MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE.My heid is like to rend, Willie,My heart is like to break;I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie,I'm dyin' for your sake!O, say ye'll think on me, Willie,Your hand on my briest-bane,—O, say ye'll think of me, Willie,When I am deid and gane!It's vain to comfort me, Willie,Sair grief maun ha'e its will;But let me rest upon your briestTo sab and greet my fill.Let me sit on your knee, Willie,Let me shed by your hair,And look into the face, Willie,I never sall see mair!I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,For the last time in my life,—A puir heart-broken thing, Willie,A mither, yet nae wife.Ay, press your hand upon my heart,And press it mair and mair,Or it will burst the silken twine,Sae strang is its despair.O, wae's me for the hour, Willie,When we thegither met,—O, wae's me for the time, Willie,That our first tryst was set!O, wae's me for the loanin' greenWhere we were wont to gae,—And wae's me for the destinieThat gart me luve thee sae!O, dinna mind my words, Willie,I downa seek to blame;But O, it's hard to live, Willie,And dree a warld's shame!Het tears are hailin' ower our cheek,And hailin' ower your chin:Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,For sorrow, and for sin?I'm weary o' this warld, Willie,And sick wi' a' I see,I canna live as I ha'e lived,Or be as I should be.But fauld unto your heart, Willie,The heart that still is thine,And kiss ance mair the white, white cheekYe said was red langsyne.A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie,A sair stoun' through my heart;O, haud me up and let me kissThy brow ere we twa pairt.Anither, and anither yet!—How fast my life-strings break!—Fareweel! fareweel! through yon kirk-yardStep lichtly for my sake!The lav'rock in the lift, Willie,That lifts far ower our heid,Will sing the morn as merrilieAbune the clay-cauld deid;And this green turf we're sittin' on,Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen,Will hap the heart that luvit theeAs warld has seldom seen.But O, remember me, Willie,On land where'er ye be;And O, think on the leal, leal heart,That ne'er luvit ane but thee!And O, think on the cauld, cauld moolsThat file my yellow hair,That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chinYe never sall kiss mair!WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.
MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE.
My heid is like to rend, Willie,My heart is like to break;I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie,I'm dyin' for your sake!O, say ye'll think on me, Willie,Your hand on my briest-bane,—O, say ye'll think of me, Willie,When I am deid and gane!
It's vain to comfort me, Willie,Sair grief maun ha'e its will;But let me rest upon your briestTo sab and greet my fill.Let me sit on your knee, Willie,Let me shed by your hair,And look into the face, Willie,I never sall see mair!
I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,For the last time in my life,—A puir heart-broken thing, Willie,A mither, yet nae wife.Ay, press your hand upon my heart,And press it mair and mair,Or it will burst the silken twine,Sae strang is its despair.
O, wae's me for the hour, Willie,When we thegither met,—O, wae's me for the time, Willie,That our first tryst was set!O, wae's me for the loanin' greenWhere we were wont to gae,—And wae's me for the destinieThat gart me luve thee sae!
O, dinna mind my words, Willie,I downa seek to blame;But O, it's hard to live, Willie,And dree a warld's shame!Het tears are hailin' ower our cheek,And hailin' ower your chin:Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,For sorrow, and for sin?
I'm weary o' this warld, Willie,And sick wi' a' I see,I canna live as I ha'e lived,Or be as I should be.But fauld unto your heart, Willie,The heart that still is thine,And kiss ance mair the white, white cheekYe said was red langsyne.
A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie,A sair stoun' through my heart;O, haud me up and let me kissThy brow ere we twa pairt.Anither, and anither yet!—How fast my life-strings break!—Fareweel! fareweel! through yon kirk-yardStep lichtly for my sake!
The lav'rock in the lift, Willie,That lifts far ower our heid,Will sing the morn as merrilieAbune the clay-cauld deid;And this green turf we're sittin' on,Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen,Will hap the heart that luvit theeAs warld has seldom seen.
But O, remember me, Willie,On land where'er ye be;And O, think on the leal, leal heart,That ne'er luvit ane but thee!And O, think on the cauld, cauld moolsThat file my yellow hair,That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chinYe never sall kiss mair!
WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.
ASHES OF ROSES.Soft on the sunset skyBright daylight closes,Leaving, when light doth die,Pale hues that mingling lie,—Ashes of roses.When love's warm sun is set,Love's brightness closes;Eyes with hot tears are wet,In hearts there linger yetAshes of roses.ELAINE GOODALE EASTMAN.
ASHES OF ROSES.
Soft on the sunset skyBright daylight closes,Leaving, when light doth die,Pale hues that mingling lie,—Ashes of roses.
When love's warm sun is set,Love's brightness closes;Eyes with hot tears are wet,In hearts there linger yetAshes of roses.
ELAINE GOODALE EASTMAN.
A WOMAN'S LOVE.A sentinel angel, sitting high in glory,Heard this shrill wail ring out from Purgatory:"Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story!"I loved,—and, blind with passionate love, I fell.Love brought me down to death, and death to Hell;For God is just, and death for sin is well."I do not rage against his high decree,Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be;But for my love on earth who mourns for me."Great Spirit! Let me see my love againAnd comfort him one hour, and I were fainTo pay a thousand years of fire and pain."Then said the pitying angel, "Nay, repentThat wild vow! Look, the dial-finger's bentDown to the last hour of thy punishment!"But still she wailed, "I pray thee, let me go!I cannot rise to peace and leave him so.O, let me soothe him in his bitter woe!"The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar,And upwards, joyous, like a rising star,She rose and vanished in the ether far.But soon adown the dying sunset sailing,And like a wounded bird her pinions trailing,She fluttered back, with broken-hearted wailing.She sobbed, "I found him by the summer seaReclined, his head upon a maiden's knee,—She curled his hair and kissed him. Woe is me!"She wept, "Now let my punishment begin!I have been fond and foolish. Let me inTo expiate my sorrow and my sin."The angel answered, "Nay, sad soul, go higher!To be deceived in your true heart's desireWas bitterer than a thousand years of fire!"JOHN HAY.
A WOMAN'S LOVE.
A sentinel angel, sitting high in glory,Heard this shrill wail ring out from Purgatory:"Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story!
"I loved,—and, blind with passionate love, I fell.Love brought me down to death, and death to Hell;For God is just, and death for sin is well.
"I do not rage against his high decree,Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be;But for my love on earth who mourns for me.
"Great Spirit! Let me see my love againAnd comfort him one hour, and I were fainTo pay a thousand years of fire and pain."
Then said the pitying angel, "Nay, repentThat wild vow! Look, the dial-finger's bentDown to the last hour of thy punishment!"
But still she wailed, "I pray thee, let me go!I cannot rise to peace and leave him so.O, let me soothe him in his bitter woe!"
The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar,And upwards, joyous, like a rising star,She rose and vanished in the ether far.
But soon adown the dying sunset sailing,And like a wounded bird her pinions trailing,She fluttered back, with broken-hearted wailing.
She sobbed, "I found him by the summer seaReclined, his head upon a maiden's knee,—She curled his hair and kissed him. Woe is me!"
She wept, "Now let my punishment begin!I have been fond and foolish. Let me inTo expiate my sorrow and my sin."
The angel answered, "Nay, sad soul, go higher!To be deceived in your true heart's desireWas bitterer than a thousand years of fire!"
JOHN HAY.
THE SHADOW ROSE.A noisette on my garden pathAn ever-swaying shadow throws;But if I pluck it strolling by,I pluck the shadow with the rose.Just near enough my heart you stoodTo shadow it,—but was it fairIn him, who plucked and bore you off,To leave your shadow lingering there?ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS.
THE SHADOW ROSE.
A noisette on my garden pathAn ever-swaying shadow throws;But if I pluck it strolling by,I pluck the shadow with the rose.
Just near enough my heart you stoodTo shadow it,—but was it fairIn him, who plucked and bore you off,To leave your shadow lingering there?
ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS.
HAS SUMMER COME WITHOUT THE ROSE?Has summer come without the rose,Or left the bird behind?Is the blue changed above thee,O world! or am I blind?Will you change every flower that grows,Or only change this spot,Where she who said, I love thee,Now says, I love thee not?The skies seemed true above thee,The rose true on the tree;The bird seemed true the summer through,But all proved false to me.World, is there one good thing in you,Life, love, or death—or what?Since lips that sang, I love thee,Have said, I love thee not?I think the sun's kiss will scarce fallInto one flower's gold cup;I think the bird will miss me,And give the summer up.O sweet place, desolate in tallWild grass, have you forgotHow her lips loved to kiss me,Now that they kiss me not?Be false or fair above me;Come back with any face,Summer!—do I care what you do?You cannot change one place,—The grass, the leaves, the earth, the dew,The grave I make the spot,—Here, where she used to love me,Here, where she loves me not.ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY.
HAS SUMMER COME WITHOUT THE ROSE?
Has summer come without the rose,Or left the bird behind?Is the blue changed above thee,O world! or am I blind?Will you change every flower that grows,Or only change this spot,Where she who said, I love thee,Now says, I love thee not?
The skies seemed true above thee,The rose true on the tree;The bird seemed true the summer through,But all proved false to me.World, is there one good thing in you,Life, love, or death—or what?Since lips that sang, I love thee,Have said, I love thee not?
I think the sun's kiss will scarce fallInto one flower's gold cup;I think the bird will miss me,And give the summer up.O sweet place, desolate in tallWild grass, have you forgotHow her lips loved to kiss me,Now that they kiss me not?
Be false or fair above me;Come back with any face,Summer!—do I care what you do?You cannot change one place,—The grass, the leaves, the earth, the dew,The grave I make the spot,—Here, where she used to love me,Here, where she loves me not.
ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY.
THE DIRTY OLD MAN.A LAY OF LEADENHALL.[A singular man, named Nathaniel Bentley, for many years kept a large hardware-shop in Leadenhall Street, London. He was best know as Dirty Dick (Dick, for alliteration's sake, probably), and his place of business as the Dirty Warehouse. He died about the year 1809. These verses accord with the accounts respecting himself and his house.]In a dirty old house lived a Dirty Old Man;Soap, towels, or brushes were not in his plan.For forty long years, as the neighbors declared,His house never once had been cleaned or repaired.'T was a scandal and shame to the business-like street,One terrible blot in a ledger so neat:The shop full of hardware, but black as a hearse,And the rest of the mansion a thousand times worse.Outside, the old plaster, all spatter and stain,Looked spotty in sunshine and streaky in rain;The window-sills sprouted with mildewy grass,And the panes from being broken were known to be glass.On the rickety sign-board no learning could spellThe merchant who sold, or the goods he'd to sell;But for house and for man a new title took growth,Like a fungus,—the Dirt gave its name to them both.Within, there were carpets and cushions of dust,The wood was half rot, and the metal half rust.Old curtains, half cobwebs, hung grimly aloof;'T was a Spiders' Elysium from cellar to roof.There, king of the spiders, the Dirty Old ManLives busy and dirty as ever he can;With dirt on his fingers and dirt on his face,For the Dirty Old Man thinks the dirt no disgrace.From his wig to his shoes, from his coat to his shirt,His clothes are a proverb, a marvel of dirt;The dirt is pervading, unfading, exceeding,—Yet the Dirty Old Man has both learning and breeding.Fine dames from their carriages, noble and fair,Have entered his shop, less to buy than to stare;And have afterwards said, though the dirt was so frightful,The Dirty Man's manners were truly delightful.Upstairs might they venture, in dirt and in gloom,To peep at the door of the wonderful roomSuch stories are told about, none of them true!—The keyhole itself has no mortal seen through.That room,—forty years since, folk settled and decked it.The luncheon's prepared, and the guests are expected,The handsome young host he is gallant and gay,For his love and her friends will be with him today.With solid and dainty the table is drest,The wine beams its brightest, the flowers bloom their best;Yet the host need not smile, and no guests will appear,For his sweetheart is dead, as he shortly shall hear.Full forty years since turned the key in that door.'T is a room deaf and dumb mid the city's uproar.The guests, for whose joyance that table was spread,May now enter as ghosts, for they're every one dead.Through a chink in the shutter dim lights come and go;The seats are in order, the dishes a-row:But the luncheon was wealth to the rat and the mouseWhose descendants have long left the Dirty Old House.Cup and platter are masked in thick layers of dust;The flowers fallen to powder, the wine swathed in crust;A nosegay was laid before one special chair,And the faded blue ribbon that bound it lies there.The old man has played out his part in the scene.Wherever he now is, I hope he's more clean.Yet give we a thought free of scoffing or banTo that Dirty Old House and that Dirty Old Man.WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.
THE DIRTY OLD MAN.
A LAY OF LEADENHALL.
[A singular man, named Nathaniel Bentley, for many years kept a large hardware-shop in Leadenhall Street, London. He was best know as Dirty Dick (Dick, for alliteration's sake, probably), and his place of business as the Dirty Warehouse. He died about the year 1809. These verses accord with the accounts respecting himself and his house.]
In a dirty old house lived a Dirty Old Man;Soap, towels, or brushes were not in his plan.For forty long years, as the neighbors declared,His house never once had been cleaned or repaired.
'T was a scandal and shame to the business-like street,One terrible blot in a ledger so neat:The shop full of hardware, but black as a hearse,And the rest of the mansion a thousand times worse.
Outside, the old plaster, all spatter and stain,Looked spotty in sunshine and streaky in rain;The window-sills sprouted with mildewy grass,And the panes from being broken were known to be glass.
On the rickety sign-board no learning could spellThe merchant who sold, or the goods he'd to sell;But for house and for man a new title took growth,Like a fungus,—the Dirt gave its name to them both.
Within, there were carpets and cushions of dust,The wood was half rot, and the metal half rust.Old curtains, half cobwebs, hung grimly aloof;'T was a Spiders' Elysium from cellar to roof.
There, king of the spiders, the Dirty Old ManLives busy and dirty as ever he can;With dirt on his fingers and dirt on his face,For the Dirty Old Man thinks the dirt no disgrace.
From his wig to his shoes, from his coat to his shirt,His clothes are a proverb, a marvel of dirt;The dirt is pervading, unfading, exceeding,—Yet the Dirty Old Man has both learning and breeding.
Fine dames from their carriages, noble and fair,Have entered his shop, less to buy than to stare;And have afterwards said, though the dirt was so frightful,The Dirty Man's manners were truly delightful.
Upstairs might they venture, in dirt and in gloom,To peep at the door of the wonderful roomSuch stories are told about, none of them true!—The keyhole itself has no mortal seen through.
That room,—forty years since, folk settled and decked it.The luncheon's prepared, and the guests are expected,The handsome young host he is gallant and gay,For his love and her friends will be with him today.
With solid and dainty the table is drest,The wine beams its brightest, the flowers bloom their best;Yet the host need not smile, and no guests will appear,For his sweetheart is dead, as he shortly shall hear.
Full forty years since turned the key in that door.'T is a room deaf and dumb mid the city's uproar.The guests, for whose joyance that table was spread,May now enter as ghosts, for they're every one dead.
Through a chink in the shutter dim lights come and go;The seats are in order, the dishes a-row:But the luncheon was wealth to the rat and the mouseWhose descendants have long left the Dirty Old House.
Cup and platter are masked in thick layers of dust;The flowers fallen to powder, the wine swathed in crust;A nosegay was laid before one special chair,And the faded blue ribbon that bound it lies there.
The old man has played out his part in the scene.Wherever he now is, I hope he's more clean.Yet give we a thought free of scoffing or banTo that Dirty Old House and that Dirty Old Man.
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.
HOME, WOUNDED.Wheel me into the sunshine,Wheel me into the shadow.There must be leaves on the woodbine,Is the kingcup crowned in the meadow?Wheel me down to the meadow,Down to the little river,In sun or in shadowI shall not dazzle or shiver,I shall be happy anywhere,Every breath of the morning airMakes me throb and quiver.Stay wherever you will,By the mount or under the hill,Or down by the little river:Stay as long as you please,Give me only a bud from the trees,Or a blade of grass in morning dew,Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue,I could look on it forever.Wheel, wheel through the sunshine,Wheel, wheel through the shadow;There must be odors round the pine,There must be balm of breathing kine,Somewhere down in the meadow.Must I choose? Then anchor me thereBeyond the beckoning poplars, whereThe larch is snooding her flowery hairWith wreaths of morning shadow.Among the thickest hazels of the brakePerchance some nightingale doth shakeHis feathers, and the air is full of song;In those old days when I was young and strong,He used to sing on yonder garden tree,Beside the nursery.Ah, I remember how I loved to wake,And find him singing on the self-same bough(I know it even now)Where, since the flit of bat,In ceaseless voice he sat,Trying the spring night over, like a tune,Beneath the vernal moon;And while I listed long,Day rose, and still he sang,And all his stanchless song,As something falling unaware,Fell out of the tall trees he sang among,Fell ringing down the ringing morn, and rang,—Rang like a golden jewel down a golden stair.· · · · · ·My soul lies out like a basking hound,—A hound that dreams and dozes;Along my life my length I lay,I fill to-morrow and yesterday,I am warm with the suns that have long since set,I am warm with the summers that are not yet,And like one who dreams and dozesSoftly afloat on a sunny sea,Two worlds are whispering over me,And there blows a wind of rosesFrom the backward shore to the shore before,From the shore before to the backward shore,And like two clouds that meet and pourEach through each, till core in coreA single self reposes,The nevermore with the evermoreAbove me mingles and closes;As my soul lies out like the basking hound,And wherever it lies seems happy ground,And when, awakened by some sweet sound,A dreamy eye uncloses,I see a blooming world around,And I lie amid primroses,—Years of sweet primroses,Springs of fresh primroses,Springs to be, and springs for meOf distant dim primroses.O, to lie a-dream, a-dream,To feel I may dream and to know you deemMy work is done forever,And the palpitating fever,That gains and loses, loses and gains,And beats the hurrying blood on the brunt of a thousand pains,Cooled at once by that blood-letUpon the parapet;And all the tedious taskèd toil of the difficult long endeavorSolved and quit by no more fineThan these limbs of mine,Spanned and measured once for allBy that right-hand I lost,Bought up at so light a costAs one bloody fallOn the soldier's bed,And three days on the ruined wallAmong the thirstless dead.O, to think my name is crostFrom duty's muster-roll;That I may slumber though the clarion call,And live the joy of an embodied soulFree as a liberated ghost.O, to feel a life of deedWas emptied out to feedThat fire of pain that burned so brief awhile,—That fire from which I come, as the dead comeForth from the irreparable tomb,Or as a martyr on his funeral pileHeaps up the burdens other men do bearThrough years of segregated care,And takes the total loadUpon his shoulders broad,And steps from earth to God.O, to think, through good or ill,Whatever I am you'll love me still;O, to think, though dull I be,You that are so grand and free,You that are so bright and gay,Will pause to hear me when I will,As though my head were gray;A single self reposes,The nevermore with the evermoreAbove me mingles and closes;As my soul lies out like the basking hound,And wherever it lies seems happy ground,And when, awakened by some sweet sound,A dreamy eye uncloses,I see a blooming world around,And I lie amid primroses,—Years of sweet primroses,Springs of fresh primroses.Springs to be, and springs for meOf distant dim primroses.O, to lie a-dream, a-dream,To feel I may dream and to know you deemMy work is done forever,And the palpitating fever,That gains and loses, loses and gains,And she,Perhaps, O even sheMay look as she looked when I knew herIn those old days of childish sooth,Ere my boyhood dared to woo her.I will not seek nor sue her,For I'm neither fonder nor truerThan when she slighted my lovelorn youth,My giftless, graceless, guinealess truth,And I only lived to rue her.But I'll never love another,And, in spite of her lovers and lands,She shall love me yet, my brother!As a child that holds by his mother,While his mother speaks his praises,Holds with eager hands,And ruddy and silent standsIn the ruddy and silent daisies,And hears her bless her boy,And lifts a wondering joy,So I'll not seek nor sue her,But I'll leave my glory to woo her,And I'll stand like a child beside,And from behind the purple prideI'll lift my eyes unto her,And I shall not be denied.And you will love her, brother dear,And perhaps next year you'll bring me hereAll through the balmy April tide,And she will trip like spring by my side,And be all the birds to my ear.And here all three we'll sit in the sun,And see the Aprils one by one,Primrosed Aprils on and on,Till the floating prospect closesIn golden glimmers that rise and rise,And perhaps are gleams of Paradise,And perhaps too far for mortal eyes,New springs of fresh primroses,Springs of earth's primroses,Springs to be, and springs for meOf distant dim primroses.SYDNEY DOBELL.
HOME, WOUNDED.
Wheel me into the sunshine,Wheel me into the shadow.There must be leaves on the woodbine,Is the kingcup crowned in the meadow?
Wheel me down to the meadow,Down to the little river,In sun or in shadowI shall not dazzle or shiver,I shall be happy anywhere,Every breath of the morning airMakes me throb and quiver.
Stay wherever you will,By the mount or under the hill,Or down by the little river:Stay as long as you please,Give me only a bud from the trees,Or a blade of grass in morning dew,Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue,I could look on it forever.
Wheel, wheel through the sunshine,Wheel, wheel through the shadow;There must be odors round the pine,There must be balm of breathing kine,Somewhere down in the meadow.Must I choose? Then anchor me thereBeyond the beckoning poplars, whereThe larch is snooding her flowery hairWith wreaths of morning shadow.
Among the thickest hazels of the brakePerchance some nightingale doth shakeHis feathers, and the air is full of song;In those old days when I was young and strong,He used to sing on yonder garden tree,Beside the nursery.Ah, I remember how I loved to wake,And find him singing on the self-same bough(I know it even now)Where, since the flit of bat,In ceaseless voice he sat,Trying the spring night over, like a tune,Beneath the vernal moon;And while I listed long,Day rose, and still he sang,And all his stanchless song,As something falling unaware,Fell out of the tall trees he sang among,Fell ringing down the ringing morn, and rang,—Rang like a golden jewel down a golden stair.
· · · · · ·
My soul lies out like a basking hound,—A hound that dreams and dozes;Along my life my length I lay,I fill to-morrow and yesterday,I am warm with the suns that have long since set,I am warm with the summers that are not yet,And like one who dreams and dozesSoftly afloat on a sunny sea,Two worlds are whispering over me,And there blows a wind of rosesFrom the backward shore to the shore before,From the shore before to the backward shore,And like two clouds that meet and pourEach through each, till core in coreA single self reposes,The nevermore with the evermoreAbove me mingles and closes;As my soul lies out like the basking hound,And wherever it lies seems happy ground,And when, awakened by some sweet sound,A dreamy eye uncloses,I see a blooming world around,And I lie amid primroses,—Years of sweet primroses,Springs of fresh primroses,Springs to be, and springs for meOf distant dim primroses.
O, to lie a-dream, a-dream,To feel I may dream and to know you deemMy work is done forever,And the palpitating fever,That gains and loses, loses and gains,And beats the hurrying blood on the brunt of a thousand pains,Cooled at once by that blood-letUpon the parapet;And all the tedious taskèd toil of the difficult long endeavorSolved and quit by no more fineThan these limbs of mine,Spanned and measured once for allBy that right-hand I lost,Bought up at so light a costAs one bloody fallOn the soldier's bed,And three days on the ruined wallAmong the thirstless dead.
O, to think my name is crostFrom duty's muster-roll;That I may slumber though the clarion call,And live the joy of an embodied soulFree as a liberated ghost.O, to feel a life of deedWas emptied out to feedThat fire of pain that burned so brief awhile,—That fire from which I come, as the dead comeForth from the irreparable tomb,Or as a martyr on his funeral pileHeaps up the burdens other men do bearThrough years of segregated care,And takes the total loadUpon his shoulders broad,And steps from earth to God.
O, to think, through good or ill,Whatever I am you'll love me still;O, to think, though dull I be,You that are so grand and free,You that are so bright and gay,Will pause to hear me when I will,As though my head were gray;A single self reposes,The nevermore with the evermoreAbove me mingles and closes;As my soul lies out like the basking hound,And wherever it lies seems happy ground,And when, awakened by some sweet sound,A dreamy eye uncloses,I see a blooming world around,And I lie amid primroses,—Years of sweet primroses,Springs of fresh primroses.Springs to be, and springs for meOf distant dim primroses.
O, to lie a-dream, a-dream,To feel I may dream and to know you deemMy work is done forever,And the palpitating fever,That gains and loses, loses and gains,And she,Perhaps, O even sheMay look as she looked when I knew herIn those old days of childish sooth,Ere my boyhood dared to woo her.I will not seek nor sue her,For I'm neither fonder nor truerThan when she slighted my lovelorn youth,My giftless, graceless, guinealess truth,And I only lived to rue her.But I'll never love another,And, in spite of her lovers and lands,She shall love me yet, my brother!
As a child that holds by his mother,While his mother speaks his praises,Holds with eager hands,And ruddy and silent standsIn the ruddy and silent daisies,And hears her bless her boy,And lifts a wondering joy,So I'll not seek nor sue her,But I'll leave my glory to woo her,And I'll stand like a child beside,And from behind the purple prideI'll lift my eyes unto her,And I shall not be denied.And you will love her, brother dear,And perhaps next year you'll bring me hereAll through the balmy April tide,And she will trip like spring by my side,And be all the birds to my ear.
And here all three we'll sit in the sun,And see the Aprils one by one,Primrosed Aprils on and on,Till the floating prospect closesIn golden glimmers that rise and rise,And perhaps are gleams of Paradise,And perhaps too far for mortal eyes,New springs of fresh primroses,Springs of earth's primroses,Springs to be, and springs for meOf distant dim primroses.
SYDNEY DOBELL.
DIVIDED.I.An empty sky, a world of heather,Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom:We two among them wading together,Shaking out honey, treading perfume.Crowds of bees are giddy with clover,Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet:Crowds of larks at their matins hang over,Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet.Flusheth the rise with her purple favor,Gloweth the cleft with her golden ring,'Twixt the two brown butterflies waver,Lightly settle, and sleepily swing.We two walk till the purple dieth,And short dry grass under foot is brown,But one little streak at a distance liethGreen, like a ribbon, to prank the down.II.Over the grass we stepped unto it,And God, He knoweth how blithe we were!Never a voice to bid us eschew it;Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair!Hey the green ribbon! we kneeled beside it,We parted the grasses dewy and sheen:Drop over drop there filtered and slidedA tiny bright beck that trickled between.Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sung to us,Light was our talk as of faery bells—Faery wedding-bells faintly rung to us,Down in their fortunate parallels.Hand in hand, while the sun peered over,We lapped the grass on that youngling spring,Swept back its rushes, smoothed its clover,And said, "Let us follow it westering."III.A dappled sky, a world of meadows;Circling above us the black rooks fly,Forward, backward: lo, their dark shadowsFlit on the blossoming tapestry—Flit on the beck—for her long grass parteth,As hair from a maid's bright eyes blown back;And lo, the sun like a lover dartethHis flattering smile on her wayward track.Sing on! we sing in the glorious weather,Till one steps over the tiny strand,So narrow, in sooth, that still togetherOn either brink we go hand in hand.The beck grows wider, the hands must sever,On either margin, our songs all done,We move apart, while she singeth ever,Taking the course of the stooping sun.He prays, "Come over"—I may not follow;I cry, "Return"—but he cannot come:We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow;Our hands are hanging, our hearts are numb.IV.A breathing sigh—a sigh for answer;A little talking of outward things:The careless beck is a merry dancer,Keeping sweet time to the air she sings.A little pain when the beck grows wider—"Cross to me now, for her wavelets swell:""I may not cross" and the voice beside herFaintly reacheth, though heeded well.No backward path; ah! no returning:No second crossing that ripple's flow:"Come to me now, for the west is burning:Come ere it darkens."—"Ah, no! ah, no!"Then cries of pain, and arms outreaching—The beck grows wider and swift and deep;Passionate words as of one beseeching—The loud beck drowns them: we walk and weep.V.A yellow moon in splendor drooping,A tired queen with her state oppressed,Low by rushes and sword-grass stooping,Lies she soft on the waves at rest.The desert heavens have felt her sadness;Her earth will weep her some dewy tears;The wild beck ends her tune of gladness,And goeth stilly as soul that fears.We two walk on in our grassy places,On either marge of the moonlit flood,With the moon's own sadness in our faces,Where joy is withered, blossom and bud.VI.A shady freshness, chafers whirring,A little piping of leaf-hid birds;A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring,A cloud to the eastward snowy as curds.Bare grassy slopes, where the kids are tethered,Bound valleys like nests all ferny-lined;Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered,Swell high in their freckled robes behind.A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver,When golden gleams to the tree-tops glide;A flashing edge for the milk-white river,The beck, a river—with still sleek tide.Broad and white, and polished as silver,On she goes under fruit-laden trees;Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver,And 'plaineth of love's disloyalties.Glitters the dew, and shines the river;Up comes the lily and dries her bell;But two are walking apart forever,And wave their hands for a mute farewell.VII.A braver swell, a swifter sliding;The river hasteth, her banks recede;Wing-like sails on her bosom glidingBear down the lily, and drown the reed.Stately prows are rising and bowing—(Shouts of mariners winnow the air)—And level sands for banks endowingThe tiny green ribbon that showed so fair.While, O my heart! as white sails shiver,And crowds are passing, and banks stretch wide,How hard to follow, with lips that quiver,That moving speck on the far-off side!Farther, farther—I see it—know it—My eyes brim over, it melts away:Only my heart to my heart shall show it,As I walk desolate day by day.VIII.And yet I know past all doubting, truly,—A knowledge greater than grief can dim—I know, as he loved, he will love me duly—Yea, better—e'en better than I love him:And as I walk by the vast calm river,The awful river so dread to see,I say, "Thy breadth and thy depth foreverAre bridged by his thoughts that cross to me."JEAN INGELOW.
DIVIDED.
I.
An empty sky, a world of heather,Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom:We two among them wading together,Shaking out honey, treading perfume.
Crowds of bees are giddy with clover,Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet:Crowds of larks at their matins hang over,Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet.
Flusheth the rise with her purple favor,Gloweth the cleft with her golden ring,'Twixt the two brown butterflies waver,Lightly settle, and sleepily swing.
We two walk till the purple dieth,And short dry grass under foot is brown,But one little streak at a distance liethGreen, like a ribbon, to prank the down.
II.
Over the grass we stepped unto it,And God, He knoweth how blithe we were!Never a voice to bid us eschew it;Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair!
Hey the green ribbon! we kneeled beside it,We parted the grasses dewy and sheen:Drop over drop there filtered and slidedA tiny bright beck that trickled between.
Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sung to us,Light was our talk as of faery bells—Faery wedding-bells faintly rung to us,Down in their fortunate parallels.
Hand in hand, while the sun peered over,We lapped the grass on that youngling spring,Swept back its rushes, smoothed its clover,And said, "Let us follow it westering."
III.
A dappled sky, a world of meadows;Circling above us the black rooks fly,Forward, backward: lo, their dark shadowsFlit on the blossoming tapestry—
Flit on the beck—for her long grass parteth,As hair from a maid's bright eyes blown back;And lo, the sun like a lover dartethHis flattering smile on her wayward track.
Sing on! we sing in the glorious weather,Till one steps over the tiny strand,So narrow, in sooth, that still togetherOn either brink we go hand in hand.
The beck grows wider, the hands must sever,On either margin, our songs all done,We move apart, while she singeth ever,Taking the course of the stooping sun.
He prays, "Come over"—I may not follow;I cry, "Return"—but he cannot come:We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow;Our hands are hanging, our hearts are numb.
IV.
A breathing sigh—a sigh for answer;A little talking of outward things:The careless beck is a merry dancer,Keeping sweet time to the air she sings.
A little pain when the beck grows wider—"Cross to me now, for her wavelets swell:""I may not cross" and the voice beside herFaintly reacheth, though heeded well.
No backward path; ah! no returning:No second crossing that ripple's flow:"Come to me now, for the west is burning:Come ere it darkens."—"Ah, no! ah, no!"
Then cries of pain, and arms outreaching—The beck grows wider and swift and deep;Passionate words as of one beseeching—The loud beck drowns them: we walk and weep.
V.
A yellow moon in splendor drooping,A tired queen with her state oppressed,Low by rushes and sword-grass stooping,Lies she soft on the waves at rest.
The desert heavens have felt her sadness;Her earth will weep her some dewy tears;The wild beck ends her tune of gladness,And goeth stilly as soul that fears.
We two walk on in our grassy places,On either marge of the moonlit flood,With the moon's own sadness in our faces,Where joy is withered, blossom and bud.
VI.
A shady freshness, chafers whirring,A little piping of leaf-hid birds;A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring,A cloud to the eastward snowy as curds.
Bare grassy slopes, where the kids are tethered,Bound valleys like nests all ferny-lined;Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered,Swell high in their freckled robes behind.
A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver,When golden gleams to the tree-tops glide;A flashing edge for the milk-white river,The beck, a river—with still sleek tide.
Broad and white, and polished as silver,On she goes under fruit-laden trees;Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver,And 'plaineth of love's disloyalties.
Glitters the dew, and shines the river;Up comes the lily and dries her bell;But two are walking apart forever,And wave their hands for a mute farewell.
VII.
A braver swell, a swifter sliding;The river hasteth, her banks recede;Wing-like sails on her bosom glidingBear down the lily, and drown the reed.
Stately prows are rising and bowing—(Shouts of mariners winnow the air)—And level sands for banks endowingThe tiny green ribbon that showed so fair.
While, O my heart! as white sails shiver,And crowds are passing, and banks stretch wide,How hard to follow, with lips that quiver,That moving speck on the far-off side!
Farther, farther—I see it—know it—My eyes brim over, it melts away:Only my heart to my heart shall show it,As I walk desolate day by day.
VIII.
And yet I know past all doubting, truly,—A knowledge greater than grief can dim—I know, as he loved, he will love me duly—Yea, better—e'en better than I love him:
And as I walk by the vast calm river,The awful river so dread to see,I say, "Thy breadth and thy depth foreverAre bridged by his thoughts that cross to me."
JEAN INGELOW.
TO DIANE DE POITIERS.Farewell! since vain is all my care,Far, in some desert rude,I'll hide my weakness, my despair:And, 'midst my solitude,I'll pray, that, should another move thee,He may as fondly, truly love thee.Adieu, bright eyes, that were my heaven!Adieu, soft cheek, where summer blooms!Adieu, fair form, earth's pattern given,Which Love inhabits and illumes!Your rays have fallen but coldly on me:One far less fond, perchance, had won ye!From the French of CLEMENT MAROT.Translation of LOUISE STUART COSTELLO.
TO DIANE DE POITIERS.
Farewell! since vain is all my care,Far, in some desert rude,I'll hide my weakness, my despair:And, 'midst my solitude,I'll pray, that, should another move thee,He may as fondly, truly love thee.
Adieu, bright eyes, that were my heaven!Adieu, soft cheek, where summer blooms!Adieu, fair form, earth's pattern given,Which Love inhabits and illumes!Your rays have fallen but coldly on me:One far less fond, perchance, had won ye!
From the French of CLEMENT MAROT.Translation of LOUISE STUART COSTELLO.
THE SPINNER.The spinner twisted her slender threadAs she sat and spun:"The earth and the heavens are mine," she said,"And the moon and sun;Into my web the sunlight goes,And the breath of May,And the crimson life of the new-blown roseThat was born to-day."The spinner sang in the hush of noonAnd her song was low:"Ah, morning, you pass away too soon,You are swift to go.My heart o'erflows like a brimming cupWith its hopes and fears.Love, come and drink the sweetness upEre it turn to tears."The spinner looked at the falling sun:"Is it time to rest?My hands are weary,—my work is done,I have wrought my best;I have spun and woven with patient eyesAnd with fingers fleet.Lo! where the toil of a lifetime liesIn a winding-sheet!"MARY AINGE DE VERE (Madeline Bridges).
THE SPINNER.
The spinner twisted her slender threadAs she sat and spun:"The earth and the heavens are mine," she said,"And the moon and sun;Into my web the sunlight goes,And the breath of May,And the crimson life of the new-blown roseThat was born to-day."
The spinner sang in the hush of noonAnd her song was low:"Ah, morning, you pass away too soon,You are swift to go.My heart o'erflows like a brimming cupWith its hopes and fears.Love, come and drink the sweetness upEre it turn to tears."
The spinner looked at the falling sun:"Is it time to rest?My hands are weary,—my work is done,I have wrought my best;I have spun and woven with patient eyesAnd with fingers fleet.Lo! where the toil of a lifetime liesIn a winding-sheet!"
MARY AINGE DE VERE (Madeline Bridges).
TAKE, O, TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY.*Take, O, take those lips away,That so sweetly were forsworn;And those eyes, like break of day,Lights that do mislead the morn;But my kisses bring again,Seals of love, but sealed in vain.Hide, O, hide those hills of snowWhich thy frozen bosom bears,On whose tops the pinks that growAre yet of those that April wears!But first set my poor heart free,Bound in those icy chains by thee.SHAKESPEARE and JOHN FLETCHER.* The first stanza of this song appears in Shakespeare's "Measure for Measure," Activ. Sc. I.; the same, with the second, stanza added, is found in Beaumont and Fletcher's "Bloody Brother," Act v. Sc. 2.
TAKE, O, TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY.*
Take, O, take those lips away,That so sweetly were forsworn;And those eyes, like break of day,Lights that do mislead the morn;But my kisses bring again,Seals of love, but sealed in vain.
Hide, O, hide those hills of snowWhich thy frozen bosom bears,On whose tops the pinks that growAre yet of those that April wears!But first set my poor heart free,Bound in those icy chains by thee.
SHAKESPEARE and JOHN FLETCHER.
* The first stanza of this song appears in Shakespeare's "Measure for Measure," Activ. Sc. I.; the same, with the second, stanza added, is found in Beaumont and Fletcher's "Bloody Brother," Act v. Sc. 2.
WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY.I loved thee once, I'll love no more,Thine be the grief as is the blame;Thou art not what thou wast before,What reason I should be the same?He that can love unloved again,Hath better store of love than brain:God sends me love my debts to pay,While unthrifts fool their love away.Nothing could have my love o'erthrown,If thou hadst still continued mine;Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own,I might perchance have yet been thine.But thou thy freedom didst recall,That if thou might elsewhere inthrall;And then how could I but disdainA captive's captive to remain?When new desires had conquered thee,And changed the object of thy will,It had been lethargy in me,Not constancy, to love thee still.Yea, it had been a sin to goAnd prostitute affection so,Since we are taught no prayers to sayTo such as must to others pray.Yet do thou glory in thy choice.Thy choice of his good fortune boast;I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice,To see him gain what I have lost;The height of my disdain shall be,To laugh at him, to blush for thee;To love thee still, but go no moreA begging to a beggar's door.SIR ROBERT AYTON.
WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY.
I loved thee once, I'll love no more,Thine be the grief as is the blame;Thou art not what thou wast before,What reason I should be the same?He that can love unloved again,Hath better store of love than brain:God sends me love my debts to pay,While unthrifts fool their love away.
Nothing could have my love o'erthrown,If thou hadst still continued mine;Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own,I might perchance have yet been thine.But thou thy freedom didst recall,That if thou might elsewhere inthrall;And then how could I but disdainA captive's captive to remain?
When new desires had conquered thee,And changed the object of thy will,It had been lethargy in me,Not constancy, to love thee still.Yea, it had been a sin to goAnd prostitute affection so,Since we are taught no prayers to sayTo such as must to others pray.
Yet do thou glory in thy choice.Thy choice of his good fortune boast;I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice,To see him gain what I have lost;The height of my disdain shall be,To laugh at him, to blush for thee;To love thee still, but go no moreA begging to a beggar's door.
SIR ROBERT AYTON.
TIME'S REVENGE.She, who but late in beauty's flower was seen,Proud of her auburn curls and noble mien—Who froze my hopes and triumphed in my fears,Now sheds her graces in the waste of years.Changed to unlovely is that breast of snow,And dimmed her eye, and wrinkled is her brow;And querulous the voice by time repressed,Whose artless music stole me from my rest.Age gives redress to love; and silvery hairAnd earlier wrinkles brand the haughty fair.From the Greek of AGATHIAS.Translation of ROBERT BLAND.
TIME'S REVENGE.
She, who but late in beauty's flower was seen,Proud of her auburn curls and noble mien—Who froze my hopes and triumphed in my fears,Now sheds her graces in the waste of years.Changed to unlovely is that breast of snow,And dimmed her eye, and wrinkled is her brow;And querulous the voice by time repressed,Whose artless music stole me from my rest.Age gives redress to love; and silvery hairAnd earlier wrinkles brand the haughty fair.
From the Greek of AGATHIAS.Translation of ROBERT BLAND.
THE DREAM.Our life is twofold; sleep hath its own world,A boundary between the things misnamedDeath and existence: sleep hath its own world,And a wide realm of wild reality,And dreams in their development have breath,And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,They take a weight from off our waking toils,They do divide our being; they becomeA portion of ourselves as of our time,And look like heralds of eternity;They pass like spirits of the past,—they speakLike sibyls of the future; they have power,—The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;They make us what we were not,—what they will,And shake us with the vision that's gone by.The dread of vanished shadows.—Are they so?Is not the past all shadow? What are they?Creations of the mind?—The mind can makeSubstances, and people planets of its ownWith beings brighter than have been, and giveA breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.I would recall a vision which I dreamedPerchance in sleep,—for in itself a thought,A slumbering thought, is capable of years,And curdles a long life into one hour.I saw two beings in the hues of youthStanding upon a hill, a gentle hill,Green and of a mild declivity, the lastAs 't were the cape of a long ridge of such,Save that there was no sea to lave its base,But a most living landscape, and the waveOf woods and cornfields, and the abodes of menScattered at intervals, and wreathing smokeArising from such rustic roofs; the hillWas crowned with a peculiar diademOf trees, in circular array, so fixed,Not by the sport of nature, but of man:These two, a maiden and a youth, were thereGazing,—the one on all that was beneathFair as herself,—but the boy gazed on her;And both were young, and one was beautiful;And both were young,—yet not alike in youth.As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge,The maid was on the eve of womanhood;The boy had fewer summers, but his heartHad far outgrown his years, and to his eyeThere was but one beloved face on earth,And that was shining on him; he had lookedUpon it till it could not pass away;He had no breath, no being, but in hers;She was his voice; he did not speak to her,But trembled on her words; she was his sight,For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers,Which colored all his objects;—he had ceasedTo live with himself: she was his life,The ocean to the river of his thoughts,Which terminated all; upon a tone,A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow,And his cheek change tempestuously;—his heartUnknowing of its cause of agony.But she in these fond feelings had no share:Her sighs were not for him; to her he wasEven as a brother,—but no more; 'twas much,For brotherless she was, save in the nameHer infant friendship had bestowed on him;Herself the solitary scion leftOf a time-honored race. It was a nameWhich pleased him, and yet pleased him not,—and why?Time taught him a deep answer—when she lovedAnother; evennowshe loved another,And on the summit of the hill she stood,Looking afar if yet her lover's steedKept pace with her expectancy, and flew.A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.There was an ancient mansion, and beforeIts walls there was a steed caparisoned;Within an antique oratory stoodThe boy of whom I spake;—he was alone,And pale, and pacing to and fro: anonHe sate him down, and seized a pen and tracedWords which I could not guess of; then he leanedHis bowed head on his hands and shook, as 'twereWith a convulsion,—then arose again,And with his teeth and quivering hands did tearWhat he had written, but he shed no tears,And he did calm himself, and fix his browInto a kind of quiet; as he paused,The lady of his love re-entered there;She was serene and smiling then, and yetShe knew she was by him beloved; she knew—For quickly comes such knowledge—that his heartWas darkened with her shadow, and she sawThat he was wretched, but she saw not all.He rose, and with a cold and gentle graspHe took her hand; a moment o'er his faceA tablet of unutterable thoughtsWas traced, and then it faded, as it came;He dropped the hand he held, and with slow stepsRetired, but not as bidding her adieu,For they did part with mutual smiles; he passedFrom out the massy gate of that old Hall,And mounting on his steed he went his way;And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more.A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.The boy was sprung to manhood; in the wildsOf fiery climes he made himself a home,And his soul drank their sunbeams; he was girtWith strange and dusky aspects; he was notHimself like what he had been; on the seaAnd on the shore he was a wanderer;There was a mass of many imagesCrowded like waves upon me, but he wasA part of all; and in the last he layReposing from the noontide sultriness,Couched among fallen columns, in the shadeOf ruined walls that had survived the namesOf those who reared them; by his sleeping sideStood camels grazing, and some goodly steedsWere fastened near a fountain; and a man,Clad in a flowing garb, did watch the while,While many of his tribe slumbered around:And they were canopied by the blue sky,So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,That God alone was to be seen in heaven.A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.The lady of his love was wed with oneWho did not love her better: in her home,A thousand leagues from his,—her native home,She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy,Daughters and sons of beauty,—but behold!Upon her face there was the tint of grief,The settled shadow of an inward strife,And an unquiet drooping of the eye,As if its lids were charged with unshed tears.What could her grief be?—she had all she loved,And he who had so loved her was not thereTo trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,Or ill-repressed affliction, her pure thoughts.What could her grief be?—she had loved him not,Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved,Nor could he be a part of that which preyedUpon her mind—a spectre of the past.A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.The wanderer was returned.—I saw him standBefore an altar—with a gentle bride;Her face was fair, but was not that which madeThe starlight of his boyhood;—as he stoodEven at the altar, o'er his brow there cameThe selfsame aspect and the quivering shockThat in the antique oratory shookHis bosom in its solitude; and then—As in that hour—a moment o'er his faceThe tablet of unutterable thoughtsWas traced,—and then it faded as it came,And he stood calm and quiet, and he spokeThe fitting vows, but heard not his own words,And all things reeled around him; he could seeNot that which was, nor that which should have been,—But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall,And the remembered chambers, and the place,The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,All things pertaining to that place and hour,And her who was his destiny, came backAnd thrust themselves between him and the light;What business had they there at such a time?A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.The lady of his love;—O, she was changed,As by the sickness of the soul! her mindHad wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes,They had not their own lustre, but the lookWhich is not of the earth; she was becomeThe queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughtsWere combinations of disjointed things,And forms impalpable and unperceivedOf others' sight familiar were to hers.And this the world calls frenzy; but the wiseHave a far deeper madness, and the glanceOf melancholy is a fearful gift;What is it but the telescope of truth,Which strips the distance of its fantasies,And brings life near in utter nakedness,Making the cold reality too real!A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.The wanderer was alone as heretofore,The beings which surrounded him were gone,Or were at war with him; he was a markFor blight and desolation, compassed roundWith hatred and contention; pain was mixedIn all which was served up to him, until,Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,He fed on poisons, and they had no power,But were a kind of nutriment; he livedThrough that which had been death to many men,And made him friends of mountains: with the starsAnd the quick Spirit of the universeHe held his dialogues; and they did teachTo him the magic of their mysteries;To him the book of Night was opened wide,And voices from the deep abyss revealedA marvel and a secret.—Be it so.My dream was past; it had no further change.It was of a strange order, that the doomOf these two creatures should be thus traced outAlmost like a reality,—the oneTo end in madness—both in misery.LORD BYRON.
THE DREAM.
Our life is twofold; sleep hath its own world,A boundary between the things misnamedDeath and existence: sleep hath its own world,And a wide realm of wild reality,And dreams in their development have breath,And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,They take a weight from off our waking toils,They do divide our being; they becomeA portion of ourselves as of our time,And look like heralds of eternity;They pass like spirits of the past,—they speakLike sibyls of the future; they have power,—The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;They make us what we were not,—what they will,And shake us with the vision that's gone by.The dread of vanished shadows.—Are they so?Is not the past all shadow? What are they?Creations of the mind?—The mind can makeSubstances, and people planets of its ownWith beings brighter than have been, and giveA breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.I would recall a vision which I dreamedPerchance in sleep,—for in itself a thought,A slumbering thought, is capable of years,And curdles a long life into one hour.
I saw two beings in the hues of youthStanding upon a hill, a gentle hill,Green and of a mild declivity, the lastAs 't were the cape of a long ridge of such,Save that there was no sea to lave its base,But a most living landscape, and the waveOf woods and cornfields, and the abodes of menScattered at intervals, and wreathing smokeArising from such rustic roofs; the hillWas crowned with a peculiar diademOf trees, in circular array, so fixed,Not by the sport of nature, but of man:These two, a maiden and a youth, were thereGazing,—the one on all that was beneathFair as herself,—but the boy gazed on her;And both were young, and one was beautiful;And both were young,—yet not alike in youth.As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge,The maid was on the eve of womanhood;The boy had fewer summers, but his heartHad far outgrown his years, and to his eyeThere was but one beloved face on earth,And that was shining on him; he had lookedUpon it till it could not pass away;He had no breath, no being, but in hers;She was his voice; he did not speak to her,But trembled on her words; she was his sight,For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers,Which colored all his objects;—he had ceasedTo live with himself: she was his life,The ocean to the river of his thoughts,Which terminated all; upon a tone,A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow,And his cheek change tempestuously;—his heartUnknowing of its cause of agony.But she in these fond feelings had no share:Her sighs were not for him; to her he wasEven as a brother,—but no more; 'twas much,For brotherless she was, save in the nameHer infant friendship had bestowed on him;Herself the solitary scion leftOf a time-honored race. It was a nameWhich pleased him, and yet pleased him not,—and why?Time taught him a deep answer—when she lovedAnother; evennowshe loved another,And on the summit of the hill she stood,Looking afar if yet her lover's steedKept pace with her expectancy, and flew.
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.There was an ancient mansion, and beforeIts walls there was a steed caparisoned;Within an antique oratory stoodThe boy of whom I spake;—he was alone,And pale, and pacing to and fro: anonHe sate him down, and seized a pen and tracedWords which I could not guess of; then he leanedHis bowed head on his hands and shook, as 'twereWith a convulsion,—then arose again,And with his teeth and quivering hands did tearWhat he had written, but he shed no tears,And he did calm himself, and fix his browInto a kind of quiet; as he paused,The lady of his love re-entered there;She was serene and smiling then, and yetShe knew she was by him beloved; she knew—For quickly comes such knowledge—that his heartWas darkened with her shadow, and she sawThat he was wretched, but she saw not all.He rose, and with a cold and gentle graspHe took her hand; a moment o'er his faceA tablet of unutterable thoughtsWas traced, and then it faded, as it came;He dropped the hand he held, and with slow stepsRetired, but not as bidding her adieu,For they did part with mutual smiles; he passedFrom out the massy gate of that old Hall,And mounting on his steed he went his way;And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more.
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.The boy was sprung to manhood; in the wildsOf fiery climes he made himself a home,And his soul drank their sunbeams; he was girtWith strange and dusky aspects; he was notHimself like what he had been; on the seaAnd on the shore he was a wanderer;There was a mass of many imagesCrowded like waves upon me, but he wasA part of all; and in the last he layReposing from the noontide sultriness,Couched among fallen columns, in the shadeOf ruined walls that had survived the namesOf those who reared them; by his sleeping sideStood camels grazing, and some goodly steedsWere fastened near a fountain; and a man,Clad in a flowing garb, did watch the while,While many of his tribe slumbered around:And they were canopied by the blue sky,So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,That God alone was to be seen in heaven.
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.The lady of his love was wed with oneWho did not love her better: in her home,A thousand leagues from his,—her native home,She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy,Daughters and sons of beauty,—but behold!Upon her face there was the tint of grief,The settled shadow of an inward strife,And an unquiet drooping of the eye,As if its lids were charged with unshed tears.What could her grief be?—she had all she loved,And he who had so loved her was not thereTo trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,Or ill-repressed affliction, her pure thoughts.What could her grief be?—she had loved him not,Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved,Nor could he be a part of that which preyedUpon her mind—a spectre of the past.
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.The wanderer was returned.—I saw him standBefore an altar—with a gentle bride;Her face was fair, but was not that which madeThe starlight of his boyhood;—as he stoodEven at the altar, o'er his brow there cameThe selfsame aspect and the quivering shockThat in the antique oratory shookHis bosom in its solitude; and then—As in that hour—a moment o'er his faceThe tablet of unutterable thoughtsWas traced,—and then it faded as it came,And he stood calm and quiet, and he spokeThe fitting vows, but heard not his own words,And all things reeled around him; he could seeNot that which was, nor that which should have been,—But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall,And the remembered chambers, and the place,The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,All things pertaining to that place and hour,And her who was his destiny, came backAnd thrust themselves between him and the light;What business had they there at such a time?
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.The lady of his love;—O, she was changed,As by the sickness of the soul! her mindHad wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes,They had not their own lustre, but the lookWhich is not of the earth; she was becomeThe queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughtsWere combinations of disjointed things,And forms impalpable and unperceivedOf others' sight familiar were to hers.And this the world calls frenzy; but the wiseHave a far deeper madness, and the glanceOf melancholy is a fearful gift;What is it but the telescope of truth,Which strips the distance of its fantasies,And brings life near in utter nakedness,Making the cold reality too real!
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.The wanderer was alone as heretofore,The beings which surrounded him were gone,Or were at war with him; he was a markFor blight and desolation, compassed roundWith hatred and contention; pain was mixedIn all which was served up to him, until,Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,He fed on poisons, and they had no power,But were a kind of nutriment; he livedThrough that which had been death to many men,And made him friends of mountains: with the starsAnd the quick Spirit of the universeHe held his dialogues; and they did teachTo him the magic of their mysteries;To him the book of Night was opened wide,And voices from the deep abyss revealedA marvel and a secret.—Be it so.
My dream was past; it had no further change.It was of a strange order, that the doomOf these two creatures should be thus traced outAlmost like a reality,—the oneTo end in madness—both in misery.
LORD BYRON.
ALAS! HOW LIGHT A CAUSE MAY MOVE.FROM "THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM."Alas! how light a cause may moveDissension between hearts that love!Hearts that the world in vain has tried,And sorrow but more closely tied;That stood the storm when waves were rough,Yet in a sunny hour fall off,Like ships that have gone down at sea,When heaven was all tranquillity!A something light as air,—a look,A word unkind or wrongly taken,—O, love that tempests never shook,A breath, a touch like this has shaken!And ruder words will soon rush inTo spread the breach that words begin;And eyes forget the gentle rayThey wore in courtship's smiling day;And voices lose the tone that shedA tenderness round all they said;Till fast declining, one by one,The sweetnesses of love are gone,And hearts, so lately mingled, seemLike broken clouds,—or like the stream,That smiling left the mountain's brow,As though its waters ne'er could sever,Yet, ere it reach the plain below,Breaks into floods that part forever.O you, that have the charge of Love,Keep him in rosy bondage bound,As in the Fields of Bliss aboveHe sits, with flowerets fettered round;—Loose not a tie that round him clings,Nor ever let him use his wings;For even an hour, a minute's flightWill rob the plumes of half their light.Like that celestial bird,—whose nestIs found beneath far Eastern skies,—Whose wings, though radiant when at rest,Lose all their glory when he flies!THOMAS MOORE.
ALAS! HOW LIGHT A CAUSE MAY MOVE.
FROM "THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM."
Alas! how light a cause may moveDissension between hearts that love!Hearts that the world in vain has tried,And sorrow but more closely tied;That stood the storm when waves were rough,Yet in a sunny hour fall off,Like ships that have gone down at sea,When heaven was all tranquillity!
A something light as air,—a look,A word unkind or wrongly taken,—O, love that tempests never shook,A breath, a touch like this has shaken!And ruder words will soon rush inTo spread the breach that words begin;And eyes forget the gentle rayThey wore in courtship's smiling day;And voices lose the tone that shedA tenderness round all they said;Till fast declining, one by one,The sweetnesses of love are gone,And hearts, so lately mingled, seemLike broken clouds,—or like the stream,That smiling left the mountain's brow,As though its waters ne'er could sever,Yet, ere it reach the plain below,Breaks into floods that part forever.
O you, that have the charge of Love,Keep him in rosy bondage bound,As in the Fields of Bliss aboveHe sits, with flowerets fettered round;—Loose not a tie that round him clings,Nor ever let him use his wings;For even an hour, a minute's flightWill rob the plumes of half their light.Like that celestial bird,—whose nestIs found beneath far Eastern skies,—Whose wings, though radiant when at rest,Lose all their glory when he flies!
THOMAS MOORE.
BLIGHTED LOVE.Flowers are fresh, and bushes green,Cheerily the linnets sing;Winds are soft, and skies serene;Time, however, soon shall throwWinter's snowO'er the buxom breast of Spring!Hope, that buds in lover's heart,Lives not through the scorn of years;Time makes love itself depart;Time and scorn congeal the mind,—Looks unkindFreeze affection's warmest tears.Time shall make the bushes green;Time dissolve the winter snow;Winds be soft, and skies serene;Linnets sing their wonted strain:But againBlighted love shall never blow!From the Portuguese of LUIS DE CAMOENS.Translation of LORD STRANGFORD.
BLIGHTED LOVE.
Flowers are fresh, and bushes green,Cheerily the linnets sing;Winds are soft, and skies serene;Time, however, soon shall throwWinter's snowO'er the buxom breast of Spring!
Hope, that buds in lover's heart,Lives not through the scorn of years;Time makes love itself depart;Time and scorn congeal the mind,—Looks unkindFreeze affection's warmest tears.
Time shall make the bushes green;Time dissolve the winter snow;Winds be soft, and skies serene;Linnets sing their wonted strain:But againBlighted love shall never blow!
From the Portuguese of LUIS DE CAMOENS.Translation of LORD STRANGFORD.
THE NEVERMORE.Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been;I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell;Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shellCast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between;Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seenWhich had Life's form and Love's, but by my spellIs now a shaken shadow intolerable,Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen.Mark me, how still I am! But should there dartOne moment through my soul the soft surpriseOf that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs,—Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apartThy visage to mine ambush at thy heartSleepless with cold commemorative eyes.DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.
THE NEVERMORE.
Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been;I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell;Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shellCast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between;Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seenWhich had Life's form and Love's, but by my spellIs now a shaken shadow intolerable,Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen.
Mark me, how still I am! But should there dartOne moment through my soul the soft surpriseOf that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs,—Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apartThy visage to mine ambush at thy heartSleepless with cold commemorative eyes.
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.
THE PORTRAIT.Midnight past! Not a sound of aughtThrough the silent house, but the wind at his prayers.I sat by the dying fire, and thoughtOf the dear dead woman upstairs.A night of tears! for the gusty rainHad ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet;And the moon looked forth, as though in pain,With her face all white and wet:Nobody with me, my watch to keep,But the friend of my bosom, the man I love:And grief had sent him fast to sleepIn the chamber up above.Nobody else, in the country placeAll round, that knew of my loss beside,But the good young Priest with the Raphael-face,Who confessed her when she died.That good young Priest is of gentle nerve,And my grief had moved him beyond control;For his lips grew white, as I could observe,When he speeded her parting soul.I sat by the dreary hearth alone:I thought of the pleasant days of yore:I said, "The staff of my life is gone:The woman I loved is no more."On her cold dead bosom my portrait lies,Which next to her heart she used to wear—Haunting it o'er with her tender eyesWhen my own face was not there."It is set all round with rubies red,And pearls which a Peri, might have kept.For each ruby there my heart hath bled:For each pearl my eyes have wept."And I said—"The thing is precious to me:They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay;It lies on her heart, and lost must beIf I do not take it away."I lighted my lamp at the dying flame,And crept up the stairs that creaked for fright,Till into the chamber of death I came,Where she lay all in white.The moon shone over her winding-sheet,There stark she lay on her carven bed:Seven burning tapers about her feet,And seven about her head.As I stretched my hand, I held my breath;I turned as I drew the curtains apart:I dared not look on the face of death:I knew where to find her heart.I thought at first, as my touch fell there,It had warmed that heart to life, with love;For the thing I touched was warm, I swear,And I could feel it move.'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slowO'er the heart of the dead,—from the other side:And at once the sweat broke over my brow."Who is robbing the corpse?" I cried.Opposite me by the tapers' light,The friend of my bosom, the man I loved,Stood over the corpse, and all as white,And neither of us moved."What do you here, my friend?" ... The manLooked first at me, and then at the dead."There is a portrait here," he began;"There is. It is mine," I said.Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt,The portrait was, till a month ago,When this suffering angel took that out,And placed mine there, I know.""This woman, she loved me well," said I."A month ago," said my friend to me:"And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie!"He answered, ... "Let us see.""Enough!" I returned, "let the dead decide:And whosesoever the portrait prove,His shall it be, when the cause is tried,Where Death is arraigned by Love."We found the portrait there, in its place:We opened it by the tapers' shine:The gems were all unchanged: the faceWas—neither his nor mine."One nail drives out another, at least!The face of the portrait there," I cried,"Is our friend's, the Raphael-faced young Priest,Who confessed her when she died."The setting is all of rubies red,And pearls which a Peri might have kept.For each ruby there my heart hath bled:For each pearl my eyes have wept.ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON (Owen Meredith).
THE PORTRAIT.
Midnight past! Not a sound of aughtThrough the silent house, but the wind at his prayers.I sat by the dying fire, and thoughtOf the dear dead woman upstairs.
A night of tears! for the gusty rainHad ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet;And the moon looked forth, as though in pain,With her face all white and wet:
Nobody with me, my watch to keep,But the friend of my bosom, the man I love:And grief had sent him fast to sleepIn the chamber up above.
Nobody else, in the country placeAll round, that knew of my loss beside,But the good young Priest with the Raphael-face,Who confessed her when she died.
That good young Priest is of gentle nerve,And my grief had moved him beyond control;For his lips grew white, as I could observe,When he speeded her parting soul.
I sat by the dreary hearth alone:I thought of the pleasant days of yore:I said, "The staff of my life is gone:The woman I loved is no more.
"On her cold dead bosom my portrait lies,Which next to her heart she used to wear—Haunting it o'er with her tender eyesWhen my own face was not there.
"It is set all round with rubies red,And pearls which a Peri, might have kept.For each ruby there my heart hath bled:For each pearl my eyes have wept."
And I said—"The thing is precious to me:They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay;It lies on her heart, and lost must beIf I do not take it away."
I lighted my lamp at the dying flame,And crept up the stairs that creaked for fright,Till into the chamber of death I came,Where she lay all in white.
The moon shone over her winding-sheet,There stark she lay on her carven bed:Seven burning tapers about her feet,And seven about her head.
As I stretched my hand, I held my breath;I turned as I drew the curtains apart:I dared not look on the face of death:I knew where to find her heart.
I thought at first, as my touch fell there,It had warmed that heart to life, with love;For the thing I touched was warm, I swear,And I could feel it move.
'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slowO'er the heart of the dead,—from the other side:And at once the sweat broke over my brow."Who is robbing the corpse?" I cried.
Opposite me by the tapers' light,The friend of my bosom, the man I loved,Stood over the corpse, and all as white,And neither of us moved.
"What do you here, my friend?" ... The manLooked first at me, and then at the dead."There is a portrait here," he began;"There is. It is mine," I said.
Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt,The portrait was, till a month ago,When this suffering angel took that out,And placed mine there, I know."
"This woman, she loved me well," said I."A month ago," said my friend to me:"And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie!"He answered, ... "Let us see."
"Enough!" I returned, "let the dead decide:And whosesoever the portrait prove,His shall it be, when the cause is tried,Where Death is arraigned by Love."
We found the portrait there, in its place:We opened it by the tapers' shine:The gems were all unchanged: the faceWas—neither his nor mine.
"One nail drives out another, at least!The face of the portrait there," I cried,"Is our friend's, the Raphael-faced young Priest,Who confessed her when she died."
The setting is all of rubies red,And pearls which a Peri might have kept.For each ruby there my heart hath bled:For each pearl my eyes have wept.
ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON (Owen Meredith).