SHE was a queen of noble Nature’s crowning,A smile of hers was like an act of grace;She had no winsome looks, no pretty frowning,Like daily beauties of the vulgar race:But if she smiled, a light was on her face,A clear, cool kindliness, a lunar beamOf peaceful radiance, silvering o’er the streamOf human thought with unabiding glory;Not quite a waking truth, not quite a dream,A visitation, bright and transitory.But she is changed,—hath felt the touch of sorrow,No love hath she, no understanding friend;O grief! when Heaven is forced of earth to borrowWhat the poor niggard earth has not to lend;But when the stalk is snapt, the rose must bend.The tallest flower that skyward rears its headGrows from the common ground, and there must shedIts delicate petals. Cruel fate, too surely,That they should find so base a bridal bed,Who lived in virgin pride, so sweet and purely.She had a brother, and a tender father,And she was loved, but not as others areFrom whom we ask return of love,—but ratherAs one might love a dream; a phantom fairOf something exquisitely strange and rare,Which all were glad to look on, men and maids,Yet no one claim’d—as oft, in dewy glades,The peering primrose, like a sudden gladness,Gleams on the soul, yet unregarded fades;—The joy is ours, but all its own the sadness.’Tis vain to say—her worst of grief is onlyThe common lot, which all the world have known;To her ’tis more, because her heart is lonely,And yet she hath no strength to stand alone,—Once she had playmates, fancies of her own,And she did love them. They are past awayAs Fairies vanish at the break of day;And like a spectre of an age departed,Or unsphered Angel wofully astray,She glides along—the solitary-hearted.
SHE was a queen of noble Nature’s crowning,A smile of hers was like an act of grace;She had no winsome looks, no pretty frowning,Like daily beauties of the vulgar race:But if she smiled, a light was on her face,A clear, cool kindliness, a lunar beamOf peaceful radiance, silvering o’er the streamOf human thought with unabiding glory;Not quite a waking truth, not quite a dream,A visitation, bright and transitory.But she is changed,—hath felt the touch of sorrow,No love hath she, no understanding friend;O grief! when Heaven is forced of earth to borrowWhat the poor niggard earth has not to lend;But when the stalk is snapt, the rose must bend.The tallest flower that skyward rears its headGrows from the common ground, and there must shedIts delicate petals. Cruel fate, too surely,That they should find so base a bridal bed,Who lived in virgin pride, so sweet and purely.She had a brother, and a tender father,And she was loved, but not as others areFrom whom we ask return of love,—but ratherAs one might love a dream; a phantom fairOf something exquisitely strange and rare,Which all were glad to look on, men and maids,Yet no one claim’d—as oft, in dewy glades,The peering primrose, like a sudden gladness,Gleams on the soul, yet unregarded fades;—The joy is ours, but all its own the sadness.’Tis vain to say—her worst of grief is onlyThe common lot, which all the world have known;To her ’tis more, because her heart is lonely,And yet she hath no strength to stand alone,—Once she had playmates, fancies of her own,And she did love them. They are past awayAs Fairies vanish at the break of day;And like a spectre of an age departed,Or unsphered Angel wofully astray,She glides along—the solitary-hearted.
SHE was a queen of noble Nature’s crowning,A smile of hers was like an act of grace;She had no winsome looks, no pretty frowning,Like daily beauties of the vulgar race:But if she smiled, a light was on her face,A clear, cool kindliness, a lunar beamOf peaceful radiance, silvering o’er the streamOf human thought with unabiding glory;Not quite a waking truth, not quite a dream,A visitation, bright and transitory.
But she is changed,—hath felt the touch of sorrow,No love hath she, no understanding friend;O grief! when Heaven is forced of earth to borrowWhat the poor niggard earth has not to lend;But when the stalk is snapt, the rose must bend.The tallest flower that skyward rears its headGrows from the common ground, and there must shedIts delicate petals. Cruel fate, too surely,That they should find so base a bridal bed,Who lived in virgin pride, so sweet and purely.
She had a brother, and a tender father,And she was loved, but not as others areFrom whom we ask return of love,—but ratherAs one might love a dream; a phantom fairOf something exquisitely strange and rare,Which all were glad to look on, men and maids,Yet no one claim’d—as oft, in dewy glades,The peering primrose, like a sudden gladness,Gleams on the soul, yet unregarded fades;—The joy is ours, but all its own the sadness.
’Tis vain to say—her worst of grief is onlyThe common lot, which all the world have known;To her ’tis more, because her heart is lonely,And yet she hath no strength to stand alone,—Once she had playmates, fancies of her own,And she did love them. They are past awayAs Fairies vanish at the break of day;And like a spectre of an age departed,Or unsphered Angel wofully astray,She glides along—the solitary-hearted.
644.
SHE is not fair to outward viewAs many maidens be,Her loveliness I never knewUntil she smiled on me;O, then I saw her eye was bright,A well of love, a spring of light!But now her looks are coy and cold,To mine they ne’er reply,And yet I cease not to beholdThe love-light in her eye:Her very frowns are fairer farThan smiles of other maidens are.
SHE is not fair to outward viewAs many maidens be,Her loveliness I never knewUntil she smiled on me;O, then I saw her eye was bright,A well of love, a spring of light!But now her looks are coy and cold,To mine they ne’er reply,And yet I cease not to beholdThe love-light in her eye:Her very frowns are fairer farThan smiles of other maidens are.
SHE is not fair to outward viewAs many maidens be,Her loveliness I never knewUntil she smiled on me;O, then I saw her eye was bright,A well of love, a spring of light!
But now her looks are coy and cold,To mine they ne’er reply,And yet I cease not to beholdThe love-light in her eye:Her very frowns are fairer farThan smiles of other maidens are.
645.
SHE pass’d away like morning dewBefore the sun was high;So brief her time, she scarcely knewThe meaning of a sigh.As round the rose its soft perfume,Sweet love around her floated;Admired she grew—while mortal doomCrept on, unfear’d, unnoted.Love was her guardian Angel here,But Love to Death resign’d her;Tho’ Love was kind, why should we fearBut holy Death is kinder?
SHE pass’d away like morning dewBefore the sun was high;So brief her time, she scarcely knewThe meaning of a sigh.As round the rose its soft perfume,Sweet love around her floated;Admired she grew—while mortal doomCrept on, unfear’d, unnoted.Love was her guardian Angel here,But Love to Death resign’d her;Tho’ Love was kind, why should we fearBut holy Death is kinder?
SHE pass’d away like morning dewBefore the sun was high;So brief her time, she scarcely knewThe meaning of a sigh.
As round the rose its soft perfume,Sweet love around her floated;Admired she grew—while mortal doomCrept on, unfear’d, unnoted.
Love was her guardian Angel here,But Love to Death resign’d her;Tho’ Love was kind, why should we fearBut holy Death is kinder?
646.
WHEN we were idlers with the loitering rills,The need of human love we little noted:Our love was nature; and the peace that floatedOn the white mist, and dwelt upon the hills,To sweet accord subdued our wayward wills:One soul was ours, one mind, one heart devoted,That, wisely doting, ask’d not why it doted,And ours the unknown joy, which knowing kills.But now I find how dear thou wert to me;That man is more than half of nature’s treasure,Of that fair beauty which no eye can see,Of that sweet music which no ear can measure;And now the streams may sing for others’ pleasure,The hills sleep on in their eternity.
WHEN we were idlers with the loitering rills,The need of human love we little noted:Our love was nature; and the peace that floatedOn the white mist, and dwelt upon the hills,To sweet accord subdued our wayward wills:One soul was ours, one mind, one heart devoted,That, wisely doting, ask’d not why it doted,And ours the unknown joy, which knowing kills.But now I find how dear thou wert to me;That man is more than half of nature’s treasure,Of that fair beauty which no eye can see,Of that sweet music which no ear can measure;And now the streams may sing for others’ pleasure,The hills sleep on in their eternity.
WHEN we were idlers with the loitering rills,The need of human love we little noted:Our love was nature; and the peace that floatedOn the white mist, and dwelt upon the hills,To sweet accord subdued our wayward wills:One soul was ours, one mind, one heart devoted,That, wisely doting, ask’d not why it doted,And ours the unknown joy, which knowing kills.But now I find how dear thou wert to me;That man is more than half of nature’s treasure,Of that fair beauty which no eye can see,Of that sweet music which no ear can measure;And now the streams may sing for others’ pleasure,The hills sleep on in their eternity.
1798-1845
647.
ISAW old Autumn in the misty mornStand shadowless like Silence, listeningTo silence, for no lonely bird would singInto his hollow ear from woods forlorn,Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;—Shaking his languid locks all dewy brightWith tangled gossamer that fell by night,Pearling his coronet of golden corn.Where are the songs of Summer?—With the sun,Oping the dusky eyelids of the south,Till shade and silence waken up as one,And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth.Where are the merry birds?—Away, away,On panting wings through the inclement skies,Lest owls should preyUndazzled at noonday,And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.Where are the blooms of Summer?—In the west,Blushing their last to the last sunny hours,When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prestLike tearful Proserpine, snatch’d from her flow’rsTo a most gloomy breast.Where is the pride of Summer,—the green prime,—The many, many leaves all twinkling?—ThreeOn the moss’d elm; three on the naked limeTrembling,—and one upon the old oak-tree!Where is the Dryad’s immortality?—Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,Or wearing the long gloomy Winter throughIn the smooth holly’s green eternity.The squirrel gloats on his accomplished hoard,The ants have brimm’d their garners with ripe grain,And honey bees have storedThe sweets of Summer in their luscious cells;The swallows all have wing’d across the main;But here the Autumn melancholy dwells,And sighs her tearful spellsAmongst the sunless shadows of the plain.Alone, alone,Upon a mossy stone,She sits and reckons up the dead and goneWith the last leaves for a love-rosary,Whilst all the wither’d world looks drearily,Like a dim picture of the drownèd pastIn the hush’d mind’s mysterious far away,Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the lastInto that distance, gray upon the gray.O go and sit with her, and be o’ershadedUnder the languid downfall of her hair:She wears a coronal of flowers fadedUpon her forehead, and a face of care;—There is enough of wither’d everywhereTo make her bower,—and enough of gloom;There is enough of sadness to invite,If only for the rose that died, whose doomIs Beauty’s,—she that with the living bloomOf conscious cheeks most beautifies the light:There is enough of sorrowing, and quiteEnough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,—Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl;Enough of fear and shadowy despair,To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!
ISAW old Autumn in the misty mornStand shadowless like Silence, listeningTo silence, for no lonely bird would singInto his hollow ear from woods forlorn,Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;—Shaking his languid locks all dewy brightWith tangled gossamer that fell by night,Pearling his coronet of golden corn.Where are the songs of Summer?—With the sun,Oping the dusky eyelids of the south,Till shade and silence waken up as one,And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth.Where are the merry birds?—Away, away,On panting wings through the inclement skies,Lest owls should preyUndazzled at noonday,And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.Where are the blooms of Summer?—In the west,Blushing their last to the last sunny hours,When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prestLike tearful Proserpine, snatch’d from her flow’rsTo a most gloomy breast.Where is the pride of Summer,—the green prime,—The many, many leaves all twinkling?—ThreeOn the moss’d elm; three on the naked limeTrembling,—and one upon the old oak-tree!Where is the Dryad’s immortality?—Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,Or wearing the long gloomy Winter throughIn the smooth holly’s green eternity.The squirrel gloats on his accomplished hoard,The ants have brimm’d their garners with ripe grain,And honey bees have storedThe sweets of Summer in their luscious cells;The swallows all have wing’d across the main;But here the Autumn melancholy dwells,And sighs her tearful spellsAmongst the sunless shadows of the plain.Alone, alone,Upon a mossy stone,She sits and reckons up the dead and goneWith the last leaves for a love-rosary,Whilst all the wither’d world looks drearily,Like a dim picture of the drownèd pastIn the hush’d mind’s mysterious far away,Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the lastInto that distance, gray upon the gray.O go and sit with her, and be o’ershadedUnder the languid downfall of her hair:She wears a coronal of flowers fadedUpon her forehead, and a face of care;—There is enough of wither’d everywhereTo make her bower,—and enough of gloom;There is enough of sadness to invite,If only for the rose that died, whose doomIs Beauty’s,—she that with the living bloomOf conscious cheeks most beautifies the light:There is enough of sorrowing, and quiteEnough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,—Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl;Enough of fear and shadowy despair,To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!
ISAW old Autumn in the misty mornStand shadowless like Silence, listeningTo silence, for no lonely bird would singInto his hollow ear from woods forlorn,Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;—Shaking his languid locks all dewy brightWith tangled gossamer that fell by night,Pearling his coronet of golden corn.
Where are the songs of Summer?—With the sun,Oping the dusky eyelids of the south,Till shade and silence waken up as one,And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth.Where are the merry birds?—Away, away,On panting wings through the inclement skies,Lest owls should preyUndazzled at noonday,And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.
Where are the blooms of Summer?—In the west,Blushing their last to the last sunny hours,When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prestLike tearful Proserpine, snatch’d from her flow’rsTo a most gloomy breast.Where is the pride of Summer,—the green prime,—The many, many leaves all twinkling?—ThreeOn the moss’d elm; three on the naked limeTrembling,—and one upon the old oak-tree!Where is the Dryad’s immortality?—Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,Or wearing the long gloomy Winter throughIn the smooth holly’s green eternity.
The squirrel gloats on his accomplished hoard,The ants have brimm’d their garners with ripe grain,And honey bees have storedThe sweets of Summer in their luscious cells;The swallows all have wing’d across the main;But here the Autumn melancholy dwells,And sighs her tearful spellsAmongst the sunless shadows of the plain.Alone, alone,Upon a mossy stone,She sits and reckons up the dead and goneWith the last leaves for a love-rosary,Whilst all the wither’d world looks drearily,Like a dim picture of the drownèd pastIn the hush’d mind’s mysterious far away,Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the lastInto that distance, gray upon the gray.
O go and sit with her, and be o’ershadedUnder the languid downfall of her hair:She wears a coronal of flowers fadedUpon her forehead, and a face of care;—There is enough of wither’d everywhereTo make her bower,—and enough of gloom;There is enough of sadness to invite,If only for the rose that died, whose doomIs Beauty’s,—she that with the living bloomOf conscious cheeks most beautifies the light:There is enough of sorrowing, and quiteEnough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,—Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl;Enough of fear and shadowy despair,To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!
648.
THERE is a silence where hath been no sound,There is a silence where no sound may be,In the cold grave—under the deep, deep sea,Or in wide desert where no life is found,Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;No voice is hush’d—no life treads silently,But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,That never spoke, over the idle ground:But in green ruins, in the desolate wallsOf antique palaces, where Man hath been,Though the dun fox or wild hyæna calls,And owls, that flit continually between,Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan—There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.
THERE is a silence where hath been no sound,There is a silence where no sound may be,In the cold grave—under the deep, deep sea,Or in wide desert where no life is found,Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;No voice is hush’d—no life treads silently,But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,That never spoke, over the idle ground:But in green ruins, in the desolate wallsOf antique palaces, where Man hath been,Though the dun fox or wild hyæna calls,And owls, that flit continually between,Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan—There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.
THERE is a silence where hath been no sound,There is a silence where no sound may be,In the cold grave—under the deep, deep sea,Or in wide desert where no life is found,Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;No voice is hush’d—no life treads silently,But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,That never spoke, over the idle ground:But in green ruins, in the desolate wallsOf antique palaces, where Man hath been,Though the dun fox or wild hyæna calls,And owls, that flit continually between,Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan—There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.
649.
IT is not death, that sometime in a sighThis eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight;That sometime these bright stars, that now replyIn sunlight to the sun, shall set in night;That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite,And all life’s ruddy springs forget to flow;That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal spriteBe lapp’d in alien clay and laid below;It is not death to know this—but to knowThat pious thoughts, which visit at new gravesIn tender pilgrimage, will cease to goSo duly and so oft—and when grass wavesOver the pass’d-away, there may be thenNo resurrection in the minds of men.
IT is not death, that sometime in a sighThis eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight;That sometime these bright stars, that now replyIn sunlight to the sun, shall set in night;That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite,And all life’s ruddy springs forget to flow;That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal spriteBe lapp’d in alien clay and laid below;It is not death to know this—but to knowThat pious thoughts, which visit at new gravesIn tender pilgrimage, will cease to goSo duly and so oft—and when grass wavesOver the pass’d-away, there may be thenNo resurrection in the minds of men.
IT is not death, that sometime in a sighThis eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight;That sometime these bright stars, that now replyIn sunlight to the sun, shall set in night;That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite,And all life’s ruddy springs forget to flow;That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal spriteBe lapp’d in alien clay and laid below;It is not death to know this—but to knowThat pious thoughts, which visit at new gravesIn tender pilgrimage, will cease to goSo duly and so oft—and when grass wavesOver the pass’d-away, there may be thenNo resurrection in the minds of men.
650.
OSAW ye not fair Ines?She’s gone into the West,To dazzle when the sun is down,And rob the world of rest:She took our daylight with her,The smiles that we love best,With morning blushes on her cheek,And pearls upon her breast.O turn again, fair Ines,Before the fall of night,For fear the Moon should shine alone,And stars unrivall’d bright;And blessèd will the lover beThat walks beneath their light,And breathes the love against thy cheekI dare not even write!Would I had been, fair Ines,That gallant cavalier,Who rode so gaily by thy side,And whisper’d thee so near!Were there no bonny dames at home,Or no true lovers here,That he should cross the seas to winThe dearest of the dear?I saw thee, lovely Ines,Descend along the shore,With bands of noble gentlemen,And banners waved before;And gentle youth and maidens gay,And snowy plumes they wore:It would have been a beauteous dream,—If it had been no more!Alas, alas! fair Ines,She went away with song,With Music waiting on her steps,And shoutings of the throng;But some were sad, and felt no mirth,But only Music’s wrong,In sounds that sang Farewell, farewell,To her you’ve loved so long.Farewell, farewell, fair Ines!That vessel never boreSo fair a lady on its deck,Nor danced so light before,—Alas for pleasure on the sea,And sorrow on the shore!The smile that bless’d one lover’s heartHas broken many more!
OSAW ye not fair Ines?She’s gone into the West,To dazzle when the sun is down,And rob the world of rest:She took our daylight with her,The smiles that we love best,With morning blushes on her cheek,And pearls upon her breast.O turn again, fair Ines,Before the fall of night,For fear the Moon should shine alone,And stars unrivall’d bright;And blessèd will the lover beThat walks beneath their light,And breathes the love against thy cheekI dare not even write!Would I had been, fair Ines,That gallant cavalier,Who rode so gaily by thy side,And whisper’d thee so near!Were there no bonny dames at home,Or no true lovers here,That he should cross the seas to winThe dearest of the dear?I saw thee, lovely Ines,Descend along the shore,With bands of noble gentlemen,And banners waved before;And gentle youth and maidens gay,And snowy plumes they wore:It would have been a beauteous dream,—If it had been no more!Alas, alas! fair Ines,She went away with song,With Music waiting on her steps,And shoutings of the throng;But some were sad, and felt no mirth,But only Music’s wrong,In sounds that sang Farewell, farewell,To her you’ve loved so long.Farewell, farewell, fair Ines!That vessel never boreSo fair a lady on its deck,Nor danced so light before,—Alas for pleasure on the sea,And sorrow on the shore!The smile that bless’d one lover’s heartHas broken many more!
OSAW ye not fair Ines?She’s gone into the West,To dazzle when the sun is down,And rob the world of rest:She took our daylight with her,The smiles that we love best,With morning blushes on her cheek,And pearls upon her breast.
O turn again, fair Ines,Before the fall of night,For fear the Moon should shine alone,And stars unrivall’d bright;And blessèd will the lover beThat walks beneath their light,And breathes the love against thy cheekI dare not even write!
Would I had been, fair Ines,That gallant cavalier,Who rode so gaily by thy side,And whisper’d thee so near!Were there no bonny dames at home,Or no true lovers here,That he should cross the seas to winThe dearest of the dear?
I saw thee, lovely Ines,Descend along the shore,With bands of noble gentlemen,And banners waved before;And gentle youth and maidens gay,And snowy plumes they wore:It would have been a beauteous dream,—If it had been no more!
Alas, alas! fair Ines,She went away with song,With Music waiting on her steps,And shoutings of the throng;But some were sad, and felt no mirth,But only Music’s wrong,In sounds that sang Farewell, farewell,To her you’ve loved so long.
Farewell, farewell, fair Ines!That vessel never boreSo fair a lady on its deck,Nor danced so light before,—Alas for pleasure on the sea,And sorrow on the shore!The smile that bless’d one lover’s heartHas broken many more!
651.
IT was not in the WinterOur loving lot was cast;It was the time of roses—We pluck’d them as we pass’d!That churlish season never frown’dOn early lovers yet:O no—the world was newly crown’dWith flowers when first we met!’Twas twilight, and I bade you go,But still you held me fast;It was the time of roses—We pluck’d them as we pass’d!
IT was not in the WinterOur loving lot was cast;It was the time of roses—We pluck’d them as we pass’d!That churlish season never frown’dOn early lovers yet:O no—the world was newly crown’dWith flowers when first we met!’Twas twilight, and I bade you go,But still you held me fast;It was the time of roses—We pluck’d them as we pass’d!
IT was not in the WinterOur loving lot was cast;It was the time of roses—We pluck’d them as we pass’d!
That churlish season never frown’dOn early lovers yet:O no—the world was newly crown’dWith flowers when first we met!
’Twas twilight, and I bade you go,But still you held me fast;It was the time of roses—We pluck’d them as we pass’d!
652.
SHE stood breast-high amid the corn,Clasp’d by the golden light of morn,Like the sweetheart of the sun,Who many a glowing kiss had won.On her cheek an autumn flush,Deeply ripen’d;—such a blushIn the midst of brown was born,Like red poppies grown with corn.Round her eyes her tresses fell,Which were blackest none could tell,But long lashes veiled a light,That had else been all too bright.And her hat, with shady brim,Made her tressy forehead dim;Thus she stood amid the stooks,Praising God with sweetest looks:—Sure, I said, Heav’n did not mean,Where I reap thou shouldst but glean,Lay thy sheaf adown and come,Share my harvest and my home.
SHE stood breast-high amid the corn,Clasp’d by the golden light of morn,Like the sweetheart of the sun,Who many a glowing kiss had won.On her cheek an autumn flush,Deeply ripen’d;—such a blushIn the midst of brown was born,Like red poppies grown with corn.Round her eyes her tresses fell,Which were blackest none could tell,But long lashes veiled a light,That had else been all too bright.And her hat, with shady brim,Made her tressy forehead dim;Thus she stood amid the stooks,Praising God with sweetest looks:—Sure, I said, Heav’n did not mean,Where I reap thou shouldst but glean,Lay thy sheaf adown and come,Share my harvest and my home.
SHE stood breast-high amid the corn,Clasp’d by the golden light of morn,Like the sweetheart of the sun,Who many a glowing kiss had won.
On her cheek an autumn flush,Deeply ripen’d;—such a blushIn the midst of brown was born,Like red poppies grown with corn.
Round her eyes her tresses fell,Which were blackest none could tell,But long lashes veiled a light,That had else been all too bright.
And her hat, with shady brim,Made her tressy forehead dim;Thus she stood amid the stooks,Praising God with sweetest looks:—
Sure, I said, Heav’n did not mean,Where I reap thou shouldst but glean,Lay thy sheaf adown and come,Share my harvest and my home.
653.
WE watch’d her breathing thro’ the night,Her breathing soft and low,As in her breast the wave of lifeKept heaving to and fro.So silently we seem’d to speak,So slowly moved about,As we had lent her half our powersTo eke her living out.Our very hopes belied our fears,Our fears our hopes belied—We thought her dying when she slept,And sleeping when she died.For when the morn came dim and sad,And chill with early showers,Her quiet eyelids closed—she hadAnother morn than ours.
WE watch’d her breathing thro’ the night,Her breathing soft and low,As in her breast the wave of lifeKept heaving to and fro.So silently we seem’d to speak,So slowly moved about,As we had lent her half our powersTo eke her living out.Our very hopes belied our fears,Our fears our hopes belied—We thought her dying when she slept,And sleeping when she died.For when the morn came dim and sad,And chill with early showers,Her quiet eyelids closed—she hadAnother morn than ours.
WE watch’d her breathing thro’ the night,Her breathing soft and low,As in her breast the wave of lifeKept heaving to and fro.
So silently we seem’d to speak,So slowly moved about,As we had lent her half our powersTo eke her living out.
Our very hopes belied our fears,Our fears our hopes belied—We thought her dying when she slept,And sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came dim and sad,And chill with early showers,Her quiet eyelids closed—she hadAnother morn than ours.
654.
ONE more Unfortunate,Weary of breath,Rashly importunate,Gone to her death!Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care;Fashion’d so slenderlyYoung, and so fair!Look at her garmentsClinging like cerements;Whilst the wave constantlyDrips from her clothing;Take her up instantly,Loving, not loathing.Touch her not scornfully;Think of her mournfully,Gently and humanly;Not of the stains of her,All that remains of herNow is pure womanly.Make no deep scrutinyInto her mutinyRash and undutiful:Past all dishonour,Death has left on herOnly the beautiful.Still, for all slips of hers,One of Eve’s family—Wipe those poor lips of hersOozing so clammily.Loop up her tressesEscaped from the comb,Her fair auburn tresses;Whilst wonderment guessesWhere was her home?Who was her father?Who was her mother?Had she a sister?Had she a brother?Or was there a dearer oneStill, and a nearer oneYet, than all other?Alas! for the rarityOf Christian charityUnder the sun!O, it was pitiful!Near a whole city full,Home she had none.Sisterly, brotherly,Fatherly, motherlyFeelings had changed:Love, by harsh evidence,Thrown from its eminence;Even God’s providenceSeeming estranged.Where the lamps quiverSo far in the river,With many a lightFrom window and casement,From garret to basement,She stood, with amazement,Houseless by night.The bleak wind of MarchMade her tremble and shiver;But not the dark arch,Or the black flowing river:Mad from life’s history,Glad to death’s mystery,Swift to be hurl’d—Anywhere, anywhereOut of the world!In she plunged boldly—No matter how coldlyThe rough river ran—Over the brink of it,Picture it—think of it,Dissolute Man!Lave in it, drink of it,Then, if you can!Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care;Fashion’d so slenderly,Young, and so fair!Ere her limbs frigidlyStiffen too rigidly,Decently, kindly,Smooth and compose them;And her eyes, close them,Staring so blindly!Dreadfully staringThro’ muddy impurity,As when with the daringLast look of despairingFix’d on futurity.Perishing gloomily,Spurr’d by contumely,Cold inhumanity,Burning insanity,Into her rest.—Cross her hands humblyAs if praying dumbly,Over her breast!Owning her weakness,Her evil behaviour,And leaving, with meekness,Her sins to her Saviour!
ONE more Unfortunate,Weary of breath,Rashly importunate,Gone to her death!Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care;Fashion’d so slenderlyYoung, and so fair!Look at her garmentsClinging like cerements;Whilst the wave constantlyDrips from her clothing;Take her up instantly,Loving, not loathing.Touch her not scornfully;Think of her mournfully,Gently and humanly;Not of the stains of her,All that remains of herNow is pure womanly.Make no deep scrutinyInto her mutinyRash and undutiful:Past all dishonour,Death has left on herOnly the beautiful.Still, for all slips of hers,One of Eve’s family—Wipe those poor lips of hersOozing so clammily.Loop up her tressesEscaped from the comb,Her fair auburn tresses;Whilst wonderment guessesWhere was her home?Who was her father?Who was her mother?Had she a sister?Had she a brother?Or was there a dearer oneStill, and a nearer oneYet, than all other?Alas! for the rarityOf Christian charityUnder the sun!O, it was pitiful!Near a whole city full,Home she had none.Sisterly, brotherly,Fatherly, motherlyFeelings had changed:Love, by harsh evidence,Thrown from its eminence;Even God’s providenceSeeming estranged.Where the lamps quiverSo far in the river,With many a lightFrom window and casement,From garret to basement,She stood, with amazement,Houseless by night.The bleak wind of MarchMade her tremble and shiver;But not the dark arch,Or the black flowing river:Mad from life’s history,Glad to death’s mystery,Swift to be hurl’d—Anywhere, anywhereOut of the world!In she plunged boldly—No matter how coldlyThe rough river ran—Over the brink of it,Picture it—think of it,Dissolute Man!Lave in it, drink of it,Then, if you can!Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care;Fashion’d so slenderly,Young, and so fair!Ere her limbs frigidlyStiffen too rigidly,Decently, kindly,Smooth and compose them;And her eyes, close them,Staring so blindly!Dreadfully staringThro’ muddy impurity,As when with the daringLast look of despairingFix’d on futurity.Perishing gloomily,Spurr’d by contumely,Cold inhumanity,Burning insanity,Into her rest.—Cross her hands humblyAs if praying dumbly,Over her breast!Owning her weakness,Her evil behaviour,And leaving, with meekness,Her sins to her Saviour!
ONE more Unfortunate,Weary of breath,Rashly importunate,Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care;Fashion’d so slenderlyYoung, and so fair!
Look at her garmentsClinging like cerements;Whilst the wave constantlyDrips from her clothing;Take her up instantly,Loving, not loathing.
Touch her not scornfully;Think of her mournfully,Gently and humanly;Not of the stains of her,All that remains of herNow is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutinyInto her mutinyRash and undutiful:Past all dishonour,Death has left on herOnly the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers,One of Eve’s family—Wipe those poor lips of hersOozing so clammily.
Loop up her tressesEscaped from the comb,Her fair auburn tresses;Whilst wonderment guessesWhere was her home?
Who was her father?Who was her mother?Had she a sister?Had she a brother?Or was there a dearer oneStill, and a nearer oneYet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarityOf Christian charityUnder the sun!O, it was pitiful!Near a whole city full,Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly,Fatherly, motherlyFeelings had changed:Love, by harsh evidence,Thrown from its eminence;Even God’s providenceSeeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiverSo far in the river,With many a lightFrom window and casement,From garret to basement,She stood, with amazement,Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of MarchMade her tremble and shiver;But not the dark arch,Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life’s history,Glad to death’s mystery,Swift to be hurl’d—Anywhere, anywhereOut of the world!
In she plunged boldly—No matter how coldlyThe rough river ran—Over the brink of it,Picture it—think of it,Dissolute Man!Lave in it, drink of it,Then, if you can!
Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care;Fashion’d so slenderly,Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidlyStiffen too rigidly,Decently, kindly,Smooth and compose them;And her eyes, close them,Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staringThro’ muddy impurity,As when with the daringLast look of despairingFix’d on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,Spurr’d by contumely,Cold inhumanity,Burning insanity,Into her rest.—Cross her hands humblyAs if praying dumbly,Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,Her evil behaviour,And leaving, with meekness,Her sins to her Saviour!
1798-1848
655.
MEN grew sae cauld, maids sae unkind,Love kentna whaur to stay:Wi’ fient an arrow, bow, or string—Wi’ droopin’ heart an’ drizzled wing,He faught his lonely way.‘Is there nae mair in Garioch fairAe spotless hame for me?Hae politics an’ corn an’ kyeIlk bosom stappit? Fie, O fie!I’ll swithe me o’er the sea.’He launch’d a leaf o’ jessamine,On whilk he daur’d to swim,An’ pillow’d his head on a wee rosebud,Syne laithfu’, lanely, Love ’gan scudDown Ury’s waefu’ stream.
MEN grew sae cauld, maids sae unkind,Love kentna whaur to stay:Wi’ fient an arrow, bow, or string—Wi’ droopin’ heart an’ drizzled wing,He faught his lonely way.‘Is there nae mair in Garioch fairAe spotless hame for me?Hae politics an’ corn an’ kyeIlk bosom stappit? Fie, O fie!I’ll swithe me o’er the sea.’He launch’d a leaf o’ jessamine,On whilk he daur’d to swim,An’ pillow’d his head on a wee rosebud,Syne laithfu’, lanely, Love ’gan scudDown Ury’s waefu’ stream.
MEN grew sae cauld, maids sae unkind,Love kentna whaur to stay:Wi’ fient an arrow, bow, or string—Wi’ droopin’ heart an’ drizzled wing,He faught his lonely way.
‘Is there nae mair in Garioch fairAe spotless hame for me?Hae politics an’ corn an’ kyeIlk bosom stappit? Fie, O fie!I’ll swithe me o’er the sea.’
He launch’d a leaf o’ jessamine,On whilk he daur’d to swim,An’ pillow’d his head on a wee rosebud,Syne laithfu’, lanely, Love ’gan scudDown Ury’s waefu’ stream.
655.kentna] knew not. wi’ fient an arrow] i. q. with deuce an arrow. swithe] hie quickly. laithfu’] regretful.
655.kentna] knew not. wi’ fient an arrow] i. q. with deuce an arrow. swithe] hie quickly. laithfu’] regretful.
THE birds sang bonnie as Love drew near,But dowie when he gaed by;Till lull’d wi’ the sough o’ monie a sang,He sleepit fu’ soun’ and sail’d alang’Neath Heaven’s gowden sky.’Twas just whaur creeping Ury greetsIts mountain cousin Don,There wander’d forth a weelfaur’d dame,Wha listless gazed on the bonnie stream,As it flirted an’ play’d with a sunny beamThat flicker’d its bosom upon.Love happit his head, I trow, that timeThe jessamine bark drew nigh,The lassie espied the wee rosebud,An’ aye her heart gae thud for thud,An’ quiet it wadna lie.‘O gin I but had yon wearie wee flowerThat floats on the Ury sae fair!’—She lootit her hand for the silly rose-leaf,But little wist she o’ the pawkie thiefThat was lurkin’ an’ laughin’ there!Love glower’d when he saw her bonnie dark e’e,An’ swore by Heaven’s graceHe ne’er had seen nor thought to see,Since e’er he left the Paphian lea,Sae lovely a dwallin’-place.
THE birds sang bonnie as Love drew near,But dowie when he gaed by;Till lull’d wi’ the sough o’ monie a sang,He sleepit fu’ soun’ and sail’d alang’Neath Heaven’s gowden sky.’Twas just whaur creeping Ury greetsIts mountain cousin Don,There wander’d forth a weelfaur’d dame,Wha listless gazed on the bonnie stream,As it flirted an’ play’d with a sunny beamThat flicker’d its bosom upon.Love happit his head, I trow, that timeThe jessamine bark drew nigh,The lassie espied the wee rosebud,An’ aye her heart gae thud for thud,An’ quiet it wadna lie.‘O gin I but had yon wearie wee flowerThat floats on the Ury sae fair!’—She lootit her hand for the silly rose-leaf,But little wist she o’ the pawkie thiefThat was lurkin’ an’ laughin’ there!Love glower’d when he saw her bonnie dark e’e,An’ swore by Heaven’s graceHe ne’er had seen nor thought to see,Since e’er he left the Paphian lea,Sae lovely a dwallin’-place.
THE birds sang bonnie as Love drew near,But dowie when he gaed by;Till lull’d wi’ the sough o’ monie a sang,He sleepit fu’ soun’ and sail’d alang’Neath Heaven’s gowden sky.
’Twas just whaur creeping Ury greetsIts mountain cousin Don,There wander’d forth a weelfaur’d dame,Wha listless gazed on the bonnie stream,As it flirted an’ play’d with a sunny beamThat flicker’d its bosom upon.
Love happit his head, I trow, that timeThe jessamine bark drew nigh,The lassie espied the wee rosebud,An’ aye her heart gae thud for thud,An’ quiet it wadna lie.
‘O gin I but had yon wearie wee flowerThat floats on the Ury sae fair!’—She lootit her hand for the silly rose-leaf,But little wist she o’ the pawkie thiefThat was lurkin’ an’ laughin’ there!
Love glower’d when he saw her bonnie dark e’e,An’ swore by Heaven’s graceHe ne’er had seen nor thought to see,Since e’er he left the Paphian lea,Sae lovely a dwallin’-place.
dowie] dejectedly. weelfaur’d] well-favoured, comely. happit] covered up. lootit] lowered. pawkie] sly. glower’d] stared.
dowie] dejectedly. weelfaur’d] well-favoured, comely. happit] covered up. lootit] lowered. pawkie] sly. glower’d] stared.
SYNE first of a’ in her blythesome breastHe built a bower, I ween;An’ what did the waefu’ devilick neist?But kindled a gleam like the rosy east,That sparkled frae baith her e’en.An’ then beneath ilk high e’e-breeHe placed a quiver there;His bow? What but her shinin’ brow?An’ O sic deadly strings he drewFrae out her silken hair!Guid be our guard! Sic deeds waur deenRoun’ a’ our countrie then;An’ monie a hangin’ lug was seen’Mang farmers fat, an’ lawyers lean,An’ herds o’ common men!
SYNE first of a’ in her blythesome breastHe built a bower, I ween;An’ what did the waefu’ devilick neist?But kindled a gleam like the rosy east,That sparkled frae baith her e’en.An’ then beneath ilk high e’e-breeHe placed a quiver there;His bow? What but her shinin’ brow?An’ O sic deadly strings he drewFrae out her silken hair!Guid be our guard! Sic deeds waur deenRoun’ a’ our countrie then;An’ monie a hangin’ lug was seen’Mang farmers fat, an’ lawyers lean,An’ herds o’ common men!
SYNE first of a’ in her blythesome breastHe built a bower, I ween;An’ what did the waefu’ devilick neist?But kindled a gleam like the rosy east,That sparkled frae baith her e’en.
An’ then beneath ilk high e’e-breeHe placed a quiver there;His bow? What but her shinin’ brow?An’ O sic deadly strings he drewFrae out her silken hair!
Guid be our guard! Sic deeds waur deenRoun’ a’ our countrie then;An’ monie a hangin’ lug was seen’Mang farmers fat, an’ lawyers lean,An’ herds o’ common men!
655.e’e-bree] eyebrow. lug] ear.
655.e’e-bree] eyebrow. lug] ear.
1800-1886
656.
QUOTH tongue of neither maid nor wifeTo heart of neither wife nor maid—Lead we not here a jolly lifeBetwixt the shine and shade?Quoth heart of neither maid nor wifeTo tongue of neither wife nor maid—Thou wagg’st, but I am worn with strife,And feel like flowers that fade.
QUOTH tongue of neither maid nor wifeTo heart of neither wife nor maid—Lead we not here a jolly lifeBetwixt the shine and shade?Quoth heart of neither maid nor wifeTo tongue of neither wife nor maid—Thou wagg’st, but I am worn with strife,And feel like flowers that fade.
QUOTH tongue of neither maid nor wifeTo heart of neither wife nor maid—Lead we not here a jolly lifeBetwixt the shine and shade?
Quoth heart of neither maid nor wifeTo tongue of neither wife nor maid—Thou wagg’st, but I am worn with strife,And feel like flowers that fade.
1800-1859
657.
TO my true king I offer’d free from stainCourage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain.For him I threw lands, honours, wealth, away,And one dear hope, that was more prized than they.For him I languished in a foreign clime,Gray-hair’d with sorrow in my manhood’s prime;Heard on Lavernia Scargill’s whispering trees,And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees;Beheld each night my home in fever’d sleep,Each morning started from the dream to weep;Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gaveThe resting-place I ask’d, an early grave.O thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone,From that proud country which was once mine own,By those white cliffs I never more must see,By that dear language which I spake like thee,Forget all feuds, and shed one English tearO’er English dust. A broken heart lies here.
TO my true king I offer’d free from stainCourage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain.For him I threw lands, honours, wealth, away,And one dear hope, that was more prized than they.For him I languished in a foreign clime,Gray-hair’d with sorrow in my manhood’s prime;Heard on Lavernia Scargill’s whispering trees,And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees;Beheld each night my home in fever’d sleep,Each morning started from the dream to weep;Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gaveThe resting-place I ask’d, an early grave.O thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone,From that proud country which was once mine own,By those white cliffs I never more must see,By that dear language which I spake like thee,Forget all feuds, and shed one English tearO’er English dust. A broken heart lies here.
TO my true king I offer’d free from stainCourage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain.For him I threw lands, honours, wealth, away,And one dear hope, that was more prized than they.For him I languished in a foreign clime,Gray-hair’d with sorrow in my manhood’s prime;Heard on Lavernia Scargill’s whispering trees,And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees;Beheld each night my home in fever’d sleep,Each morning started from the dream to weep;Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gaveThe resting-place I ask’d, an early grave.O thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone,From that proud country which was once mine own,By those white cliffs I never more must see,By that dear language which I spake like thee,Forget all feuds, and shed one English tearO’er English dust. A broken heart lies here.
1801-1886
658.
I’d a dream to-nightAs I fell asleep,O! the touching sightMakes me still to weep:Of my little lad,Gone to leave me sad,Ay, the child I had,But was not to keep.As in heaven high,I my child did seek,There in train came byChildren fair and meek,Each in lily white,With a lamp alight;Each was clear to sight,But they did not speak.Then, a little sad,Came my child in turn,But the lamp he had,O it did not burn!He, to clear my doubt,Said, half turn’d about,‘Your tears put it out;Mother, never mourn.’
I’d a dream to-nightAs I fell asleep,O! the touching sightMakes me still to weep:Of my little lad,Gone to leave me sad,Ay, the child I had,But was not to keep.As in heaven high,I my child did seek,There in train came byChildren fair and meek,Each in lily white,With a lamp alight;Each was clear to sight,But they did not speak.Then, a little sad,Came my child in turn,But the lamp he had,O it did not burn!He, to clear my doubt,Said, half turn’d about,‘Your tears put it out;Mother, never mourn.’
I’d a dream to-nightAs I fell asleep,O! the touching sightMakes me still to weep:Of my little lad,Gone to leave me sad,Ay, the child I had,But was not to keep.
As in heaven high,I my child did seek,There in train came byChildren fair and meek,Each in lily white,With a lamp alight;Each was clear to sight,But they did not speak.
Then, a little sad,Came my child in turn,But the lamp he had,O it did not burn!He, to clear my doubt,Said, half turn’d about,‘Your tears put it out;Mother, never mourn.’
659.
SINCE I noo mwore do zee your feäce,Up steärs or down below,I’ll zit me in the lwonesome pleäce,Where flat-bough’d beech do grow;Below the beeches’ bough, my love,Where you did never come,An’ I don’t look to meet ye now,As I do look at hwome.Since you noo mwore be at my zide,In walks in zummer het,I’ll goo alwone where mist do ride,Droo trees a-drippèn wet;Below the rain-wet bough, my love,Where you did never come,An’ I don’t grieve to miss ye now,As I do grieve at hwome.Since now bezide my dinner-bwoardYour vaïce do never sound,I’ll eat the bit I can avwordA-vield upon the ground;Below the darksome bough, my love,Where you did never dine,An’ I don’t grieve to miss ye now,As I at hwome do pine.Since I do miss your vaïce an’ feäceIn praÿer at eventide,I’ll praÿ wi’ woone sad vaïce vor greäceTo goo where you do bide;Above the tree an’ bough, my love,Where you be gone avore,An’ be a-waitèn vor me now,To come vor evermwore.
SINCE I noo mwore do zee your feäce,Up steärs or down below,I’ll zit me in the lwonesome pleäce,Where flat-bough’d beech do grow;Below the beeches’ bough, my love,Where you did never come,An’ I don’t look to meet ye now,As I do look at hwome.Since you noo mwore be at my zide,In walks in zummer het,I’ll goo alwone where mist do ride,Droo trees a-drippèn wet;Below the rain-wet bough, my love,Where you did never come,An’ I don’t grieve to miss ye now,As I do grieve at hwome.Since now bezide my dinner-bwoardYour vaïce do never sound,I’ll eat the bit I can avwordA-vield upon the ground;Below the darksome bough, my love,Where you did never dine,An’ I don’t grieve to miss ye now,As I at hwome do pine.Since I do miss your vaïce an’ feäceIn praÿer at eventide,I’ll praÿ wi’ woone sad vaïce vor greäceTo goo where you do bide;Above the tree an’ bough, my love,Where you be gone avore,An’ be a-waitèn vor me now,To come vor evermwore.
SINCE I noo mwore do zee your feäce,Up steärs or down below,I’ll zit me in the lwonesome pleäce,Where flat-bough’d beech do grow;Below the beeches’ bough, my love,Where you did never come,An’ I don’t look to meet ye now,As I do look at hwome.
Since you noo mwore be at my zide,In walks in zummer het,I’ll goo alwone where mist do ride,Droo trees a-drippèn wet;Below the rain-wet bough, my love,Where you did never come,An’ I don’t grieve to miss ye now,As I do grieve at hwome.
Since now bezide my dinner-bwoardYour vaïce do never sound,I’ll eat the bit I can avwordA-vield upon the ground;Below the darksome bough, my love,Where you did never dine,An’ I don’t grieve to miss ye now,As I at hwome do pine.
Since I do miss your vaïce an’ feäceIn praÿer at eventide,I’ll praÿ wi’ woone sad vaïce vor greäceTo goo where you do bide;Above the tree an’ bough, my love,Where you be gone avore,An’ be a-waitèn vor me now,To come vor evermwore.
1802-1839
660.
HE has conn’d the lesson now;He has read the book of pain:There are furrows on his brow;I must make it smooth again.Lo! I knock the spurs away;Lo! I loosen belt and brand;Hark! I hear the courser neighFor his stall in Fairy-land.Bring the cap, and bring the vest;Buckle on his sandal shoon;Fetch his memory from the chestIn the treasury of the moon.I have taught him to be wiseFor a little maiden’s sake;—Lo! he opens his glad eyes.Softly, slowly: Minstrel, wake!
HE has conn’d the lesson now;He has read the book of pain:There are furrows on his brow;I must make it smooth again.Lo! I knock the spurs away;Lo! I loosen belt and brand;Hark! I hear the courser neighFor his stall in Fairy-land.Bring the cap, and bring the vest;Buckle on his sandal shoon;Fetch his memory from the chestIn the treasury of the moon.I have taught him to be wiseFor a little maiden’s sake;—Lo! he opens his glad eyes.Softly, slowly: Minstrel, wake!
HE has conn’d the lesson now;He has read the book of pain:There are furrows on his brow;I must make it smooth again.
Lo! I knock the spurs away;Lo! I loosen belt and brand;Hark! I hear the courser neighFor his stall in Fairy-land.
Bring the cap, and bring the vest;Buckle on his sandal shoon;Fetch his memory from the chestIn the treasury of the moon.
I have taught him to be wiseFor a little maiden’s sake;—Lo! he opens his glad eyes.Softly, slowly: Minstrel, wake!
1802-1850
661.
SLEEP, my babe, hear not the rippling wave,Nor feel the breeze that round thee ling’ring straysTo drink thy balmy breath,And sigh one long farewell.Soon shall it mourn above thy wat’ry bed,And whisper to me, on the wave-beat shore,Deep murm’ring in reproach,Thy sad untimely fate.Ere those dear eyes had open’d on the light,In vain to plead, thy coming life was sold,O waken’d but to sleep,Whence it can wake no more!A thousand and a thousand silken leavesThe tufted beech unfolds in early spring,All clad in tenderest green,All of the self-same shape:A thousand infant faces, soft and sweet,Each year sends forth, yet every mother viewsHer last not least belovedLike its dear self alone.No musing mind hath ever yet foreshapedThe face to-morrow’s sun shall first reveal,No heart hath e’er conceivedWhat love that face will bring.O sleep, my babe, nor heed how mourns the galeTo part with thy soft locks and fragrant breath,As when it deeply sighsO’er autumn’s latest bloom.
SLEEP, my babe, hear not the rippling wave,Nor feel the breeze that round thee ling’ring straysTo drink thy balmy breath,And sigh one long farewell.Soon shall it mourn above thy wat’ry bed,And whisper to me, on the wave-beat shore,Deep murm’ring in reproach,Thy sad untimely fate.Ere those dear eyes had open’d on the light,In vain to plead, thy coming life was sold,O waken’d but to sleep,Whence it can wake no more!A thousand and a thousand silken leavesThe tufted beech unfolds in early spring,All clad in tenderest green,All of the self-same shape:A thousand infant faces, soft and sweet,Each year sends forth, yet every mother viewsHer last not least belovedLike its dear self alone.No musing mind hath ever yet foreshapedThe face to-morrow’s sun shall first reveal,No heart hath e’er conceivedWhat love that face will bring.O sleep, my babe, nor heed how mourns the galeTo part with thy soft locks and fragrant breath,As when it deeply sighsO’er autumn’s latest bloom.
SLEEP, my babe, hear not the rippling wave,Nor feel the breeze that round thee ling’ring straysTo drink thy balmy breath,And sigh one long farewell.
Soon shall it mourn above thy wat’ry bed,And whisper to me, on the wave-beat shore,Deep murm’ring in reproach,Thy sad untimely fate.
Ere those dear eyes had open’d on the light,In vain to plead, thy coming life was sold,O waken’d but to sleep,Whence it can wake no more!
A thousand and a thousand silken leavesThe tufted beech unfolds in early spring,All clad in tenderest green,All of the self-same shape:
A thousand infant faces, soft and sweet,Each year sends forth, yet every mother viewsHer last not least belovedLike its dear self alone.
No musing mind hath ever yet foreshapedThe face to-morrow’s sun shall first reveal,No heart hath e’er conceivedWhat love that face will bring.
O sleep, my babe, nor heed how mourns the galeTo part with thy soft locks and fragrant breath,As when it deeply sighsO’er autumn’s latest bloom.
662.
SEE yon blithe child that dances in our sight!Can gloomy shadows fall from one so bright?Fond mother, whence these fears?While buoyantly he rushes o’er the lawn,Dream not of clouds to stain his manhood’s dawn,Nor dim that sight with tears.No cloud he spies in brightly glowing hours,But feels as if the newly vested bowersFor him could never fade:Too well we know that vernal pleasures fleet,But having him, so gladsome, fair, and sweet,Our loss is overpaid.Amid the balmiest flowers that earth can giveSome bitter drops distil, and all that liveA mingled portion share;But, while he learns these truths which we lament,Such fortitude as ours will sure be sent,Such solace to his care.
SEE yon blithe child that dances in our sight!Can gloomy shadows fall from one so bright?Fond mother, whence these fears?While buoyantly he rushes o’er the lawn,Dream not of clouds to stain his manhood’s dawn,Nor dim that sight with tears.No cloud he spies in brightly glowing hours,But feels as if the newly vested bowersFor him could never fade:Too well we know that vernal pleasures fleet,But having him, so gladsome, fair, and sweet,Our loss is overpaid.Amid the balmiest flowers that earth can giveSome bitter drops distil, and all that liveA mingled portion share;But, while he learns these truths which we lament,Such fortitude as ours will sure be sent,Such solace to his care.
SEE yon blithe child that dances in our sight!Can gloomy shadows fall from one so bright?Fond mother, whence these fears?While buoyantly he rushes o’er the lawn,Dream not of clouds to stain his manhood’s dawn,Nor dim that sight with tears.
No cloud he spies in brightly glowing hours,But feels as if the newly vested bowersFor him could never fade:Too well we know that vernal pleasures fleet,But having him, so gladsome, fair, and sweet,Our loss is overpaid.
Amid the balmiest flowers that earth can giveSome bitter drops distil, and all that liveA mingled portion share;But, while he learns these truths which we lament,Such fortitude as ours will sure be sent,Such solace to his care.
1803-1840
663.
WHEN like the early rose,Eileen Aroon!Beauty in childhood blows,Eileen Aroon!When, like a diadem,Buds blush around the stem,Which is the fairest gem?—Eileen Aroon!Is it the laughing eye,Eileen Aroon!Is it the timid sigh,Eileen Aroon!Is it the tender tone,Soft as the string’d harp’s moan?O, it is truth alone,—Eileen Aroon!When like the rising day,Eileen Aroon!Love sends his early ray,Eileen Aroon!What makes his dawning glow,Changeless through joy or woe?Only the constant know:—Eileen Aroon!I know a valley fair,Eileen Aroon!I knew a cottage there,Eileen Aroon!Far in that valley’s shadeI knew a gentle maid,Flower of a hazel glade,—Eileen Aroon!Who in the song so sweet?Eileen Aroon!Who in the dance so fleet?Eileen Aroon!Dear were her charms to me,Dearer her laughter free,Dearest her constancy,—Eileen Aroon!Were she no longer true,Eileen Aroon!What should her lover do?Eileen Aroon!Fly with his broken chainFar o’er the sounding main,Never to love again,—Eileen Aroon!Youth must with time decay,Eileen Aroon!Beauty must fade away,Eileen Aroon!Castles are sack’d in war,Chieftains are scatter’d far,Truth is a fixèd star,—Eileen Aroon!
WHEN like the early rose,Eileen Aroon!Beauty in childhood blows,Eileen Aroon!When, like a diadem,Buds blush around the stem,Which is the fairest gem?—Eileen Aroon!Is it the laughing eye,Eileen Aroon!Is it the timid sigh,Eileen Aroon!Is it the tender tone,Soft as the string’d harp’s moan?O, it is truth alone,—Eileen Aroon!When like the rising day,Eileen Aroon!Love sends his early ray,Eileen Aroon!What makes his dawning glow,Changeless through joy or woe?Only the constant know:—Eileen Aroon!I know a valley fair,Eileen Aroon!I knew a cottage there,Eileen Aroon!Far in that valley’s shadeI knew a gentle maid,Flower of a hazel glade,—Eileen Aroon!Who in the song so sweet?Eileen Aroon!Who in the dance so fleet?Eileen Aroon!Dear were her charms to me,Dearer her laughter free,Dearest her constancy,—Eileen Aroon!Were she no longer true,Eileen Aroon!What should her lover do?Eileen Aroon!Fly with his broken chainFar o’er the sounding main,Never to love again,—Eileen Aroon!Youth must with time decay,Eileen Aroon!Beauty must fade away,Eileen Aroon!Castles are sack’d in war,Chieftains are scatter’d far,Truth is a fixèd star,—Eileen Aroon!
WHEN like the early rose,Eileen Aroon!Beauty in childhood blows,Eileen Aroon!When, like a diadem,Buds blush around the stem,Which is the fairest gem?—Eileen Aroon!
Is it the laughing eye,Eileen Aroon!Is it the timid sigh,Eileen Aroon!Is it the tender tone,Soft as the string’d harp’s moan?O, it is truth alone,—Eileen Aroon!
When like the rising day,Eileen Aroon!Love sends his early ray,Eileen Aroon!What makes his dawning glow,Changeless through joy or woe?Only the constant know:—Eileen Aroon!
I know a valley fair,Eileen Aroon!I knew a cottage there,Eileen Aroon!Far in that valley’s shadeI knew a gentle maid,Flower of a hazel glade,—Eileen Aroon!
Who in the song so sweet?Eileen Aroon!Who in the dance so fleet?Eileen Aroon!Dear were her charms to me,Dearer her laughter free,Dearest her constancy,—Eileen Aroon!
Were she no longer true,Eileen Aroon!What should her lover do?Eileen Aroon!Fly with his broken chainFar o’er the sounding main,Never to love again,—Eileen Aroon!
Youth must with time decay,Eileen Aroon!Beauty must fade away,Eileen Aroon!Castles are sack’d in war,Chieftains are scatter’d far,Truth is a fixèd star,—Eileen Aroon!
1803-1840
664.