love was not too strongFor maiden shame and manly pride!Alas, that they delay’d so longThe goal of mutual bliss beside!Yet what no chance could then reveal,And neither would be first to own,Let fate and courage now conceal,When truth could bring remorse alone.
THEY seem’d, to those who saw them meet,The casual friends of every day;Her smile was undisturb’d and sweet,His courtesy was free and gay.But yet if one the other’s nameIn some unguarded moment heard,The heart you thought so calm and tameWould struggle like a captured bird:And letters of mere formal phraseWere blister’d with repeated tears,—And this was not the work of days,But had gone on for years and years!Alas, that love was not too strongFor maiden shame and manly pride!Alas, that they delay’d so longThe goal of mutual bliss beside!Yet what no chance could then reveal,And neither would be first to own,Let fate and courage now conceal,When truth could bring remorse alone.
THEY seem’d, to those who saw them meet,The casual friends of every day;Her smile was undisturb’d and sweet,His courtesy was free and gay.
But yet if one the other’s nameIn some unguarded moment heard,The heart you thought so calm and tameWould struggle like a captured bird:
And letters of mere formal phraseWere blister’d with repeated tears,—And this was not the work of days,But had gone on for years and years!
Alas, that love was not too strongFor maiden shame and manly pride!Alas, that they delay’d so longThe goal of mutual bliss beside!
Yet what no chance could then reveal,And neither would be first to own,Let fate and courage now conceal,When truth could bring remorse alone.
1810-1871
711.
‘RISE,’ said the Master, ‘come unto the feast.’She heard the call and rose with willing feet;But thinking it not otherwise than meetFor such a bidding to put on her best,She is gone from us for a few short hoursInto her bridal closet, there to waitFor the unfolding of the palace gateThat gives her entrance to the blissful bowers.We have not seen her yet, though we have beenFull often to her chamber door, and oftHave listen’d underneath the postern green,And laid fresh flowers, and whisper’d short and soft.But she hath made no answer, and the dayFrom the clear west is fading fast away.
‘RISE,’ said the Master, ‘come unto the feast.’She heard the call and rose with willing feet;But thinking it not otherwise than meetFor such a bidding to put on her best,She is gone from us for a few short hoursInto her bridal closet, there to waitFor the unfolding of the palace gateThat gives her entrance to the blissful bowers.We have not seen her yet, though we have beenFull often to her chamber door, and oftHave listen’d underneath the postern green,And laid fresh flowers, and whisper’d short and soft.But she hath made no answer, and the dayFrom the clear west is fading fast away.
‘RISE,’ said the Master, ‘come unto the feast.’She heard the call and rose with willing feet;But thinking it not otherwise than meetFor such a bidding to put on her best,She is gone from us for a few short hoursInto her bridal closet, there to waitFor the unfolding of the palace gateThat gives her entrance to the blissful bowers.We have not seen her yet, though we have beenFull often to her chamber door, and oftHave listen’d underneath the postern green,And laid fresh flowers, and whisper’d short and soft.But she hath made no answer, and the dayFrom the clear west is fading fast away.
1810-1886
712.
PUT your head, darling, darling, darling,Your darling black head my heart above;O mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance,Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?O many and many a young girl for me is pining.Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free,For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows;But I’d leave a hundred, pure love, for thee!
PUT your head, darling, darling, darling,Your darling black head my heart above;O mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance,Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?O many and many a young girl for me is pining.Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free,For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows;But I’d leave a hundred, pure love, for thee!
PUT your head, darling, darling, darling,Your darling black head my heart above;O mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance,Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?
O many and many a young girl for me is pining.Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free,For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows;But I’d leave a hundred, pure love, for thee!
713.
FROM THE IRISH
I’d wed you without herds, without money or rich array.And I’d wed you on a dewy morn at day-dawn gray;My bitter woe it is, love, that we are not far awayIn Cashel town, tho’ the bare deal board were our marriage-bed this day!O fair maid, remember the green hill-side,Remember how I hunted about the valleys wide;Time now has worn me; my locks are turn’d to gray;The year is scarce and I am poor—but send me not, love, away!O deem not my blood is of base strain, my girl;O think not my birth was as the birth of a churl;Marry me and prove me, and say soon you willThat noble blood is written on my right side still.My purse holds no red gold, no coin of the silver white;No herds are mine to drive through the long twilight;But the pretty girl that would take me, all bare tho’ I be and lone,O, I’d take her with me kindly to the county Tyrone!O my girl, I can see ’tis in trouble you are;And O my girl, I see ’tis your people’s reproach you bear!—I am a girl in trouble for his sake with whom I fly,And, O, may no other maiden know such reproach as I!
I’d wed you without herds, without money or rich array.And I’d wed you on a dewy morn at day-dawn gray;My bitter woe it is, love, that we are not far awayIn Cashel town, tho’ the bare deal board were our marriage-bed this day!O fair maid, remember the green hill-side,Remember how I hunted about the valleys wide;Time now has worn me; my locks are turn’d to gray;The year is scarce and I am poor—but send me not, love, away!O deem not my blood is of base strain, my girl;O think not my birth was as the birth of a churl;Marry me and prove me, and say soon you willThat noble blood is written on my right side still.My purse holds no red gold, no coin of the silver white;No herds are mine to drive through the long twilight;But the pretty girl that would take me, all bare tho’ I be and lone,O, I’d take her with me kindly to the county Tyrone!O my girl, I can see ’tis in trouble you are;And O my girl, I see ’tis your people’s reproach you bear!—I am a girl in trouble for his sake with whom I fly,And, O, may no other maiden know such reproach as I!
I’d wed you without herds, without money or rich array.And I’d wed you on a dewy morn at day-dawn gray;My bitter woe it is, love, that we are not far awayIn Cashel town, tho’ the bare deal board were our marriage-bed this day!
O fair maid, remember the green hill-side,Remember how I hunted about the valleys wide;Time now has worn me; my locks are turn’d to gray;The year is scarce and I am poor—but send me not, love, away!
O deem not my blood is of base strain, my girl;O think not my birth was as the birth of a churl;Marry me and prove me, and say soon you willThat noble blood is written on my right side still.
My purse holds no red gold, no coin of the silver white;No herds are mine to drive through the long twilight;But the pretty girl that would take me, all bare tho’ I be and lone,O, I’d take her with me kindly to the county Tyrone!
O my girl, I can see ’tis in trouble you are;And O my girl, I see ’tis your people’s reproach you bear!—I am a girl in trouble for his sake with whom I fly,And, O, may no other maiden know such reproach as I!
714.
FROM THE IRISH
APLENTEOUS place is Ireland for hospitable cheer,Uileacan dubh O!Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear;Uileacan dubh O!There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand,And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fann’d,There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i’ the yellow sand,On the fair hills of holy Ireland.Curl’d he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee—Uileacan dubh O!Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea;Uileacan dubh O!And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand,Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand,And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command,For the fair hills of holy Ireland.Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground,Uileacan dubh O!The butter and the cream do wondrously abound;Uileacan dubh O!The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand,And the cuckoo’s calling daily his note of music bland,And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i’ the forests grand,On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
APLENTEOUS place is Ireland for hospitable cheer,Uileacan dubh O!Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear;Uileacan dubh O!There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand,And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fann’d,There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i’ the yellow sand,On the fair hills of holy Ireland.Curl’d he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee—Uileacan dubh O!Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea;Uileacan dubh O!And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand,Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand,And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command,For the fair hills of holy Ireland.Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground,Uileacan dubh O!The butter and the cream do wondrously abound;Uileacan dubh O!The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand,And the cuckoo’s calling daily his note of music bland,And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i’ the forests grand,On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
APLENTEOUS place is Ireland for hospitable cheer,Uileacan dubh O!Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear;Uileacan dubh O!There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand,And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fann’d,There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i’ the yellow sand,On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Curl’d he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee—Uileacan dubh O!Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea;Uileacan dubh O!And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand,Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand,And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command,For the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground,Uileacan dubh O!The butter and the cream do wondrously abound;Uileacan dubh O!The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand,And the cuckoo’s calling daily his note of music bland,And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i’ the forests grand,On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
1812-1889
715.
HEAP cassia, sandal-buds and stripesOf labdanum, and aloe-balls,Smear’d with dull nard an Indian wipesFrom out her hair: such balsam fallsDown sea-side mountain pedestals,From tree-tops where tired winds are fain,Spent with the vast and howling main,To treasure half their island-gain.And strew faint sweetness from some oldEgyptian’s fine worm-eaten shroudWhich breaks to dust when once unroll’d;Or shredded perfume, like a cloudFrom closet long to quiet vow’d,With moth’d and dropping arras hung,Mouldering her lute and books among,As when a queen, long dead, was young.
HEAP cassia, sandal-buds and stripesOf labdanum, and aloe-balls,Smear’d with dull nard an Indian wipesFrom out her hair: such balsam fallsDown sea-side mountain pedestals,From tree-tops where tired winds are fain,Spent with the vast and howling main,To treasure half their island-gain.And strew faint sweetness from some oldEgyptian’s fine worm-eaten shroudWhich breaks to dust when once unroll’d;Or shredded perfume, like a cloudFrom closet long to quiet vow’d,With moth’d and dropping arras hung,Mouldering her lute and books among,As when a queen, long dead, was young.
HEAP cassia, sandal-buds and stripesOf labdanum, and aloe-balls,Smear’d with dull nard an Indian wipesFrom out her hair: such balsam fallsDown sea-side mountain pedestals,From tree-tops where tired winds are fain,Spent with the vast and howling main,To treasure half their island-gain.
And strew faint sweetness from some oldEgyptian’s fine worm-eaten shroudWhich breaks to dust when once unroll’d;Or shredded perfume, like a cloudFrom closet long to quiet vow’d,With moth’d and dropping arras hung,Mouldering her lute and books among,As when a queen, long dead, was young.
716.
OVER the sea our galleys went,With cleaving prows in order braveTo a speeding wind and a bounding wave—A gallant armament:Each bark built out of a forest-treeLeft leafy and rough as first it grew,And nail’d all over the gaping sides,Within and without, with black bull-hides,Seethed in fat and suppled in flame,To bear the playful billows’ game;So, each good ship was rude to see,Rude and bare to the outward view.But each upbore a stately tentWhere cedar pales in scented rowKept out the flakes of the dancing brine,And an awning droop’d the mast below,In fold on fold of the purple fine,That neither noontide nor star-shineNor moonlight cold which maketh mad,Might pierce the regal tenement.When the sun dawn’d, O, gay and gladWe set the sail and plied the oar;But when the night-wind blew like breath,For joy of one day’s voyage more,We sang together on the wide sea,Like men at peace on a peaceful shore;Each sail was loosed to the wind so free,Each helm made sure by the twilight star,And in a sleep as calm as death,We, the voyagers from afar,Lay stretch’d along, each weary crewIn a circle round its wondrous tentWhence gleam’d soft light and curl’d rich scent,And with light and perfume, music too:So the stars wheel’d round, and the darkness past,And at morn we started beside the mast,And still each ship was sailing fast!Now, one morn, land appear’d—a speckDim trembling betwixt sea and sky—‘Avoid it,’ cried our pilot, ‘checkThe shout, restrain the eager eye!’But the heaving sea was black behindFor many a night and many a day,And land, though but a rock, drew nighSo we broke the cedar pales away,Let the purple awning flap in the wind,And a statue bright was on every deck!We shouted, every man of us,And steer’d right into the harbour thus,With pomp and pæan glorious.A hundred shapes of lucid stone!All day we built its shrine for each,A shrine of rock for every one,Nor paused till in the westering sunWe sat together on the beachTo sing because our task was done;When lo! what shouts and merry songs!What laughter all the distance stirs!A loaded raft with happy throngsOf gentle islanders!‘Our isles are just at hand,’ they cried,‘Like cloudlets faint in even sleeping;Our temple-gates are open’d wide,Our olive-groves thick shade are keepingFor these majestic forms’—they cried.O, then we awoke with sudden startFrom our deep dream, and knew, too late,How bare the rock, how desolate,Which had received our precious freight:Yet we call’d out—‘Depart!Our gifts, once given, must here abide:Our work is done; we have no heartTo mar our work,’—we cried.
OVER the sea our galleys went,With cleaving prows in order braveTo a speeding wind and a bounding wave—A gallant armament:Each bark built out of a forest-treeLeft leafy and rough as first it grew,And nail’d all over the gaping sides,Within and without, with black bull-hides,Seethed in fat and suppled in flame,To bear the playful billows’ game;So, each good ship was rude to see,Rude and bare to the outward view.But each upbore a stately tentWhere cedar pales in scented rowKept out the flakes of the dancing brine,And an awning droop’d the mast below,In fold on fold of the purple fine,That neither noontide nor star-shineNor moonlight cold which maketh mad,Might pierce the regal tenement.When the sun dawn’d, O, gay and gladWe set the sail and plied the oar;But when the night-wind blew like breath,For joy of one day’s voyage more,We sang together on the wide sea,Like men at peace on a peaceful shore;Each sail was loosed to the wind so free,Each helm made sure by the twilight star,And in a sleep as calm as death,We, the voyagers from afar,Lay stretch’d along, each weary crewIn a circle round its wondrous tentWhence gleam’d soft light and curl’d rich scent,And with light and perfume, music too:So the stars wheel’d round, and the darkness past,And at morn we started beside the mast,And still each ship was sailing fast!Now, one morn, land appear’d—a speckDim trembling betwixt sea and sky—‘Avoid it,’ cried our pilot, ‘checkThe shout, restrain the eager eye!’But the heaving sea was black behindFor many a night and many a day,And land, though but a rock, drew nighSo we broke the cedar pales away,Let the purple awning flap in the wind,And a statue bright was on every deck!We shouted, every man of us,And steer’d right into the harbour thus,With pomp and pæan glorious.A hundred shapes of lucid stone!All day we built its shrine for each,A shrine of rock for every one,Nor paused till in the westering sunWe sat together on the beachTo sing because our task was done;When lo! what shouts and merry songs!What laughter all the distance stirs!A loaded raft with happy throngsOf gentle islanders!‘Our isles are just at hand,’ they cried,‘Like cloudlets faint in even sleeping;Our temple-gates are open’d wide,Our olive-groves thick shade are keepingFor these majestic forms’—they cried.O, then we awoke with sudden startFrom our deep dream, and knew, too late,How bare the rock, how desolate,Which had received our precious freight:Yet we call’d out—‘Depart!Our gifts, once given, must here abide:Our work is done; we have no heartTo mar our work,’—we cried.
OVER the sea our galleys went,With cleaving prows in order braveTo a speeding wind and a bounding wave—A gallant armament:Each bark built out of a forest-treeLeft leafy and rough as first it grew,And nail’d all over the gaping sides,Within and without, with black bull-hides,Seethed in fat and suppled in flame,To bear the playful billows’ game;So, each good ship was rude to see,Rude and bare to the outward view.But each upbore a stately tentWhere cedar pales in scented rowKept out the flakes of the dancing brine,And an awning droop’d the mast below,In fold on fold of the purple fine,That neither noontide nor star-shineNor moonlight cold which maketh mad,Might pierce the regal tenement.When the sun dawn’d, O, gay and gladWe set the sail and plied the oar;But when the night-wind blew like breath,For joy of one day’s voyage more,We sang together on the wide sea,Like men at peace on a peaceful shore;Each sail was loosed to the wind so free,Each helm made sure by the twilight star,And in a sleep as calm as death,We, the voyagers from afar,Lay stretch’d along, each weary crewIn a circle round its wondrous tentWhence gleam’d soft light and curl’d rich scent,And with light and perfume, music too:So the stars wheel’d round, and the darkness past,And at morn we started beside the mast,And still each ship was sailing fast!
Now, one morn, land appear’d—a speckDim trembling betwixt sea and sky—‘Avoid it,’ cried our pilot, ‘checkThe shout, restrain the eager eye!’But the heaving sea was black behindFor many a night and many a day,And land, though but a rock, drew nighSo we broke the cedar pales away,Let the purple awning flap in the wind,And a statue bright was on every deck!We shouted, every man of us,And steer’d right into the harbour thus,With pomp and pæan glorious.
A hundred shapes of lucid stone!All day we built its shrine for each,A shrine of rock for every one,Nor paused till in the westering sunWe sat together on the beachTo sing because our task was done;When lo! what shouts and merry songs!What laughter all the distance stirs!A loaded raft with happy throngsOf gentle islanders!‘Our isles are just at hand,’ they cried,‘Like cloudlets faint in even sleeping;Our temple-gates are open’d wide,Our olive-groves thick shade are keepingFor these majestic forms’—they cried.O, then we awoke with sudden startFrom our deep dream, and knew, too late,How bare the rock, how desolate,Which had received our precious freight:Yet we call’d out—‘Depart!Our gifts, once given, must here abide:Our work is done; we have no heartTo mar our work,’—we cried.
717.
THUS the Mayne glidethWhere my Love abideth;Sleep’s no softer: it proceedsOn through lawns, on through meads,On and on, whate’er befall.Meandering and musical,Though the niggard pasturageBears not on its shaven ledgeAught but weeds and waving grassesTo view the river as it passes,Save here and there a scanty patchOf primroses too faint to catchA weary bee.... And scarce it pushesIts gentle way through strangling rushesWhere the glossy kingfisherFlutters when noon-heats are near,Glad the shelving banks to shun,Red and steaming in the sun,Where the shrew-mouse with pale throatBurrows, and the speckled stoat;Where the quick sandpipers flitIn and out the marl and gritThat seems to breed them, brown as they;Naught disturbs its quiet way,Save some lazy stork that springs,Trailing it with legs and wings,Whom the shy fox from the hillRouses, creep he ne’er so still.
THUS the Mayne glidethWhere my Love abideth;Sleep’s no softer: it proceedsOn through lawns, on through meads,On and on, whate’er befall.Meandering and musical,Though the niggard pasturageBears not on its shaven ledgeAught but weeds and waving grassesTo view the river as it passes,Save here and there a scanty patchOf primroses too faint to catchA weary bee.... And scarce it pushesIts gentle way through strangling rushesWhere the glossy kingfisherFlutters when noon-heats are near,Glad the shelving banks to shun,Red and steaming in the sun,Where the shrew-mouse with pale throatBurrows, and the speckled stoat;Where the quick sandpipers flitIn and out the marl and gritThat seems to breed them, brown as they;Naught disturbs its quiet way,Save some lazy stork that springs,Trailing it with legs and wings,Whom the shy fox from the hillRouses, creep he ne’er so still.
THUS the Mayne glidethWhere my Love abideth;Sleep’s no softer: it proceedsOn through lawns, on through meads,On and on, whate’er befall.Meandering and musical,Though the niggard pasturageBears not on its shaven ledgeAught but weeds and waving grassesTo view the river as it passes,Save here and there a scanty patchOf primroses too faint to catchA weary bee.... And scarce it pushesIts gentle way through strangling rushesWhere the glossy kingfisherFlutters when noon-heats are near,Glad the shelving banks to shun,Red and steaming in the sun,Where the shrew-mouse with pale throatBurrows, and the speckled stoat;Where the quick sandpipers flitIn and out the marl and gritThat seems to breed them, brown as they;Naught disturbs its quiet way,Save some lazy stork that springs,Trailing it with legs and wings,Whom the shy fox from the hillRouses, creep he ne’er so still.
718.
THE year’s at the spring,And day’s at the morn;Morning’s at seven;The hill-side’s dew-pearl’d;The lark’s on the wing;The snail’s on the thorn;God’s in His heaven—All’s right with the world!
THE year’s at the spring,And day’s at the morn;Morning’s at seven;The hill-side’s dew-pearl’d;The lark’s on the wing;The snail’s on the thorn;God’s in His heaven—All’s right with the world!
THE year’s at the spring,And day’s at the morn;Morning’s at seven;The hill-side’s dew-pearl’d;The lark’s on the wing;The snail’s on the thorn;God’s in His heaven—All’s right with the world!
719.
YOU’ll love me yet!—and I can tarryYour love’s protracted growing:June rear’d that bunch of flowers you carry,From seeds of April’s sowing.I plant a heartful now: some seedAt least is sure to strike,And yield—what you’ll not pluck indeed,Not love, but, may be, like.You’ll look at least on love’s remains,A grave’s one violet:Your look?—that pays a thousand pains.What’s death? You’ll love me yet!
YOU’ll love me yet!—and I can tarryYour love’s protracted growing:June rear’d that bunch of flowers you carry,From seeds of April’s sowing.I plant a heartful now: some seedAt least is sure to strike,And yield—what you’ll not pluck indeed,Not love, but, may be, like.You’ll look at least on love’s remains,A grave’s one violet:Your look?—that pays a thousand pains.What’s death? You’ll love me yet!
YOU’ll love me yet!—and I can tarryYour love’s protracted growing:June rear’d that bunch of flowers you carry,From seeds of April’s sowing.
I plant a heartful now: some seedAt least is sure to strike,And yield—what you’ll not pluck indeed,Not love, but, may be, like.
You’ll look at least on love’s remains,A grave’s one violet:Your look?—that pays a thousand pains.What’s death? You’ll love me yet!
720.
THE rain set early in to-night,The sullen wind was soon awake,It tore the elm-tops down for spite,And did its worst to vex the lake:I listen’d with heart fit to break.When glided in Porphyria; straightShe shut the cold out and the storm,And kneel’d and made the cheerless grateBlaze up, and all the cottage warm;Which done, she rose, and from her formWithdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,And laid her soil’d gloves by, untiedHer hat and let the damp hair fall,And, last, she sat down by my sideAnd call’d me. When no voice replied,She put my arm about her waist,And made her smooth white shoulder bare,And all her yellow hair displaced,And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,And spread, o’er all, her yellow hair,Murmuring how she loved me—sheToo weak, for all her heart’s endeavour,To set its struggling passion freeFrom pride, and vainer ties dissever,And give herself to me for ever.But passion sometimes would prevail,Nor could to-night’s gay feast restrainA sudden thought of one so paleFor love of her, and all in vain:So, she was come through wind and rain.Be sure I look’d up at her eyesHappy and proud; at last I knewPorphyria worshipp’d me; surpriseMade my heart swell, and still it grewWhile I debated what to do.That moment she was mine, mine, fair,Perfectly pure and good: I foundA thing to do, and all her hairIn one long yellow string I woundThree times her little throat around,And strangled her. No pain felt she;I am quite sure she felt no pain.As a shut bud that holds a bee,I warily oped her lids: againLaugh’d the blue eyes without a stain.And I untighten’d next the tressAbout her neck; her cheek once moreBlush’d bright beneath my burning kiss:I propp’d her head up as before,Only, this time my shoulder boreHer head, which droops upon it still:The smiling rosy little head,So glad it has its utmost will,That all it scorn’d at once is fled,And I, its love, am gain’d instead!Porphyria’s love: she guess’d not howHer darling one wish would be heard.And thus we sit together now,And all night long we have not stirr’d,And yet God has not said a word!
THE rain set early in to-night,The sullen wind was soon awake,It tore the elm-tops down for spite,And did its worst to vex the lake:I listen’d with heart fit to break.When glided in Porphyria; straightShe shut the cold out and the storm,And kneel’d and made the cheerless grateBlaze up, and all the cottage warm;Which done, she rose, and from her formWithdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,And laid her soil’d gloves by, untiedHer hat and let the damp hair fall,And, last, she sat down by my sideAnd call’d me. When no voice replied,She put my arm about her waist,And made her smooth white shoulder bare,And all her yellow hair displaced,And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,And spread, o’er all, her yellow hair,Murmuring how she loved me—sheToo weak, for all her heart’s endeavour,To set its struggling passion freeFrom pride, and vainer ties dissever,And give herself to me for ever.But passion sometimes would prevail,Nor could to-night’s gay feast restrainA sudden thought of one so paleFor love of her, and all in vain:So, she was come through wind and rain.Be sure I look’d up at her eyesHappy and proud; at last I knewPorphyria worshipp’d me; surpriseMade my heart swell, and still it grewWhile I debated what to do.That moment she was mine, mine, fair,Perfectly pure and good: I foundA thing to do, and all her hairIn one long yellow string I woundThree times her little throat around,And strangled her. No pain felt she;I am quite sure she felt no pain.As a shut bud that holds a bee,I warily oped her lids: againLaugh’d the blue eyes without a stain.And I untighten’d next the tressAbout her neck; her cheek once moreBlush’d bright beneath my burning kiss:I propp’d her head up as before,Only, this time my shoulder boreHer head, which droops upon it still:The smiling rosy little head,So glad it has its utmost will,That all it scorn’d at once is fled,And I, its love, am gain’d instead!Porphyria’s love: she guess’d not howHer darling one wish would be heard.And thus we sit together now,And all night long we have not stirr’d,And yet God has not said a word!
THE rain set early in to-night,The sullen wind was soon awake,It tore the elm-tops down for spite,And did its worst to vex the lake:I listen’d with heart fit to break.When glided in Porphyria; straightShe shut the cold out and the storm,And kneel’d and made the cheerless grateBlaze up, and all the cottage warm;Which done, she rose, and from her formWithdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,And laid her soil’d gloves by, untiedHer hat and let the damp hair fall,And, last, she sat down by my sideAnd call’d me. When no voice replied,She put my arm about her waist,And made her smooth white shoulder bare,And all her yellow hair displaced,And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,And spread, o’er all, her yellow hair,Murmuring how she loved me—sheToo weak, for all her heart’s endeavour,To set its struggling passion freeFrom pride, and vainer ties dissever,And give herself to me for ever.But passion sometimes would prevail,Nor could to-night’s gay feast restrainA sudden thought of one so paleFor love of her, and all in vain:So, she was come through wind and rain.Be sure I look’d up at her eyesHappy and proud; at last I knewPorphyria worshipp’d me; surpriseMade my heart swell, and still it grewWhile I debated what to do.That moment she was mine, mine, fair,Perfectly pure and good: I foundA thing to do, and all her hairIn one long yellow string I woundThree times her little throat around,And strangled her. No pain felt she;I am quite sure she felt no pain.As a shut bud that holds a bee,I warily oped her lids: againLaugh’d the blue eyes without a stain.And I untighten’d next the tressAbout her neck; her cheek once moreBlush’d bright beneath my burning kiss:I propp’d her head up as before,Only, this time my shoulder boreHer head, which droops upon it still:The smiling rosy little head,So glad it has its utmost will,That all it scorn’d at once is fled,And I, its love, am gain’d instead!Porphyria’s love: she guess’d not howHer darling one wish would be heard.And thus we sit together now,And all night long we have not stirr’d,And yet God has not said a word!
721.
NAY but you, who do not love her,Is she not pure gold, my mistress?Holds earth aught—speak truth—above her?Aught like this tress, see, and this tress,And this last fairest tress of all,So fair, see, ere I let it fall?Because, you spend your lives in praising;To praise, you search the wide world over:Then why not witness, calmly gazing,If earth holds aught—speak truth—above her?Above this tress, and this, I touchBut cannot praise, I love so much!
NAY but you, who do not love her,Is she not pure gold, my mistress?Holds earth aught—speak truth—above her?Aught like this tress, see, and this tress,And this last fairest tress of all,So fair, see, ere I let it fall?Because, you spend your lives in praising;To praise, you search the wide world over:Then why not witness, calmly gazing,If earth holds aught—speak truth—above her?Above this tress, and this, I touchBut cannot praise, I love so much!
NAY but you, who do not love her,Is she not pure gold, my mistress?Holds earth aught—speak truth—above her?Aught like this tress, see, and this tress,And this last fairest tress of all,So fair, see, ere I let it fall?
Because, you spend your lives in praising;To praise, you search the wide world over:Then why not witness, calmly gazing,If earth holds aught—speak truth—above her?Above this tress, and this, I touchBut cannot praise, I love so much!
722.
THERE’s a woman like a dewdrop, she’s so purer than the purest;And her noble heart’s the noblest, yes, and her sure faith’s the surest:And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustreHid i’ the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild-grape cluster,Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck’s rose-misted marble:Then her voice’s music ... call it the well’s bubbling, the bird’s warble!And this woman says, ‘My days were sunless and my nights were moonless,Parch’d the pleasant April herbage, and the lark’s heart’s outbreak tuneless,If you loved me not!’ And I who (ah, for words of flame!) adore her,Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her—I may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me,And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as hers she makes me!
THERE’s a woman like a dewdrop, she’s so purer than the purest;And her noble heart’s the noblest, yes, and her sure faith’s the surest:And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustreHid i’ the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild-grape cluster,Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck’s rose-misted marble:Then her voice’s music ... call it the well’s bubbling, the bird’s warble!And this woman says, ‘My days were sunless and my nights were moonless,Parch’d the pleasant April herbage, and the lark’s heart’s outbreak tuneless,If you loved me not!’ And I who (ah, for words of flame!) adore her,Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her—I may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me,And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as hers she makes me!
THERE’s a woman like a dewdrop, she’s so purer than the purest;And her noble heart’s the noblest, yes, and her sure faith’s the surest:And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustreHid i’ the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild-grape cluster,Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck’s rose-misted marble:Then her voice’s music ... call it the well’s bubbling, the bird’s warble!
And this woman says, ‘My days were sunless and my nights were moonless,Parch’d the pleasant April herbage, and the lark’s heart’s outbreak tuneless,If you loved me not!’ And I who (ah, for words of flame!) adore her,Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her—I may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me,And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as hers she makes me!
723.
THE moth’s kiss, first!Kiss me as if you made me believeYou were not sure, this eve,How my face, your flower, had pursedIts petals up; so, here and thereYou brush it, till I grow awareWho wants me, and wide ope I burst.The bee’s kiss, now!Kiss me as if you enter’d gayMy heart at some noonday,A bud that dares not disallowThe claim, so all is render’d up,And passively its shatter’d cupOver your head to sleep I bow.
THE moth’s kiss, first!Kiss me as if you made me believeYou were not sure, this eve,How my face, your flower, had pursedIts petals up; so, here and thereYou brush it, till I grow awareWho wants me, and wide ope I burst.The bee’s kiss, now!Kiss me as if you enter’d gayMy heart at some noonday,A bud that dares not disallowThe claim, so all is render’d up,And passively its shatter’d cupOver your head to sleep I bow.
THE moth’s kiss, first!Kiss me as if you made me believeYou were not sure, this eve,How my face, your flower, had pursedIts petals up; so, here and thereYou brush it, till I grow awareWho wants me, and wide ope I burst.
The bee’s kiss, now!Kiss me as if you enter’d gayMy heart at some noonday,A bud that dares not disallowThe claim, so all is render’d up,And passively its shatter’d cupOver your head to sleep I bow.
724.
THE gray sea and the long black land;And the yellow half-moon large and low;And the startled little waves that leapIn fiery ringlets from their sleep,As I gain the cove with pushing prow,And quench its speed i’ the slushy sand.Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;Three fields to cross till a farm appears;A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratchAnd blue spurt of a lighted match,And a voice less loud, thro’ its joys and fears,Than the two hearts beating each to each!
THE gray sea and the long black land;And the yellow half-moon large and low;And the startled little waves that leapIn fiery ringlets from their sleep,As I gain the cove with pushing prow,And quench its speed i’ the slushy sand.Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;Three fields to cross till a farm appears;A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratchAnd blue spurt of a lighted match,And a voice less loud, thro’ its joys and fears,Than the two hearts beating each to each!
THE gray sea and the long black land;And the yellow half-moon large and low;And the startled little waves that leapIn fiery ringlets from their sleep,As I gain the cove with pushing prow,And quench its speed i’ the slushy sand.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;Three fields to cross till a farm appears;A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratchAnd blue spurt of a lighted match,And a voice less loud, thro’ its joys and fears,Than the two hearts beating each to each!
725.
ROUND the cape of a sudden came the sea,And the sun look’d over the mountain’s rimAnd straight was a path of gold for him,And the need of a world of men for me.
ROUND the cape of a sudden came the sea,And the sun look’d over the mountain’s rimAnd straight was a path of gold for him,And the need of a world of men for me.
ROUND the cape of a sudden came the sea,And the sun look’d over the mountain’s rimAnd straight was a path of gold for him,And the need of a world of men for me.
726.
ALL’s over, then: does truth sound bitterAs one at first believes?Hark, ’tis the sparrows’ good-night twitterAbout your cottage eaves!And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,I noticed that, to-day;One day more bursts them open fully—You know the red turns gray.To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?May I take your hand in mine?Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merestKeep much that I resign:For each glance of the eye so bright and black,Though I keep with heart’s endeavour,—Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,Though it stay in my soul for ever!—Yet I will but say what mere friends say,Or only a thought stronger;I will hold your hand but as long as all may,Or so very little longer!
ALL’s over, then: does truth sound bitterAs one at first believes?Hark, ’tis the sparrows’ good-night twitterAbout your cottage eaves!And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,I noticed that, to-day;One day more bursts them open fully—You know the red turns gray.To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?May I take your hand in mine?Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merestKeep much that I resign:For each glance of the eye so bright and black,Though I keep with heart’s endeavour,—Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,Though it stay in my soul for ever!—Yet I will but say what mere friends say,Or only a thought stronger;I will hold your hand but as long as all may,Or so very little longer!
ALL’s over, then: does truth sound bitterAs one at first believes?Hark, ’tis the sparrows’ good-night twitterAbout your cottage eaves!
And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,I noticed that, to-day;One day more bursts them open fully—You know the red turns gray.
To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?May I take your hand in mine?Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merestKeep much that I resign:
For each glance of the eye so bright and black,Though I keep with heart’s endeavour,—Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,Though it stay in my soul for ever!—
Yet I will but say what mere friends say,Or only a thought stronger;I will hold your hand but as long as all may,Or so very little longer!
727.
ISAID—Then, dearest, since ’tis so,Since now at length my fate I know,Since nothing all my love avails,Since all, my life seem’d meant for, fails,Since this was written and needs must be—My whole heart rises up to blessYour name in pride and thankfulness!Take back the hope you gave,—I claimOnly a memory of the same,—And this beside, if you will not blame;Your leave for one more last ride with me.My mistress bent that brow of hers,Those deep dark eyes where pride demursWhen pity would be softening through,Fix’d me a breathing-while or twoWith life or death in the balance: right!The blood replenish’d me again;My last thought was at least not vain:I and my mistress, side by sideShall be together, breathe and ride,So, one day more am I deified.Who knows but the world may end to-night?Hush! if you saw some western cloudAll billowy-bosom’d, over-bow’dBy many benedictions—sun’sAnd moon’s and evening-star’s at once—And so, you, looking and loving best,Conscious grew, your passion drewCloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too,Down on you, near and yet more near,Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!—Thus leant she and linger’d—joy and fear!Thus lay she a moment on my breast.Then we began to ride. My soulSmooth’d itself out, a long-cramp’d scrollFreshening and fluttering in the wind.Past hopes already lay behind.What need to strive with a life awry?Had I said that, had I done this,So might I gain, so might I miss.Might she have loved me? just as wellShe might have hated, who can tell!Where had I been now if the worst befell?And here we are riding, she and I.Fail I alone, in words and deeds?Why, all men strive and who succeeds?We rode; it seem’d my spirit flew,Saw other regions, cities new,As the world rush’d by on either side.I thought,—All labour, yet no lessBear up beneath their unsuccess.Look at the end of work, contrastThe petty done, the undone vast,This present of theirs with the hopeful past!I hoped she would love me; here we ride.What hand and brain went ever pair’d?What heart alike conceived and dared?What act proved all its thought had been?What will but felt the fleshly screen?We ride and I see her bosom heave.There’s many a crown for who can reach.Ten lines, a statesman’s life in each!The flag stuck on a heap of bones,A soldier’s doing! what atones?They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones.My riding is better, by their leave.What does it all mean, poet? Well,Your brains beat into rhythm, you tellWhat we felt only; you express’dYou hold things beautiful the best,And pace them in rhyme so, side by side.’Tis something, nay ’tis much: but then,Have you yourself what’s best for men?Are you—poor, sick, old ere your time—Nearer one whit your own sublimeThan we who never have turn’d a rhyme?Sing, riding’s a joy! For me, I ride.And you, great sculptor—so, you gaveA score of years to Art, her slave,And that’s your Venus, whence we turnTo yonder girl that fords the burn!You acquiesce, and shall I repine?What, man of music, you grown grayWith notes and nothing else to say,Is this your sole praise from a friend,‘Greatly his opera’s strains intend,But in music we know how fashions end!’I gave my youth: but we ride, in fine.Who knows what’s fit for us? Had fateProposed bliss here should sublimateMy being—had I sign’d the bond—Still one must lead some life beyond,Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried.This foot once planted on the goal,This glory-garland round my soul,Could I descry such? Try and test!I sink back shuddering from the quest.Earth being so good, would heaven seem best?Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride.And yet—she has not spoke so long!What if heaven be that, fair and strongAt life’s best, with our eyes upturn’dWhither life’s flower is first discern’d,We, fix’d so, ever should so abide?What if we still ride on, we twoWith life for ever old yet new,Changed not in kind but in degree,The instant made eternity,—And heaven just prove that I and sheRide, ride together, for ever ride?
ISAID—Then, dearest, since ’tis so,Since now at length my fate I know,Since nothing all my love avails,Since all, my life seem’d meant for, fails,Since this was written and needs must be—My whole heart rises up to blessYour name in pride and thankfulness!Take back the hope you gave,—I claimOnly a memory of the same,—And this beside, if you will not blame;Your leave for one more last ride with me.My mistress bent that brow of hers,Those deep dark eyes where pride demursWhen pity would be softening through,Fix’d me a breathing-while or twoWith life or death in the balance: right!The blood replenish’d me again;My last thought was at least not vain:I and my mistress, side by sideShall be together, breathe and ride,So, one day more am I deified.Who knows but the world may end to-night?Hush! if you saw some western cloudAll billowy-bosom’d, over-bow’dBy many benedictions—sun’sAnd moon’s and evening-star’s at once—And so, you, looking and loving best,Conscious grew, your passion drewCloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too,Down on you, near and yet more near,Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!—Thus leant she and linger’d—joy and fear!Thus lay she a moment on my breast.Then we began to ride. My soulSmooth’d itself out, a long-cramp’d scrollFreshening and fluttering in the wind.Past hopes already lay behind.What need to strive with a life awry?Had I said that, had I done this,So might I gain, so might I miss.Might she have loved me? just as wellShe might have hated, who can tell!Where had I been now if the worst befell?And here we are riding, she and I.Fail I alone, in words and deeds?Why, all men strive and who succeeds?We rode; it seem’d my spirit flew,Saw other regions, cities new,As the world rush’d by on either side.I thought,—All labour, yet no lessBear up beneath their unsuccess.Look at the end of work, contrastThe petty done, the undone vast,This present of theirs with the hopeful past!I hoped she would love me; here we ride.What hand and brain went ever pair’d?What heart alike conceived and dared?What act proved all its thought had been?What will but felt the fleshly screen?We ride and I see her bosom heave.There’s many a crown for who can reach.Ten lines, a statesman’s life in each!The flag stuck on a heap of bones,A soldier’s doing! what atones?They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones.My riding is better, by their leave.What does it all mean, poet? Well,Your brains beat into rhythm, you tellWhat we felt only; you express’dYou hold things beautiful the best,And pace them in rhyme so, side by side.’Tis something, nay ’tis much: but then,Have you yourself what’s best for men?Are you—poor, sick, old ere your time—Nearer one whit your own sublimeThan we who never have turn’d a rhyme?Sing, riding’s a joy! For me, I ride.And you, great sculptor—so, you gaveA score of years to Art, her slave,And that’s your Venus, whence we turnTo yonder girl that fords the burn!You acquiesce, and shall I repine?What, man of music, you grown grayWith notes and nothing else to say,Is this your sole praise from a friend,‘Greatly his opera’s strains intend,But in music we know how fashions end!’I gave my youth: but we ride, in fine.Who knows what’s fit for us? Had fateProposed bliss here should sublimateMy being—had I sign’d the bond—Still one must lead some life beyond,Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried.This foot once planted on the goal,This glory-garland round my soul,Could I descry such? Try and test!I sink back shuddering from the quest.Earth being so good, would heaven seem best?Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride.And yet—she has not spoke so long!What if heaven be that, fair and strongAt life’s best, with our eyes upturn’dWhither life’s flower is first discern’d,We, fix’d so, ever should so abide?What if we still ride on, we twoWith life for ever old yet new,Changed not in kind but in degree,The instant made eternity,—And heaven just prove that I and sheRide, ride together, for ever ride?
ISAID—Then, dearest, since ’tis so,Since now at length my fate I know,Since nothing all my love avails,Since all, my life seem’d meant for, fails,Since this was written and needs must be—My whole heart rises up to blessYour name in pride and thankfulness!Take back the hope you gave,—I claimOnly a memory of the same,—And this beside, if you will not blame;Your leave for one more last ride with me.
My mistress bent that brow of hers,Those deep dark eyes where pride demursWhen pity would be softening through,Fix’d me a breathing-while or twoWith life or death in the balance: right!The blood replenish’d me again;My last thought was at least not vain:I and my mistress, side by sideShall be together, breathe and ride,So, one day more am I deified.Who knows but the world may end to-night?
Hush! if you saw some western cloudAll billowy-bosom’d, over-bow’dBy many benedictions—sun’sAnd moon’s and evening-star’s at once—And so, you, looking and loving best,Conscious grew, your passion drewCloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too,Down on you, near and yet more near,Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!—Thus leant she and linger’d—joy and fear!Thus lay she a moment on my breast.
Then we began to ride. My soulSmooth’d itself out, a long-cramp’d scrollFreshening and fluttering in the wind.Past hopes already lay behind.What need to strive with a life awry?Had I said that, had I done this,So might I gain, so might I miss.Might she have loved me? just as wellShe might have hated, who can tell!Where had I been now if the worst befell?And here we are riding, she and I.
Fail I alone, in words and deeds?Why, all men strive and who succeeds?We rode; it seem’d my spirit flew,Saw other regions, cities new,As the world rush’d by on either side.I thought,—All labour, yet no lessBear up beneath their unsuccess.Look at the end of work, contrastThe petty done, the undone vast,This present of theirs with the hopeful past!I hoped she would love me; here we ride.
What hand and brain went ever pair’d?What heart alike conceived and dared?What act proved all its thought had been?What will but felt the fleshly screen?We ride and I see her bosom heave.There’s many a crown for who can reach.Ten lines, a statesman’s life in each!The flag stuck on a heap of bones,A soldier’s doing! what atones?They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones.My riding is better, by their leave.
What does it all mean, poet? Well,Your brains beat into rhythm, you tellWhat we felt only; you express’dYou hold things beautiful the best,And pace them in rhyme so, side by side.’Tis something, nay ’tis much: but then,Have you yourself what’s best for men?Are you—poor, sick, old ere your time—Nearer one whit your own sublimeThan we who never have turn’d a rhyme?Sing, riding’s a joy! For me, I ride.
And you, great sculptor—so, you gaveA score of years to Art, her slave,And that’s your Venus, whence we turnTo yonder girl that fords the burn!You acquiesce, and shall I repine?What, man of music, you grown grayWith notes and nothing else to say,Is this your sole praise from a friend,‘Greatly his opera’s strains intend,But in music we know how fashions end!’I gave my youth: but we ride, in fine.
Who knows what’s fit for us? Had fateProposed bliss here should sublimateMy being—had I sign’d the bond—Still one must lead some life beyond,Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried.This foot once planted on the goal,This glory-garland round my soul,Could I descry such? Try and test!I sink back shuddering from the quest.Earth being so good, would heaven seem best?Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride.
And yet—she has not spoke so long!What if heaven be that, fair and strongAt life’s best, with our eyes upturn’dWhither life’s flower is first discern’d,We, fix’d so, ever should so abide?What if we still ride on, we twoWith life for ever old yet new,Changed not in kind but in degree,The instant made eternity,—And heaven just prove that I and sheRide, ride together, for ever ride?
728.