CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.1830-1895.SONG.WhenI am dead, my dearest,Sing no sad songs for me;Plant thou no roses at my head,Nor shady cypress-tree:Be the green grass above meWith showers and dewdrops wet;And if thou wilt, remember,And if thou wilt, forget.I shall not see the shadows,I shall not feel the rain;I shall not hear the nightingaleSing on, as if in pain:And dreaming through the twilightThat doth not rise nor set,Haply I may remember,And haply may forget.SONG.Orosesfor the flush of youth,And laurel for the perfect prime;But pluck an ivy branch for meGrown old before my time.O violets for the grave of youth,And bay for those dead in their prime;Give me the withered leaves I choseBefore in the old time.SONG.Twodoves upon the selfsame branch,Two lilies on a single stem,Two butterflies upon one flower:—O happy they who look on them.Who look upon them hand in handFlushed in the rosy summer light;Who look upon them hand in handAnd never give a thought to night.THREE SEASONS.“Acupfor hope!” she said,In springtime ere the bloom was old:The crimson wine was poor and coldBy her mouth’s richer red.“A cup for love!” how low,How soft the words; and all the whileHer blush was rippling with a smileLike summer after snow.“A cup for memory!”Cold cup that one must drain alone:While autumn winds are up and moanAcross the barren sea.Hope, memory, love:Hope for fair morn, and love for day,And memory for the evening grayAnd solitary dove.DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.1828-1882.A LITTLE WHILE.Alittlewhile a little loveThe hour yet bears for thee and meWho have not drawn the veil to seeIf still our heaven be lit above.Thou merely, at the day’s last sigh,Hast felt thy soul prolong the tone;And I have heard the night-wind cryAnd deemed its speech mine own.A little while a little loveThe scattering autumn hoards for usWhose bower is not yet ruinousNor quite unleaved our songless grove.Only across the shaken boughsWe hear the flood-tides seek the sea,And deep in both our hearts they rouseOne wail for thee and me.A little while a little loveMay yet be ours who have not saidThe word it makes our eyes afraidTo know that each is thinking of.Not yet the end: be our lips dumbIn smiles a little season yet:I ’ll tell thee, when the end is come,How we may best forget.SUDDEN LIGHT.Ihavebeen here before,But when or how I cannot tell:I know the grass beyond the door,The sweet keen smell,The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.You have been mine before,—How long ago I may not know:But just when at that swallow’s soarYour neck turned so,Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.Has this been thus before?And shall not thus time’s eddying flightStill with our lives our loves restoreIn death’s despite,And day and night yield one delight once more?“I looked and saw your eyes”THREE SHADOWS.Ilookedand saw your eyesIn the shadow of your hair,As a traveller sees the streamIn the shadow of the wood;And I said, “My faint heart sighs,Ah me! to linger there,To drink deep and to dreamIn that sweet solitude.”I looked and saw your heartIn the shadow of your eyes,As a seeker sees the goldIn the shadow of the stream;And I said, “Ah, me! what artShould win the immortal prize,Whose want must make life coldAnd Heaven a hollow dream?”I looked and saw your loveIn the shadow of your heart,As a diver sees the pearlIn the shadow of the sea;And I murmured, not aboveMy breath, but all apart,—“Ah! you can love, true girl,And is your love for me?”WILLIAM BELL SCOTT.1812-1890.PARTING AND MEETING AGAIN.Lasttime I parted from my DearThe linnet sang from the briar-bush,The throstle from the dell;The stream too carolled full and clear,It was the spring-time of the year,And both the linnet and the thrushI love them wellSince last I parted from my Dear.But when he came again to meThe barley rustled high and low,Linnet and thrush were still;Yellowed the apple on the tree,’T was autumn merry as it could be,What time the white ships come and goUnder the hill;They brought him back again to me,Brought him safely o’er the sea.JOSEPH SKIPSEY.1832A MERRY BEE.Agoldenbee a-comethO’er the mere, glassy mere,And a merry tale he hummethIn my ear.How he seized and kist a blossom,From its tree, thorny tree,Plucked and placed in Annie’s bosom,Hums the bee!THE SONGSTRESS.Backflies my soul to other years,When thou that charming lay repeatest,When smiles were only chased by tears,Yet sweeter far than smiles the sweetest.Thy music ends, and where are they?Those golden times by memory cherished?O, Syren, sing no more that lay,Or sing till I like them have perished!THE VIOLET AND THE ROSE.TheViolet invited my kiss,—I kissed it and called it my bride;“Was ever one slighted like this?”Sighed the Rose as it stood by my side.My heart ever open to grief,To comfort the fair one I turned;“Of fickle ones thou art the chief!”Frowned the Violet, and pouted and mourned.Then, to end all disputes, I entwinedThe love-stricken blossoms in one;But that instant their beauty declined,And I wept for the deed I had done!J. ASHBY STERRY.REGRETS.I.Oforthe look of those pure grey eyes—Seeming to plead and speak—The parted lips and the deep-drawn sighs,The blush on the kissen cheek!II.O for the tangle of soft brown hair,Lazily blown by the breeze;The fleeting hours unshadowed by care,Shaded by tremulous trees!III.O for the dream of those sunny days,With their bright unbroken spell,And the thrilling sweet untutored praise—From the lips once loved so well!IV.O for the feeling of days agone,The simple faith and the truth,The spring of time and life’s rosy dawn—O for the love and the youth!DAISY’S DIMPLES.I.Littledimples so sweet and soft,Love the cheek of my love:The mark of Cupid’s dainty hand,Before he wore a glove.II.Laughing dimples of tender loveSmile on my darling’s cheek;Sweet hallowed spots where kisses lurk,And play at hide and seek.III.Fain would I hide my kisses thereAt morning’s rosy light,To come and seek them back againIn silver hush of night.A LOVER’S LULLABY.I.Mirroryour sweet eyes in mine, love,See how they glitter and shine!Quick fly such moments divine, love,Link your lithe fingers in mine!II.Lay your soft cheek against mine, love,Pillow your head on my breast;While your brown locks I entwine, love,Pout your red lips when they ’re prest!III.Mirror your fate, then, in mine, love;Sorrow and sighing resign:Life is too short to repine, love,Link your fair future in mine!ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.1837.A MATCH.Iflove were what the rose is,And I were like the leaf,Our lives would grow togetherIn sad or singing weather,Blown fields or flowerful closes,Green pleasure or grey grief;If love were what the rose is,And I were like the leaf.If I were what the words are,And love were like the tune,With double sound or singleDelight our lips would mingle,With kisses glad as birds areThat get sweet rain at noon;If I were what the words are,And love were like the tune.If you were life, my darling,And I your love were death,We ’d shine and snow togetherEre March made sweet the weatherWith daffodil and starlingAnd hours of fruitful breath;If you were life, my darling,And I your love were death.If you were thrall to sorrow,And I were page to joy,We ’d play for lives and seasonsWith loving looks and treasonsAnd tears of night and morrowAnd laughs of maid and boy;If you were thrall to sorrow,And I were page to joy.If you were April’s lady,And I were lord in May,We ’d throw with leaves for hoursAnd draw for days with flowers,Till day like night were shadyAnd night were bright like day;If you were April’s lady,And I were lord in May.If you were queen of pleasure,And I were king of pain,We ’d hunt down love together,Pluck out his flying-feather,And teach his feet a measure,And find his mouth a rein;If you were queen of pleasure,And I were king of pain.RONDEL.Kissingher hair I sat against her feet,Wove and unwove it, wound and found it sweet;Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes,Deep as deep flowers and dreamy like dim skies;With her own tresses bound and found her fair,Kissing her hair.Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me,Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea;What pain could get between my face and hers?What new sweet thing would love not relish worse?Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me there,Kissing her hair?SONG.FROM “FELISE.”Olipsthat mine have grown intoLike April’s kissing May,O fervent eyelids letting throughThose eyes the greenest of things blue,The bluest of things gray,If you were I and I were you,How could I love you, say?How could the roseleaf love the rue,The day love nightfall and her dew,Though night may love the day?ALFRED TENNYSON.1809-1892.THE BUGLE SONG.FROM “THE PRINCESS.”Thesplendour falls on castle wallsAnd snowy summits old in story:The long light shakes across the lakes,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, farther going!O sweet and far from cliff and scarThe horns of Elfland faintly blowing!Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.O love, they die in yon rich sky,They faint on hill or field or river:Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow for ever and for ever.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.Break,break, break,On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!And I would that my tongue could utterThe thoughts that arise in me.O well for the fisherman’s boy,That he shouts with his sister at play!O well for the sailor lad,That he sings in his boat on the bay!And the stately ships go onTo their haven under the hill;But O for the touch of a vanished hand,And the sound of a voice that is still!Break, break, break,At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me.Break, Break, BreakTEARS, IDLE TEARS.FROM “THE PRINCESS.”Tears,idle tears, I know not what they mean,Tears from the depth of some divine despairRise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,And thinking of the days that are no more.Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,That brings our friends up from the underworld,Sad as the last which reddens over oneThat sinks with all we love below the verge;So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawnsThe earliest pipe of half-awakened birdsTo dying ears, when unto dying eyesThe casement slowly grows a glimmering square;So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.Dear as remembered kisses after death,And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feignedOn lips that are for others; deep as love,Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;O Death in Life, the days that are no more.SWEET AND LOW.FROM “THE PRINCESS.”Sweetand low, sweet and low,Wind of the western sea,Low, low, breathe and blow,Wind of the western sea!Over the rolling waters go,Come from the dying moon, and blow,Blow him again to me;While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,Father will come to thee soon;Rest, rest, on mother’s breast,Father will come to thee soon;Father will come to his babe in the nest,Silver sails all out of the westUnder the silver moon:Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.TURN, FORTUNE, TURN THY WHEEL.FROM “THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT.”Turn,Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud;Turn thy wild wheel thro’ sunshine, storm, and cloud;Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown;With that wild wheel we go not up or down;Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands;Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands;For man is man and master of his fate.Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd;Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud;Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.VIVIEN’S SONG.FROM “MERLIN AND VIVIEN.”InLove, if Love be Love, if Love be ours,Faith and unfaith can ne’er be equal powers:Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.It is the little rift within the lute,That by and by will make the music mute,And ever widening slowly silence all.The little rift within the lover’s luteOr little pitted speck in garnered fruit,That rotting inward slowly moulders all.It is not worth the keeping: let it go:But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no.And trust me not at all or all in all.WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.1811-1863.AT THE CHURCH GATE.FROM “PENDENNIS.”AlthoughI enter not,Yet round about the spotOfttimes I hover:And near the sacred gate,With longing eyes I wait,Expectant of her.The Minster bell tolls outAbove the city’s rout,And noise and humming:They ’ve hushed the Minster bell:The organ ’gins to swell:She ’s coming, she ’s coming!My lady comes at last,Timid, and stepping fast,And hastening hither,With modest eyes downcast:She comes—she ’s here—she ’s past—May heaven go with her!Kneel, undisturbed, fair saint!Pour out your praise or plaintMeekly and duly;I will not enter there,To sully your pure prayerWith thoughts unruly.But suffer me to paceRound the forbidden place,Lingering a minute;Like outcast spirits who waitAnd see through heaven’s gateAngels within it.THE MAHOGANY TREE.Christmasis here;Winds whistle shrill,Icy and chill,Little care we:Little we fearWeather withoutSheltered aboutThe Mahogany Tree.Once on the boughsBirds of rare plumeSang, in its bloom;Night-birds are we:Here we carouse,Singing like them,Perched round the stemOf the jolly old tree.Here let us sport,Boys, as we sit;Laughter and witFlashing so free.Life is but short—When we are gone,Let them sing on,Round the old tree.Evenings we knew,Happy as this;Faces we miss,Pleasant to see.Kind hearts and true,Gentle and just,Peace to your dust!We sing round the tree.Care, like a dun,Lurks at the gate:Let the dog wait;Happy we ’ll be!Drink, every one;Pile up the coals,Fill the red bowls,Round the old tree.Drain we the cup.—Friend, art afraid?Spirits are laidIn the Red Sea.Mantle it up;Empty it yet;Let us forget,Round the old tree.Sorrows, begone!Life and its ills,Duns and their bills,Bid we to flee.Come with the dawn,Blue-devil sprite,Leave us to-night,Round the old tree.GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY.1828-1876.DAYRISE AND SUNSET.WhenSpring casts all her swallows forthInto the blue and lambent air,When lilacs toss their purple plumesAnd every cherry-tree grows fair,—Through fields with morning tints a-glowI take my rod and singing go.Where lilies float on broad green leavesBelow the ripples of the mill,When the white moth is hoveringIn the dim sky so hushed and still,I watch beneath the pollard ashThe greedy trout leap up and splash.Or down where golden water flowersAre wading in the shallow tide,While still the dusk is tinged with roseLike a brown cheek o’erflushed with pride—I throw the crafty fly and wait;Watching the big trout eye the bait.It is the lover’s twilight-time,And there ’s a magic in the hour,But I forget the sweets of loveAnd all love’s tyranny and power,And with my feather-hidden steelSigh but to fill my woven creel.Then upward darkling through the copseI push my eager homeward way,Through glades of drowsy violetsThat never see the golden day.Yes! while the night comes soft and slowI take my rod and singing go.“When Spring casts all her swallows forth”THE THREE TROOPERS.DURING THE PROTECTORATE.Intothe Devil tavernThree booted troopers strode,From spur to feather spotted and splashedWith the mud of a winter road.In each of their cups they dropped a crust,And stared at the guests with a frown;Then drew their swords, and roared for a toast,“God send this Crum-well-down!”A blue smoke rose from their pistol locks,Their sword blades were still wet;There were long red smears on their jerkins of buff,As the table they overset.Then into their cups they stirred the crusts,And cursed old London town;They waved their swords, and drank with a stamp,“God send this Crum-well-down!”The ’prentice dropped his can of beer,The host turned pale as a clout;The ruby nose of the toping squiresGrew white at the wild men’s shout.Then into their cups they flung their crusts,And shewed their teeth with a frown;They flashed their swords as they gave the toast,“God send this Crum-well-down!”The gambler dropped his dog’s-ear’d cards,The waiting-women screamed,As the light of the fire, like stains of blood,On the wild men’s sabres gleamed.Then into their cups they splashed their crusts,And cursed the fool of a town,And leapt on the table, and roared a toast,“God send this Crum-well-down!”Till on a sudden fire-bells rang,And the troopers sprang to horse;The eldest muttered between his teeth,Hot curses—deep and coarse.In their stirrup cups they flung the crusts,And cried as they spurred through the town,With their keen swords drawn and their pistols cocked,“God send this Crum-well-down!”Away they dashed through Temple Bar,Their red cloaks flowing free,Their scabbards clashed, each back-piece shone—None liked to touch the three.The silver cups that held the crustsThey flung to the startled town,Shouting again, with a blaze of swords,“God send this Crum-well-down!”THE CUCKOO.Whena warm and scented steamRises from the flowering earth;When the green leaves are all still,And the song birds cease their mirth;In the silence before rainComes the cuckoo back again.When the Spring is all but gone—Tearful April, laughing May—When a hush comes on the woods,And the sunbeams cease to play;In the silence before rainComes the cuckoo back again.

1830-1895.

WhenI am dead, my dearest,Sing no sad songs for me;Plant thou no roses at my head,Nor shady cypress-tree:Be the green grass above meWith showers and dewdrops wet;And if thou wilt, remember,And if thou wilt, forget.I shall not see the shadows,I shall not feel the rain;I shall not hear the nightingaleSing on, as if in pain:And dreaming through the twilightThat doth not rise nor set,Haply I may remember,And haply may forget.

henI am dead, my dearest,

Sing no sad songs for me;

Plant thou no roses at my head,

Nor shady cypress-tree:

Be the green grass above me

With showers and dewdrops wet;

And if thou wilt, remember,

And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,

I shall not feel the rain;

I shall not hear the nightingale

Sing on, as if in pain:

And dreaming through the twilight

That doth not rise nor set,

Haply I may remember,

And haply may forget.

Orosesfor the flush of youth,And laurel for the perfect prime;But pluck an ivy branch for meGrown old before my time.O violets for the grave of youth,And bay for those dead in their prime;Give me the withered leaves I choseBefore in the old time.

rosesfor the flush of youth,

And laurel for the perfect prime;

But pluck an ivy branch for me

Grown old before my time.

O violets for the grave of youth,

And bay for those dead in their prime;

Give me the withered leaves I chose

Before in the old time.

Twodoves upon the selfsame branch,Two lilies on a single stem,Two butterflies upon one flower:—O happy they who look on them.Who look upon them hand in handFlushed in the rosy summer light;Who look upon them hand in handAnd never give a thought to night.

wodoves upon the selfsame branch,

Two lilies on a single stem,

Two butterflies upon one flower:—

O happy they who look on them.

Who look upon them hand in hand

Flushed in the rosy summer light;

Who look upon them hand in hand

And never give a thought to night.

“Acupfor hope!” she said,In springtime ere the bloom was old:The crimson wine was poor and coldBy her mouth’s richer red.“A cup for love!” how low,How soft the words; and all the whileHer blush was rippling with a smileLike summer after snow.“A cup for memory!”Cold cup that one must drain alone:While autumn winds are up and moanAcross the barren sea.Hope, memory, love:Hope for fair morn, and love for day,And memory for the evening grayAnd solitary dove.

“A

cupfor hope!” she said,

In springtime ere the bloom was old:

The crimson wine was poor and cold

By her mouth’s richer red.

“A cup for love!” how low,

How soft the words; and all the while

Her blush was rippling with a smile

Like summer after snow.

“A cup for memory!”

Cold cup that one must drain alone:

While autumn winds are up and moan

Across the barren sea.

Hope, memory, love:

Hope for fair morn, and love for day,

And memory for the evening gray

And solitary dove.

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.1828-1882.A LITTLE WHILE.Alittlewhile a little loveThe hour yet bears for thee and meWho have not drawn the veil to seeIf still our heaven be lit above.Thou merely, at the day’s last sigh,Hast felt thy soul prolong the tone;And I have heard the night-wind cryAnd deemed its speech mine own.A little while a little loveThe scattering autumn hoards for usWhose bower is not yet ruinousNor quite unleaved our songless grove.Only across the shaken boughsWe hear the flood-tides seek the sea,And deep in both our hearts they rouseOne wail for thee and me.A little while a little loveMay yet be ours who have not saidThe word it makes our eyes afraidTo know that each is thinking of.Not yet the end: be our lips dumbIn smiles a little season yet:I ’ll tell thee, when the end is come,How we may best forget.SUDDEN LIGHT.Ihavebeen here before,But when or how I cannot tell:I know the grass beyond the door,The sweet keen smell,The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.You have been mine before,—How long ago I may not know:But just when at that swallow’s soarYour neck turned so,Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.Has this been thus before?And shall not thus time’s eddying flightStill with our lives our loves restoreIn death’s despite,And day and night yield one delight once more?“I looked and saw your eyes”THREE SHADOWS.Ilookedand saw your eyesIn the shadow of your hair,As a traveller sees the streamIn the shadow of the wood;And I said, “My faint heart sighs,Ah me! to linger there,To drink deep and to dreamIn that sweet solitude.”I looked and saw your heartIn the shadow of your eyes,As a seeker sees the goldIn the shadow of the stream;And I said, “Ah, me! what artShould win the immortal prize,Whose want must make life coldAnd Heaven a hollow dream?”I looked and saw your loveIn the shadow of your heart,As a diver sees the pearlIn the shadow of the sea;And I murmured, not aboveMy breath, but all apart,—“Ah! you can love, true girl,And is your love for me?”

1828-1882.

Alittlewhile a little loveThe hour yet bears for thee and meWho have not drawn the veil to seeIf still our heaven be lit above.Thou merely, at the day’s last sigh,Hast felt thy soul prolong the tone;And I have heard the night-wind cryAnd deemed its speech mine own.A little while a little loveThe scattering autumn hoards for usWhose bower is not yet ruinousNor quite unleaved our songless grove.Only across the shaken boughsWe hear the flood-tides seek the sea,And deep in both our hearts they rouseOne wail for thee and me.A little while a little loveMay yet be ours who have not saidThe word it makes our eyes afraidTo know that each is thinking of.Not yet the end: be our lips dumbIn smiles a little season yet:I ’ll tell thee, when the end is come,How we may best forget.

littlewhile a little love

The hour yet bears for thee and me

Who have not drawn the veil to see

If still our heaven be lit above.

Thou merely, at the day’s last sigh,

Hast felt thy soul prolong the tone;

And I have heard the night-wind cry

And deemed its speech mine own.

A little while a little love

The scattering autumn hoards for us

Whose bower is not yet ruinous

Nor quite unleaved our songless grove.

Only across the shaken boughs

We hear the flood-tides seek the sea,

And deep in both our hearts they rouse

One wail for thee and me.

A little while a little love

May yet be ours who have not said

The word it makes our eyes afraid

To know that each is thinking of.

Not yet the end: be our lips dumb

In smiles a little season yet:

I ’ll tell thee, when the end is come,

How we may best forget.

Ihavebeen here before,But when or how I cannot tell:I know the grass beyond the door,The sweet keen smell,The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.You have been mine before,—How long ago I may not know:But just when at that swallow’s soarYour neck turned so,Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.Has this been thus before?And shall not thus time’s eddying flightStill with our lives our loves restoreIn death’s despite,And day and night yield one delight once more?

havebeen here before,

But when or how I cannot tell:

I know the grass beyond the door,

The sweet keen smell,

The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.

You have been mine before,—

How long ago I may not know:

But just when at that swallow’s soar

Your neck turned so,

Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.

Has this been thus before?

And shall not thus time’s eddying flight

Still with our lives our loves restore

In death’s despite,

And day and night yield one delight once more?

“I looked and saw your eyes”

Ilookedand saw your eyesIn the shadow of your hair,As a traveller sees the streamIn the shadow of the wood;And I said, “My faint heart sighs,Ah me! to linger there,To drink deep and to dreamIn that sweet solitude.”I looked and saw your heartIn the shadow of your eyes,As a seeker sees the goldIn the shadow of the stream;And I said, “Ah, me! what artShould win the immortal prize,Whose want must make life coldAnd Heaven a hollow dream?”I looked and saw your loveIn the shadow of your heart,As a diver sees the pearlIn the shadow of the sea;And I murmured, not aboveMy breath, but all apart,—“Ah! you can love, true girl,And is your love for me?”

lookedand saw your eyes

In the shadow of your hair,

As a traveller sees the stream

In the shadow of the wood;

And I said, “My faint heart sighs,

Ah me! to linger there,

To drink deep and to dream

In that sweet solitude.”

I looked and saw your heart

In the shadow of your eyes,

As a seeker sees the gold

In the shadow of the stream;

And I said, “Ah, me! what art

Should win the immortal prize,

Whose want must make life cold

And Heaven a hollow dream?”

I looked and saw your love

In the shadow of your heart,

As a diver sees the pearl

In the shadow of the sea;

And I murmured, not above

My breath, but all apart,—

“Ah! you can love, true girl,

And is your love for me?”

WILLIAM BELL SCOTT.1812-1890.PARTING AND MEETING AGAIN.Lasttime I parted from my DearThe linnet sang from the briar-bush,The throstle from the dell;The stream too carolled full and clear,It was the spring-time of the year,And both the linnet and the thrushI love them wellSince last I parted from my Dear.But when he came again to meThe barley rustled high and low,Linnet and thrush were still;Yellowed the apple on the tree,’T was autumn merry as it could be,What time the white ships come and goUnder the hill;They brought him back again to me,Brought him safely o’er the sea.

1812-1890.

Lasttime I parted from my DearThe linnet sang from the briar-bush,The throstle from the dell;The stream too carolled full and clear,It was the spring-time of the year,And both the linnet and the thrushI love them wellSince last I parted from my Dear.But when he came again to meThe barley rustled high and low,Linnet and thrush were still;Yellowed the apple on the tree,’T was autumn merry as it could be,What time the white ships come and goUnder the hill;They brought him back again to me,Brought him safely o’er the sea.

asttime I parted from my Dear

The linnet sang from the briar-bush,

The throstle from the dell;

The stream too carolled full and clear,

It was the spring-time of the year,

And both the linnet and the thrush

I love them well

Since last I parted from my Dear.

But when he came again to me

The barley rustled high and low,

Linnet and thrush were still;

Yellowed the apple on the tree,

’T was autumn merry as it could be,

What time the white ships come and go

Under the hill;

They brought him back again to me,

Brought him safely o’er the sea.

JOSEPH SKIPSEY.1832A MERRY BEE.Agoldenbee a-comethO’er the mere, glassy mere,And a merry tale he hummethIn my ear.How he seized and kist a blossom,From its tree, thorny tree,Plucked and placed in Annie’s bosom,Hums the bee!THE SONGSTRESS.Backflies my soul to other years,When thou that charming lay repeatest,When smiles were only chased by tears,Yet sweeter far than smiles the sweetest.Thy music ends, and where are they?Those golden times by memory cherished?O, Syren, sing no more that lay,Or sing till I like them have perished!THE VIOLET AND THE ROSE.TheViolet invited my kiss,—I kissed it and called it my bride;“Was ever one slighted like this?”Sighed the Rose as it stood by my side.My heart ever open to grief,To comfort the fair one I turned;“Of fickle ones thou art the chief!”Frowned the Violet, and pouted and mourned.Then, to end all disputes, I entwinedThe love-stricken blossoms in one;But that instant their beauty declined,And I wept for the deed I had done!

1832

Agoldenbee a-comethO’er the mere, glassy mere,And a merry tale he hummethIn my ear.How he seized and kist a blossom,From its tree, thorny tree,Plucked and placed in Annie’s bosom,Hums the bee!

goldenbee a-cometh

O’er the mere, glassy mere,

And a merry tale he hummeth

In my ear.

How he seized and kist a blossom,

From its tree, thorny tree,

Plucked and placed in Annie’s bosom,

Hums the bee!

Backflies my soul to other years,When thou that charming lay repeatest,When smiles were only chased by tears,Yet sweeter far than smiles the sweetest.Thy music ends, and where are they?Those golden times by memory cherished?O, Syren, sing no more that lay,Or sing till I like them have perished!

ackflies my soul to other years,

When thou that charming lay repeatest,

When smiles were only chased by tears,

Yet sweeter far than smiles the sweetest.

Thy music ends, and where are they?

Those golden times by memory cherished?

O, Syren, sing no more that lay,

Or sing till I like them have perished!

TheViolet invited my kiss,—I kissed it and called it my bride;“Was ever one slighted like this?”Sighed the Rose as it stood by my side.My heart ever open to grief,To comfort the fair one I turned;“Of fickle ones thou art the chief!”Frowned the Violet, and pouted and mourned.Then, to end all disputes, I entwinedThe love-stricken blossoms in one;But that instant their beauty declined,And I wept for the deed I had done!

heViolet invited my kiss,—

I kissed it and called it my bride;

“Was ever one slighted like this?”

Sighed the Rose as it stood by my side.

My heart ever open to grief,

To comfort the fair one I turned;

“Of fickle ones thou art the chief!”

Frowned the Violet, and pouted and mourned.

Then, to end all disputes, I entwined

The love-stricken blossoms in one;

But that instant their beauty declined,

And I wept for the deed I had done!

J. ASHBY STERRY.REGRETS.I.Oforthe look of those pure grey eyes—Seeming to plead and speak—The parted lips and the deep-drawn sighs,The blush on the kissen cheek!II.O for the tangle of soft brown hair,Lazily blown by the breeze;The fleeting hours unshadowed by care,Shaded by tremulous trees!III.O for the dream of those sunny days,With their bright unbroken spell,And the thrilling sweet untutored praise—From the lips once loved so well!IV.O for the feeling of days agone,The simple faith and the truth,The spring of time and life’s rosy dawn—O for the love and the youth!DAISY’S DIMPLES.I.Littledimples so sweet and soft,Love the cheek of my love:The mark of Cupid’s dainty hand,Before he wore a glove.II.Laughing dimples of tender loveSmile on my darling’s cheek;Sweet hallowed spots where kisses lurk,And play at hide and seek.III.Fain would I hide my kisses thereAt morning’s rosy light,To come and seek them back againIn silver hush of night.A LOVER’S LULLABY.I.Mirroryour sweet eyes in mine, love,See how they glitter and shine!Quick fly such moments divine, love,Link your lithe fingers in mine!II.Lay your soft cheek against mine, love,Pillow your head on my breast;While your brown locks I entwine, love,Pout your red lips when they ’re prest!III.Mirror your fate, then, in mine, love;Sorrow and sighing resign:Life is too short to repine, love,Link your fair future in mine!

I.Oforthe look of those pure grey eyes—Seeming to plead and speak—The parted lips and the deep-drawn sighs,The blush on the kissen cheek!II.O for the tangle of soft brown hair,Lazily blown by the breeze;The fleeting hours unshadowed by care,Shaded by tremulous trees!III.O for the dream of those sunny days,With their bright unbroken spell,And the thrilling sweet untutored praise—From the lips once loved so well!IV.O for the feeling of days agone,The simple faith and the truth,The spring of time and life’s rosy dawn—O for the love and the youth!

forthe look of those pure grey eyes—

Seeming to plead and speak—

The parted lips and the deep-drawn sighs,

The blush on the kissen cheek!

O for the tangle of soft brown hair,

Lazily blown by the breeze;

The fleeting hours unshadowed by care,

Shaded by tremulous trees!

O for the dream of those sunny days,

With their bright unbroken spell,

And the thrilling sweet untutored praise—

From the lips once loved so well!

O for the feeling of days agone,

The simple faith and the truth,

The spring of time and life’s rosy dawn—

O for the love and the youth!

I.Littledimples so sweet and soft,Love the cheek of my love:The mark of Cupid’s dainty hand,Before he wore a glove.II.Laughing dimples of tender loveSmile on my darling’s cheek;Sweet hallowed spots where kisses lurk,And play at hide and seek.III.Fain would I hide my kisses thereAt morning’s rosy light,To come and seek them back againIn silver hush of night.

ittledimples so sweet and soft,

Love the cheek of my love:

The mark of Cupid’s dainty hand,

Before he wore a glove.

Laughing dimples of tender love

Smile on my darling’s cheek;

Sweet hallowed spots where kisses lurk,

And play at hide and seek.

Fain would I hide my kisses there

At morning’s rosy light,

To come and seek them back again

In silver hush of night.

I.Mirroryour sweet eyes in mine, love,See how they glitter and shine!Quick fly such moments divine, love,Link your lithe fingers in mine!II.Lay your soft cheek against mine, love,Pillow your head on my breast;While your brown locks I entwine, love,Pout your red lips when they ’re prest!III.Mirror your fate, then, in mine, love;Sorrow and sighing resign:Life is too short to repine, love,Link your fair future in mine!

irroryour sweet eyes in mine, love,

See how they glitter and shine!

Quick fly such moments divine, love,

Link your lithe fingers in mine!

Lay your soft cheek against mine, love,

Pillow your head on my breast;

While your brown locks I entwine, love,

Pout your red lips when they ’re prest!

Mirror your fate, then, in mine, love;

Sorrow and sighing resign:

Life is too short to repine, love,

Link your fair future in mine!

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.1837.A MATCH.Iflove were what the rose is,And I were like the leaf,Our lives would grow togetherIn sad or singing weather,Blown fields or flowerful closes,Green pleasure or grey grief;If love were what the rose is,And I were like the leaf.If I were what the words are,And love were like the tune,With double sound or singleDelight our lips would mingle,With kisses glad as birds areThat get sweet rain at noon;If I were what the words are,And love were like the tune.If you were life, my darling,And I your love were death,We ’d shine and snow togetherEre March made sweet the weatherWith daffodil and starlingAnd hours of fruitful breath;If you were life, my darling,And I your love were death.If you were thrall to sorrow,And I were page to joy,We ’d play for lives and seasonsWith loving looks and treasonsAnd tears of night and morrowAnd laughs of maid and boy;If you were thrall to sorrow,And I were page to joy.If you were April’s lady,And I were lord in May,We ’d throw with leaves for hoursAnd draw for days with flowers,Till day like night were shadyAnd night were bright like day;If you were April’s lady,And I were lord in May.If you were queen of pleasure,And I were king of pain,We ’d hunt down love together,Pluck out his flying-feather,And teach his feet a measure,And find his mouth a rein;If you were queen of pleasure,And I were king of pain.RONDEL.Kissingher hair I sat against her feet,Wove and unwove it, wound and found it sweet;Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes,Deep as deep flowers and dreamy like dim skies;With her own tresses bound and found her fair,Kissing her hair.Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me,Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea;What pain could get between my face and hers?What new sweet thing would love not relish worse?Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me there,Kissing her hair?SONG.FROM “FELISE.”Olipsthat mine have grown intoLike April’s kissing May,O fervent eyelids letting throughThose eyes the greenest of things blue,The bluest of things gray,If you were I and I were you,How could I love you, say?How could the roseleaf love the rue,The day love nightfall and her dew,Though night may love the day?

1837.

Iflove were what the rose is,And I were like the leaf,Our lives would grow togetherIn sad or singing weather,Blown fields or flowerful closes,Green pleasure or grey grief;If love were what the rose is,And I were like the leaf.If I were what the words are,And love were like the tune,With double sound or singleDelight our lips would mingle,With kisses glad as birds areThat get sweet rain at noon;If I were what the words are,And love were like the tune.If you were life, my darling,And I your love were death,We ’d shine and snow togetherEre March made sweet the weatherWith daffodil and starlingAnd hours of fruitful breath;If you were life, my darling,And I your love were death.If you were thrall to sorrow,And I were page to joy,We ’d play for lives and seasonsWith loving looks and treasonsAnd tears of night and morrowAnd laughs of maid and boy;If you were thrall to sorrow,And I were page to joy.If you were April’s lady,And I were lord in May,We ’d throw with leaves for hoursAnd draw for days with flowers,Till day like night were shadyAnd night were bright like day;If you were April’s lady,And I were lord in May.If you were queen of pleasure,And I were king of pain,We ’d hunt down love together,Pluck out his flying-feather,And teach his feet a measure,And find his mouth a rein;If you were queen of pleasure,And I were king of pain.

flove were what the rose is,

And I were like the leaf,

Our lives would grow together

In sad or singing weather,

Blown fields or flowerful closes,

Green pleasure or grey grief;

If love were what the rose is,

And I were like the leaf.

If I were what the words are,

And love were like the tune,

With double sound or single

Delight our lips would mingle,

With kisses glad as birds are

That get sweet rain at noon;

If I were what the words are,

And love were like the tune.

If you were life, my darling,

And I your love were death,

We ’d shine and snow together

Ere March made sweet the weather

With daffodil and starling

And hours of fruitful breath;

If you were life, my darling,

And I your love were death.

If you were thrall to sorrow,

And I were page to joy,

We ’d play for lives and seasons

With loving looks and treasons

And tears of night and morrow

And laughs of maid and boy;

If you were thrall to sorrow,

And I were page to joy.

If you were April’s lady,

And I were lord in May,

We ’d throw with leaves for hours

And draw for days with flowers,

Till day like night were shady

And night were bright like day;

If you were April’s lady,

And I were lord in May.

If you were queen of pleasure,

And I were king of pain,

We ’d hunt down love together,

Pluck out his flying-feather,

And teach his feet a measure,

And find his mouth a rein;

If you were queen of pleasure,

And I were king of pain.

Kissingher hair I sat against her feet,Wove and unwove it, wound and found it sweet;Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes,Deep as deep flowers and dreamy like dim skies;With her own tresses bound and found her fair,Kissing her hair.Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me,Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea;What pain could get between my face and hers?What new sweet thing would love not relish worse?Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me there,Kissing her hair?

issingher hair I sat against her feet,

Wove and unwove it, wound and found it sweet;

Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes,

Deep as deep flowers and dreamy like dim skies;

With her own tresses bound and found her fair,

Kissing her hair.

Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me,

Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea;

What pain could get between my face and hers?

What new sweet thing would love not relish worse?

Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me there,

Kissing her hair?

Olipsthat mine have grown intoLike April’s kissing May,O fervent eyelids letting throughThose eyes the greenest of things blue,The bluest of things gray,If you were I and I were you,How could I love you, say?How could the roseleaf love the rue,The day love nightfall and her dew,Though night may love the day?

lipsthat mine have grown into

Like April’s kissing May,

O fervent eyelids letting through

Those eyes the greenest of things blue,

The bluest of things gray,

If you were I and I were you,

How could I love you, say?

How could the roseleaf love the rue,

The day love nightfall and her dew,

Though night may love the day?

ALFRED TENNYSON.1809-1892.THE BUGLE SONG.FROM “THE PRINCESS.”Thesplendour falls on castle wallsAnd snowy summits old in story:The long light shakes across the lakes,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, farther going!O sweet and far from cliff and scarThe horns of Elfland faintly blowing!Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.O love, they die in yon rich sky,They faint on hill or field or river:Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow for ever and for ever.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.Break,break, break,On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!And I would that my tongue could utterThe thoughts that arise in me.O well for the fisherman’s boy,That he shouts with his sister at play!O well for the sailor lad,That he sings in his boat on the bay!And the stately ships go onTo their haven under the hill;But O for the touch of a vanished hand,And the sound of a voice that is still!Break, break, break,At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me.Break, Break, BreakTEARS, IDLE TEARS.FROM “THE PRINCESS.”Tears,idle tears, I know not what they mean,Tears from the depth of some divine despairRise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,And thinking of the days that are no more.Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,That brings our friends up from the underworld,Sad as the last which reddens over oneThat sinks with all we love below the verge;So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawnsThe earliest pipe of half-awakened birdsTo dying ears, when unto dying eyesThe casement slowly grows a glimmering square;So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.Dear as remembered kisses after death,And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feignedOn lips that are for others; deep as love,Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;O Death in Life, the days that are no more.SWEET AND LOW.FROM “THE PRINCESS.”Sweetand low, sweet and low,Wind of the western sea,Low, low, breathe and blow,Wind of the western sea!Over the rolling waters go,Come from the dying moon, and blow,Blow him again to me;While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,Father will come to thee soon;Rest, rest, on mother’s breast,Father will come to thee soon;Father will come to his babe in the nest,Silver sails all out of the westUnder the silver moon:Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.TURN, FORTUNE, TURN THY WHEEL.FROM “THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT.”Turn,Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud;Turn thy wild wheel thro’ sunshine, storm, and cloud;Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown;With that wild wheel we go not up or down;Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands;Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands;For man is man and master of his fate.Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd;Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud;Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.VIVIEN’S SONG.FROM “MERLIN AND VIVIEN.”InLove, if Love be Love, if Love be ours,Faith and unfaith can ne’er be equal powers:Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.It is the little rift within the lute,That by and by will make the music mute,And ever widening slowly silence all.The little rift within the lover’s luteOr little pitted speck in garnered fruit,That rotting inward slowly moulders all.It is not worth the keeping: let it go:But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no.And trust me not at all or all in all.

1809-1892.

Thesplendour falls on castle wallsAnd snowy summits old in story:The long light shakes across the lakes,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, farther going!O sweet and far from cliff and scarThe horns of Elfland faintly blowing!Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.O love, they die in yon rich sky,They faint on hill or field or river:Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow for ever and for ever.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

hesplendour falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story:

The long light shakes across the lakes,

And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,

And thinner, clearer, farther going!

O sweet and far from cliff and scar

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill or field or river:

Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow for ever and for ever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

Break,break, break,On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!And I would that my tongue could utterThe thoughts that arise in me.O well for the fisherman’s boy,That he shouts with his sister at play!O well for the sailor lad,That he sings in his boat on the bay!And the stately ships go onTo their haven under the hill;But O for the touch of a vanished hand,And the sound of a voice that is still!Break, break, break,At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me.

reak,break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter

The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman’s boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play!

O well for the sailor lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill;

But O for the touch of a vanished hand,

And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead

Will never come back to me.

Break, Break, Break

Tears,idle tears, I know not what they mean,Tears from the depth of some divine despairRise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,And thinking of the days that are no more.Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,That brings our friends up from the underworld,Sad as the last which reddens over oneThat sinks with all we love below the verge;So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawnsThe earliest pipe of half-awakened birdsTo dying ears, when unto dying eyesThe casement slowly grows a glimmering square;So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.Dear as remembered kisses after death,And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feignedOn lips that are for others; deep as love,Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

ears,idle tears, I know not what they mean,

Tears from the depth of some divine despair

Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,

In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,

And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,

That brings our friends up from the underworld,

Sad as the last which reddens over one

That sinks with all we love below the verge;

So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns

The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds

To dying ears, when unto dying eyes

The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;

So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,

And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned

On lips that are for others; deep as love,

Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;

O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

Sweetand low, sweet and low,Wind of the western sea,Low, low, breathe and blow,Wind of the western sea!Over the rolling waters go,Come from the dying moon, and blow,Blow him again to me;While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,Father will come to thee soon;Rest, rest, on mother’s breast,Father will come to thee soon;Father will come to his babe in the nest,Silver sails all out of the westUnder the silver moon:Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

weetand low, sweet and low,

Wind of the western sea,

Low, low, breathe and blow,

Wind of the western sea!

Over the rolling waters go,

Come from the dying moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me;

While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon;

Rest, rest, on mother’s breast,

Father will come to thee soon;

Father will come to his babe in the nest,

Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon:

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

Turn,Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud;Turn thy wild wheel thro’ sunshine, storm, and cloud;Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown;With that wild wheel we go not up or down;Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands;Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands;For man is man and master of his fate.Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd;Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud;Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

urn,Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud;

Turn thy wild wheel thro’ sunshine, storm, and cloud;

Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown;

With that wild wheel we go not up or down;

Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands;

Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands;

For man is man and master of his fate.

Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd;

Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud;

Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

InLove, if Love be Love, if Love be ours,Faith and unfaith can ne’er be equal powers:Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.It is the little rift within the lute,That by and by will make the music mute,And ever widening slowly silence all.The little rift within the lover’s luteOr little pitted speck in garnered fruit,That rotting inward slowly moulders all.It is not worth the keeping: let it go:But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no.And trust me not at all or all in all.

nLove, if Love be Love, if Love be ours,

Faith and unfaith can ne’er be equal powers:

Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.

It is the little rift within the lute,

That by and by will make the music mute,

And ever widening slowly silence all.

The little rift within the lover’s lute

Or little pitted speck in garnered fruit,

That rotting inward slowly moulders all.

It is not worth the keeping: let it go:

But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no.

And trust me not at all or all in all.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.1811-1863.AT THE CHURCH GATE.FROM “PENDENNIS.”AlthoughI enter not,Yet round about the spotOfttimes I hover:And near the sacred gate,With longing eyes I wait,Expectant of her.The Minster bell tolls outAbove the city’s rout,And noise and humming:They ’ve hushed the Minster bell:The organ ’gins to swell:She ’s coming, she ’s coming!My lady comes at last,Timid, and stepping fast,And hastening hither,With modest eyes downcast:She comes—she ’s here—she ’s past—May heaven go with her!Kneel, undisturbed, fair saint!Pour out your praise or plaintMeekly and duly;I will not enter there,To sully your pure prayerWith thoughts unruly.But suffer me to paceRound the forbidden place,Lingering a minute;Like outcast spirits who waitAnd see through heaven’s gateAngels within it.THE MAHOGANY TREE.Christmasis here;Winds whistle shrill,Icy and chill,Little care we:Little we fearWeather withoutSheltered aboutThe Mahogany Tree.Once on the boughsBirds of rare plumeSang, in its bloom;Night-birds are we:Here we carouse,Singing like them,Perched round the stemOf the jolly old tree.Here let us sport,Boys, as we sit;Laughter and witFlashing so free.Life is but short—When we are gone,Let them sing on,Round the old tree.Evenings we knew,Happy as this;Faces we miss,Pleasant to see.Kind hearts and true,Gentle and just,Peace to your dust!We sing round the tree.Care, like a dun,Lurks at the gate:Let the dog wait;Happy we ’ll be!Drink, every one;Pile up the coals,Fill the red bowls,Round the old tree.Drain we the cup.—Friend, art afraid?Spirits are laidIn the Red Sea.Mantle it up;Empty it yet;Let us forget,Round the old tree.Sorrows, begone!Life and its ills,Duns and their bills,Bid we to flee.Come with the dawn,Blue-devil sprite,Leave us to-night,Round the old tree.

1811-1863.

AlthoughI enter not,Yet round about the spotOfttimes I hover:And near the sacred gate,With longing eyes I wait,Expectant of her.The Minster bell tolls outAbove the city’s rout,And noise and humming:They ’ve hushed the Minster bell:The organ ’gins to swell:She ’s coming, she ’s coming!My lady comes at last,Timid, and stepping fast,And hastening hither,With modest eyes downcast:She comes—she ’s here—she ’s past—May heaven go with her!Kneel, undisturbed, fair saint!Pour out your praise or plaintMeekly and duly;I will not enter there,To sully your pure prayerWith thoughts unruly.But suffer me to paceRound the forbidden place,Lingering a minute;Like outcast spirits who waitAnd see through heaven’s gateAngels within it.

lthoughI enter not,

Yet round about the spot

Ofttimes I hover:

And near the sacred gate,

With longing eyes I wait,

Expectant of her.

The Minster bell tolls out

Above the city’s rout,

And noise and humming:

They ’ve hushed the Minster bell:

The organ ’gins to swell:

She ’s coming, she ’s coming!

My lady comes at last,

Timid, and stepping fast,

And hastening hither,

With modest eyes downcast:

She comes—she ’s here—she ’s past—

May heaven go with her!

Kneel, undisturbed, fair saint!

Pour out your praise or plaint

Meekly and duly;

I will not enter there,

To sully your pure prayer

With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace

Round the forbidden place,

Lingering a minute;

Like outcast spirits who wait

And see through heaven’s gate

Angels within it.

Christmasis here;Winds whistle shrill,Icy and chill,Little care we:Little we fearWeather withoutSheltered aboutThe Mahogany Tree.Once on the boughsBirds of rare plumeSang, in its bloom;Night-birds are we:Here we carouse,Singing like them,Perched round the stemOf the jolly old tree.Here let us sport,Boys, as we sit;Laughter and witFlashing so free.Life is but short—When we are gone,Let them sing on,Round the old tree.Evenings we knew,Happy as this;Faces we miss,Pleasant to see.Kind hearts and true,Gentle and just,Peace to your dust!We sing round the tree.Care, like a dun,Lurks at the gate:Let the dog wait;Happy we ’ll be!Drink, every one;Pile up the coals,Fill the red bowls,Round the old tree.Drain we the cup.—Friend, art afraid?Spirits are laidIn the Red Sea.Mantle it up;Empty it yet;Let us forget,Round the old tree.Sorrows, begone!Life and its ills,Duns and their bills,Bid we to flee.Come with the dawn,Blue-devil sprite,Leave us to-night,Round the old tree.

hristmasis here;

Winds whistle shrill,

Icy and chill,

Little care we:

Little we fear

Weather without

Sheltered about

The Mahogany Tree.

Once on the boughs

Birds of rare plume

Sang, in its bloom;

Night-birds are we:

Here we carouse,

Singing like them,

Perched round the stem

Of the jolly old tree.

Here let us sport,

Boys, as we sit;

Laughter and wit

Flashing so free.

Life is but short—

When we are gone,

Let them sing on,

Round the old tree.

Evenings we knew,

Happy as this;

Faces we miss,

Pleasant to see.

Kind hearts and true,

Gentle and just,

Peace to your dust!

We sing round the tree.

Care, like a dun,

Lurks at the gate:

Let the dog wait;

Happy we ’ll be!

Drink, every one;

Pile up the coals,

Fill the red bowls,

Round the old tree.

Drain we the cup.—

Friend, art afraid?

Spirits are laid

In the Red Sea.

Mantle it up;

Empty it yet;

Let us forget,

Round the old tree.

Sorrows, begone!

Life and its ills,

Duns and their bills,

Bid we to flee.

Come with the dawn,

Blue-devil sprite,

Leave us to-night,

Round the old tree.

GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY.1828-1876.DAYRISE AND SUNSET.WhenSpring casts all her swallows forthInto the blue and lambent air,When lilacs toss their purple plumesAnd every cherry-tree grows fair,—Through fields with morning tints a-glowI take my rod and singing go.Where lilies float on broad green leavesBelow the ripples of the mill,When the white moth is hoveringIn the dim sky so hushed and still,I watch beneath the pollard ashThe greedy trout leap up and splash.Or down where golden water flowersAre wading in the shallow tide,While still the dusk is tinged with roseLike a brown cheek o’erflushed with pride—I throw the crafty fly and wait;Watching the big trout eye the bait.It is the lover’s twilight-time,And there ’s a magic in the hour,But I forget the sweets of loveAnd all love’s tyranny and power,And with my feather-hidden steelSigh but to fill my woven creel.Then upward darkling through the copseI push my eager homeward way,Through glades of drowsy violetsThat never see the golden day.Yes! while the night comes soft and slowI take my rod and singing go.“When Spring casts all her swallows forth”THE THREE TROOPERS.DURING THE PROTECTORATE.Intothe Devil tavernThree booted troopers strode,From spur to feather spotted and splashedWith the mud of a winter road.In each of their cups they dropped a crust,And stared at the guests with a frown;Then drew their swords, and roared for a toast,“God send this Crum-well-down!”A blue smoke rose from their pistol locks,Their sword blades were still wet;There were long red smears on their jerkins of buff,As the table they overset.Then into their cups they stirred the crusts,And cursed old London town;They waved their swords, and drank with a stamp,“God send this Crum-well-down!”The ’prentice dropped his can of beer,The host turned pale as a clout;The ruby nose of the toping squiresGrew white at the wild men’s shout.Then into their cups they flung their crusts,And shewed their teeth with a frown;They flashed their swords as they gave the toast,“God send this Crum-well-down!”The gambler dropped his dog’s-ear’d cards,The waiting-women screamed,As the light of the fire, like stains of blood,On the wild men’s sabres gleamed.Then into their cups they splashed their crusts,And cursed the fool of a town,And leapt on the table, and roared a toast,“God send this Crum-well-down!”Till on a sudden fire-bells rang,And the troopers sprang to horse;The eldest muttered between his teeth,Hot curses—deep and coarse.In their stirrup cups they flung the crusts,And cried as they spurred through the town,With their keen swords drawn and their pistols cocked,“God send this Crum-well-down!”Away they dashed through Temple Bar,Their red cloaks flowing free,Their scabbards clashed, each back-piece shone—None liked to touch the three.The silver cups that held the crustsThey flung to the startled town,Shouting again, with a blaze of swords,“God send this Crum-well-down!”THE CUCKOO.Whena warm and scented steamRises from the flowering earth;When the green leaves are all still,And the song birds cease their mirth;In the silence before rainComes the cuckoo back again.When the Spring is all but gone—Tearful April, laughing May—When a hush comes on the woods,And the sunbeams cease to play;In the silence before rainComes the cuckoo back again.

1828-1876.

WhenSpring casts all her swallows forthInto the blue and lambent air,When lilacs toss their purple plumesAnd every cherry-tree grows fair,—Through fields with morning tints a-glowI take my rod and singing go.Where lilies float on broad green leavesBelow the ripples of the mill,When the white moth is hoveringIn the dim sky so hushed and still,I watch beneath the pollard ashThe greedy trout leap up and splash.Or down where golden water flowersAre wading in the shallow tide,While still the dusk is tinged with roseLike a brown cheek o’erflushed with pride—I throw the crafty fly and wait;Watching the big trout eye the bait.It is the lover’s twilight-time,And there ’s a magic in the hour,But I forget the sweets of loveAnd all love’s tyranny and power,And with my feather-hidden steelSigh but to fill my woven creel.Then upward darkling through the copseI push my eager homeward way,Through glades of drowsy violetsThat never see the golden day.Yes! while the night comes soft and slowI take my rod and singing go.

henSpring casts all her swallows forth

Into the blue and lambent air,

When lilacs toss their purple plumes

And every cherry-tree grows fair,—

Through fields with morning tints a-glow

I take my rod and singing go.

Where lilies float on broad green leaves

Below the ripples of the mill,

When the white moth is hovering

In the dim sky so hushed and still,

I watch beneath the pollard ash

The greedy trout leap up and splash.

Or down where golden water flowers

Are wading in the shallow tide,

While still the dusk is tinged with rose

Like a brown cheek o’erflushed with pride—

I throw the crafty fly and wait;

Watching the big trout eye the bait.

It is the lover’s twilight-time,

And there ’s a magic in the hour,

But I forget the sweets of love

And all love’s tyranny and power,

And with my feather-hidden steel

Sigh but to fill my woven creel.

Then upward darkling through the copse

I push my eager homeward way,

Through glades of drowsy violets

That never see the golden day.

Yes! while the night comes soft and slow

I take my rod and singing go.

“When Spring casts all her swallows forth”

Intothe Devil tavernThree booted troopers strode,From spur to feather spotted and splashedWith the mud of a winter road.In each of their cups they dropped a crust,And stared at the guests with a frown;Then drew their swords, and roared for a toast,“God send this Crum-well-down!”A blue smoke rose from their pistol locks,Their sword blades were still wet;There were long red smears on their jerkins of buff,As the table they overset.Then into their cups they stirred the crusts,And cursed old London town;They waved their swords, and drank with a stamp,“God send this Crum-well-down!”The ’prentice dropped his can of beer,The host turned pale as a clout;The ruby nose of the toping squiresGrew white at the wild men’s shout.Then into their cups they flung their crusts,And shewed their teeth with a frown;They flashed their swords as they gave the toast,“God send this Crum-well-down!”The gambler dropped his dog’s-ear’d cards,The waiting-women screamed,As the light of the fire, like stains of blood,On the wild men’s sabres gleamed.Then into their cups they splashed their crusts,And cursed the fool of a town,And leapt on the table, and roared a toast,“God send this Crum-well-down!”Till on a sudden fire-bells rang,And the troopers sprang to horse;The eldest muttered between his teeth,Hot curses—deep and coarse.In their stirrup cups they flung the crusts,And cried as they spurred through the town,With their keen swords drawn and their pistols cocked,“God send this Crum-well-down!”Away they dashed through Temple Bar,Their red cloaks flowing free,Their scabbards clashed, each back-piece shone—None liked to touch the three.The silver cups that held the crustsThey flung to the startled town,Shouting again, with a blaze of swords,“God send this Crum-well-down!”

ntothe Devil tavern

Three booted troopers strode,

From spur to feather spotted and splashed

With the mud of a winter road.

In each of their cups they dropped a crust,

And stared at the guests with a frown;

Then drew their swords, and roared for a toast,

“God send this Crum-well-down!”

A blue smoke rose from their pistol locks,

Their sword blades were still wet;

There were long red smears on their jerkins of buff,

As the table they overset.

Then into their cups they stirred the crusts,

And cursed old London town;

They waved their swords, and drank with a stamp,

“God send this Crum-well-down!”

The ’prentice dropped his can of beer,

The host turned pale as a clout;

The ruby nose of the toping squires

Grew white at the wild men’s shout.

Then into their cups they flung their crusts,

And shewed their teeth with a frown;

They flashed their swords as they gave the toast,

“God send this Crum-well-down!”

The gambler dropped his dog’s-ear’d cards,

The waiting-women screamed,

As the light of the fire, like stains of blood,

On the wild men’s sabres gleamed.

Then into their cups they splashed their crusts,

And cursed the fool of a town,

And leapt on the table, and roared a toast,

“God send this Crum-well-down!”

Till on a sudden fire-bells rang,

And the troopers sprang to horse;

The eldest muttered between his teeth,

Hot curses—deep and coarse.

In their stirrup cups they flung the crusts,

And cried as they spurred through the town,

With their keen swords drawn and their pistols cocked,

“God send this Crum-well-down!”

Away they dashed through Temple Bar,

Their red cloaks flowing free,

Their scabbards clashed, each back-piece shone—

None liked to touch the three.

The silver cups that held the crusts

They flung to the startled town,

Shouting again, with a blaze of swords,

“God send this Crum-well-down!”

Whena warm and scented steamRises from the flowering earth;When the green leaves are all still,And the song birds cease their mirth;In the silence before rainComes the cuckoo back again.When the Spring is all but gone—Tearful April, laughing May—When a hush comes on the woods,And the sunbeams cease to play;In the silence before rainComes the cuckoo back again.

hena warm and scented steam

Rises from the flowering earth;

When the green leaves are all still,

And the song birds cease their mirth;

In the silence before rain

Comes the cuckoo back again.

When the Spring is all but gone—

Tearful April, laughing May—

When a hush comes on the woods,

And the sunbeams cease to play;

In the silence before rain

Comes the cuckoo back again.

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