GEORGE DARLEY.

GEORGE DARLEY.1795-1846.MAY DAY.From “Sylvia”:Act III. Scene ii.Omay,thou art a merry time,Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale!When hedge-pipes they begin to chime,And summer-flowers to sow the dale.When lasses and their lovers meetBeneath the early village-thorn,And to the sound of tabor sweetBid welcome to the Maying-morn!O May, thou art a merry time,Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale!When hedge-pipes they begin to chime,And summer-flowers to sow the dale.When grey-beards and their gossips comeWith crutch in hand our sports to see,And both go tottering, tattling home,Topful of wine as well as glee!O May, thou art a merry time,Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale!When hedge-pipes they begin to chime,And summer-flowers to sow the dale.But Youth was aye the time for bliss,So taste it, Shepherds! while ye may:For who can tell that joy like thisWill come another holiday?O May, thou art a merry time,Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale!When hedge-pipes they begin to chime,And summer-flowers to sow the dale.I’VE BEEN ROAMING.FROM “LILIAN OF THE VALE.”I’vebeen roaming! I ’ve been roaming!Where the meadow dew is sweet,And like a queen I ’m comingWith its pearls upon my feet.I ’ve been roaming! I ’ve been roaming!O’er red rose and lily fair,And like a sylph I ’m comingWith their blossoms in my hair.I ’ve been roaming! I ’ve been roaming!Where the honeysuckle creeps,And like a bee I ’m comingWith its kisses on my lips.I ’ve been roaming! I ’ve been roaming!Over hill and over plain,And like a bird I ’m comingTo my bower back again!“I ’ve been roaming, I ’ve been roaming”SYLVIA’S SONG.Thestreams that wind amid the hillsAnd lost in pleasure slowly roam,While their deep joy the valley fills,—Even these will leave their mountain home;So may it, Love! with others be,But I will never wend from thee.The leaf forsakes the parent spray,The blossom quits the stem as fast;The rose-enamour’d bird will strayAnd leave his eglantine at last:So may it, Love! with others be,But I will never wend from thee.SERENADE.From “Sylvia”:Act IV. SceneI.Romanzo sings:Awakethee, my Lady-love!Wake thee, and rise!The sun through the bower peepsInto thine eyes!Behold how the early larkSprings from the corn!Hark, hark how the flower-birdWinds her wee horn!The swallow’s glad shriek is heardAll through the air!The stock-dove is murmuringLoud as she dare!Apollo’s winged buglemanCannot contain,But peals his loud trumpet-callOnce and again!Then wake thee, my Lady-love,Bird of my bower!The sweetest and sleepiestBird at this hour!LORD DE TABLEY.1835.A WINTER SKETCH.Whenthe snow begins to feather,And the woods begin to roarClashing angry boughs together,As the breakers grind the shoreNature then a bankrupt goes,Full of wreck and full of woes.When the swan for warmer forelandsLeaves the sea-firth’s icebound edge,When the gray geese from the morelandsCleave the clouds in noisy wedge,Woodlands stand in frozen chains,Hung with ropes of solid rains.Shepherds creep to byre and haven,Sheep in drifts are nipped and numb;Some belated rook or ravenRocks upon a sign-post dumb;Mere-waves, solid as a clod,Roar with skaters, thunder-shod.All the roofs and chimneys rumble;Roads are ridged with slush and sleet;Down the orchard apples tumble;Ploughboys stamp their frosty feet;Millers, jolted down the lanes,Hardly feel for cold their reins.Snipes are calling from the trenches,Frozen half and half at flow;In the porches servant wenchesWork with shovels at the snow;Rusty blackbirds, weak of wing,Clean forget they once could sing.Dogs and boys fetch down the cattle,Deep in mire and powdered pale;Spinning-wheels commence to rattle;Landlords spice the smoking ale.Hail, white winter, lady fine,In a cup of elder wine!THE SECOND MADRIGAL.Woothy lass while May is here;Winter vows are colder.Have thy kiss when lips are near;To-morrow you are older.Think, if clear the throstle sing,A month his note will thicken;A throat of gold in a golden springAt the edge of the snow will sicken.Take thy cup and take thy girl,While they come for asking;In thy heyday melt the pearlAt the love-ray basking.Ale is good for careless bards,Wine for wayworn sinners.They who hold the strongest cardsRise from life as winners.AUBREY DE VERE.1788-1846.SONG.I.Softly,O midnight Hours!Move softly o’er the bowersWhere lies in happy sleep a girl so fair!For ye have power, men say,Our hearts in sleep to sway,And cage cold fancies in a moonlight snare.Round ivory neck and armEnclasp a separate charm:Hang o’er her poised; but breathe nor sigh nor prayer:Silently ye may smile,But hold your breath the while,And let the wind sweep back your cloudy hair!II.Bend down your glittering urnsEre yet the dawn returns,And star with dew the lawn her feet shall tread;Upon the air rain balm;Bid all the woods be calm;Ambrosial dreams with healthful slumbers wed.That so the Maiden mayWith smiles your care repayWhen from her couch she lifts her golden head;Waking with earliest birds,Ere yet the misty herdsLeave warm ’mid the grey grass their dusky bed.SONG.Seeknot the tree of silkiest barkAnd balmiest bud,To carve her name—while yet ’t is dark—Upon the wood!The world is full of noble tasksAnd wreaths hard-won:Each work demands strong hearts, strong hands,Till day is done.Sing not that violet-veinèd skin,That cheek’s pale roses;The lily of that form whereinHer soul reposes!Forth to the fight, true man, true knight!The clash of armsShall more prevail than whispered taleTo win her charms.The warrior for the True, the Right,Fights in Love’s name:The love that lures thee from that fightLures thee to shame.That love which lifts the heart, yet leavesThe spirit free,—That love, or none, is fit for one,Man-shaped like thee.SONG.I.WhenI was young, I said to Sorrow,“Come, and I will play with thee:”—He is near me now all day;And at night returns to say,“I will come again to-morrow,I will come and stay with thee.”II.Through the woods we walk together;His soft footsteps rustle nigh me;To shield an unregarded head,He hath built a winter shed;And all night in rainy weather,I hear his gentle breathings by me.CHARLES DICKENS.1812-1870.THE IVY GREEN.Oh,a dainty plant is the Ivy green,That creepeth o’er ruins old!Of right choice food are his meals I ween,In his cell so lone and cold.The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,To pleasure his dainty whim:And the mouldering dust that years have madeIs a merry meal for him.Creeping where no life is seen,A rare old plant is the Ivy green.Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,And a staunch old heart has he.How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,To his friend, the huge Oak tree!And slily he traileth along the ground,And his leaves he gently waves,As he joyously hugs and crawleth roundThe rich mould of dead men’s graves.Creeping where grim death has been,A rare old plant is the Ivy green.Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,And nations have scattered been;But the stout old Ivy shall never fadeFrom its hale and hearty green.The brave old plant in its lonely daysShall fatten upon the past:For the stateliest building man can raiseIs the Ivy’s food at last.Creeping on, where time has been,A rare old plant is the Ivy green.AUSTIN DOBSON.1840.THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES’S.A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN.Theladies of St. James’sGo swinging to the play;Their footmen run before them,With a “Stand by! Clear the way!”But Phyllida, my Phyllida!She takes her buckled shoon,When we go out a-courtingBeneath the harvest moon.The ladies of St. James’sWear satin on their backs;They sit all night atOmbre,With candles all of wax:But Phyllida, my Phyllida!She dons her russet gown,And runs to gather May dewBefore the world is down.The ladies of St. James’sThey are so fine and fair,You ’d think a box of essencesWas broken in the air:But Phyllida, my Phyllida!The breath of heath and furze,When breezes blow at morning,Is scarce so fresh as hers.The ladies of St. James’sThey ’re painted to the eyes;Their white it stays forever,Their red it never dies:But Phyllida, my Phyllida!Her color comes and goes;It trembles to a lily,It wavers to a rose.The ladies of St. James’s,With “Mercy!” and with “Lud!”They season all their speeches(They come of noble blood):But Phyllida, my Phyllida!Her shy and simple wordsAre sweet as, after rain-drops,The music of the birds.The ladies of St. James’s,They have their fits and freaks;They smile on you—for seconds,They frown on you—for weeks:But Phyllida, my Phyllida!Come either storm or shine,From Shrovetide unto ShrovetideIs always true—and mine.My Phyllida, my Phyllida!I care not though they heapThe hearts of all St. James’s,And give me all to keep;I care not whose the beautiesOf all the world may be,For Phyllida—for PhyllidaIs all the world to me!“A maid I know,--and March winds blow”THE MILKMAID.A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE.Acrossthe grass I see her pass;She comes with tripping pace,—A maid I know,—and March winds blowHer hair across her face;—With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!Dolly shall be mine,Before the spray is white with May,Or blooms the eglantine.The March winds blow. I watch her go:Her eye is brown and clear;Her cheek is brown and soft as down(To those who see it near!)—With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!Dolly shall be mine,Before the spray is white with May,Or blooms the eglantine.What has she not that they have got,—The dames that walk in silk!If she undo her ’kerchief blue,Her neck is white as milk.With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!Dolly shall be mine,Before the spray is white with May,Or blooms the eglantine.Let those who will be proud and chill!For me, from June to June,My Dolly’s words are sweet as curds,—Her laugh is like a tune;—With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!Dolly shall be mine,Before the spray is white with May,Or blooms the eglantine.Break, break to hear, O crocus-spear!O tall Lent-lilies, flame!There ’ll be a bride at Easter-tide,And Dolly is her name.With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!Dolly shall be mine,Before the spray is white with May,Or blooms the eglantine.ALFRED DOMETT.1811-1887.A GLEE FOR WINTER.Hence,rude Winter! crabbed old fellow,Never merry, never mellow!Well-a-day! in rain and snowWhat will keep one’s heart aglow?Groups of kinsmen, old and young,Oldest they old friends among!Groups of friends, so old and true,That they seem our kinsmen too!These all merry all together,Charm away chill Winter weather!What will kill this dull old fellow?Ale that ’s bright, and wine that ’s mellow!Dear old songs for ever new;Some true love, and laughter too;Pleasant wit, and harmless fun,And a dance when day is done!Music—friends so true and tried—Whispered love by warm fireside—Mirth at all times all together—Make sweet May of Winter weather!A KISS.SAPPHO TO PHAON.I.Sweetmouth! O let me takeOne draught from that delicious cup!The hot Sahara-thirst to slakeThat burns me up!II.Sweet breath!—all flowers that are,Within that darling frame must bloom;My heart revives so at the rareDivine perfume!III.—Nay, ’t is a dear deceit,A drunkard’s cup that mouth of thine;Sure poison-flowers are breathing, sweet,That fragrance fine!IV.I drank—the drink betrayed meInto a madder, fiercer fever;The scent of those love-blossoms made meMore faint than ever!V.Yet though quick death it wereThat rich heart-vintage I must drain,And quaff that hidden garden’s air,Again—again!LADY DUFFERIN.1807-1867.SONG.*April 30, 1833.I.Whenanother’s voice thou hearest,With a sad and gentle tone,Let its sound but waken, dearest,Memory ofmylove alone!When in stranger lands thou meetestWarm, true hearts, which welcome thee,Let each friendly look thou greetestSeem a message, Love, fromme!II.When night’s quiet sky is o’er thee,When the pale stars dimly burn,Dream thatoneis watching for thee,Who but lives for thy return!Wheresoe’er thy steps are roving,Night or day, by land or sea,Think of her, whose life of lovingIs but one long thought of thee!*These lines were written to the author’s husband, then at sea, in 1833, and set to music by herself.“That bright May morning long ago”LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.I’msitting on the stile, Mary,Where we sat, side by side,That bright May morning long agoWhen first you were my bride.The corn was springing fresh and green,The lark sang loud and high,The red was on your lip, Mary,The love-light in your eye.The place is little changed, Mary,The day is bright as then,The lark’s loud song is in my ear,The corn is green again;But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,Your breath warm on my cheek,And I still keep list’ning for the wordsYou never more may speak.’T is but a step down yonder lane,The little Church stands near—The Church where we were wed, Mary,—I see the spire from here;But the graveyard lies between, Mary,—My step might break your rest,—Where you, my darling, lie asleepWith your baby on your breast.I ’m very lonely now, Mary,—The poor make no new friends;—But, oh! they love the better stillThe few our Father sends.And you were all I had, Mary,My blessing and my pride;There ’s nothing left to care for nowSince my poor Mary died.Yours was the good brave heart, Mary,That still kept hoping on,When trust in God had left my soul,And half my strength was gone.There was comfort ever on your lip,And the kind look on your brow.I bless you, Mary, for that same,Though you can’t hear me now.I thank you for the patient smileWhen your heart was fit to break;When the hunger pain was gnawing thereYou hid it for my sake.I bless you for the pleasant wordWhen your heart was sad and sore.Oh! I ’m thankful you are gone, Mary,Where grief can’t reach you more!I ’m bidding you a long farewell,My Mary—kind and true!But I ’ll not forget you, darling,In the land I ’m going to.They say there ’s bread and work for all,And the sun shines always there;But I ’ll not forget old Ireland,Were it fifty times as fair.And when amid those grand old woodsI sit and shut my eyes,My heart will travel back againTo where my Mary lies;I ’ll think I see the little stileWhere we sat, side by side,—And the springing corn and bright May morn,When first you were my bride.MICHAEL FIELD.WINDS TO-DAY ARE LARGE AND FREE.Windsto-day are large and free,Winds to-day are westerly;From the land they seem to blowWhence the sap begins to flowAnd the dimpled light to spread,From the country of the dead.Ah, it is a wild, sweet landWhere the coming May is planned,Where such influences throbAs our frosts can never robOf their triumph, when they boundThrough the tree and from the ground.Great within me is my soul,Great to journey to its goal,To the country of the dead;For the cornel-tips are red,And a passion rich in strifeDrives me toward the home of life.Oh, to keep the spring with themWho have flushed the cornel-stem,Who imagine at its sourceAll the year’s delicious course,Then express by wind and lightSomething of their rapture’s height!LET US WREATHE THE MIGHTY CUP.Letus wreathe the mighty cup,Then with song we ’ll lift it up,And, before we drain the glowOf the juice that foams belowFlowers and cool leaves round the brim,Let us swell the praise of himWho is tyrant of the heart,Cupid with his flaming dart!Pride before his face is bowed,Strength and heedless beauty cowed;Underneath his fatal wingsBend discrowned the heads of kings;Maidens blanch beneath his eyeAnd its laughing mastery;Through each land his arrows sound,By his fetters all are bound.WHERE WINDS ABOUND.Wherewinds abound,And fields are hilly,Shy daffadillyLooks down on the ground.Rose cones of larchAre just beginning;Though oaks are spinningNo oak-leaves in March.Spring ’s at the core,The boughs are sappy:Good to be happySo long, long before!NORMAN GALE.1862.A SONG.Firstthe fine, faint, dreamy motionOf the tender bloodCircling in the veins of children—This is Life, the bud.Next the fresh, advancing beautyGrowing from the gloom,Waking eyes and fuller bosom—This is Life, the bloom.Then the pain that follows after,Grievous to be borne,Pricking, steeped in subtle poison—This is Love, the thorn.SONG.Waitbut a little while—The bird will bringA heart in tune for melodiesUnto the spring,Till he who ’s in the cedar thereIs moved to trill a song so rare,And pipe her fair.Wait but a little while—The bud will break;The inner rose will ope and glowFor summer’s sake;Fond bees will lodge within her breastTill she herself is plucked and prestWhere I would rest.Wait but a little while—The maid will growGracious with lips and hands to thee,With breast of snow.To-day Love ’s mute, but time hath sownA soul in her to match thine own,Though yet ungrown.EDMUND GOSSE.1849.SONG FOR THE LUTE.Ibringa garland for your headOf blossoms fresh and fair;My own hands wound their white and redTo ring about your hair:Here is a lily, here a rose,A warm narcissus that scarce blows,And fairer blossoms no man knows.So crowned and chapleted with flowers,I pray you be not proud;For after brief and summer hoursComes autumn with a shroud;—Though fragrant as a flower you lie,You and your garland, bye and bye,Will fade and wither up and die.THOMAS HOOD.1798-1845.BALLAD.I.Itwas not in the winterOur loving lot was cast;It was the time of roses,—We plucked them as we passed;II.That churlish season never frownedOn early lovers yet:—Oh, no—the world was newly crownedWith flowers when first we met!III.’T was twilight, and I bade you go,But still you held me fast;It was the time of roses,—We plucked them as we passed.—SONG.OLady,leave thy silken threadAnd flowery tapestrie:There ’s living roses on the bush,And blossoms on the tree;Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless handSome random bud will meet;Thou canst not tread, but thou wilt findThe daisy at thy feet.’T is like the birthday of the world,When earth was born in bloom;The light is made of many dyes,The air is all perfume;There ’s crimson buds, and white and blue—The very rainbow showersHave turned to blossoms where they fell,And sown the earth with flowers.There ’s fairy tulips in the east,The garden of the sun;The very streams reflect the hues,And blossom as they run:While Morn opes like a crimson rose,Still wet with pearly showers;Then, Lady, leave the silken threadThou twinest into flowers!“I remember, I remember”I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.Iremember,I remember,The house where I was born,The little window where the sunCame peeping in at morn;He never came a wink too soon,Nor brought too long a day,But now, I often wish the nightHad borne my breath away!I remember, I remember,The roses, red and white,The vi’lets, and the lily-cups,Those flowers made of light!The lilacs where the robin built,And where my brother setThe laburnum on his birthday,—The tree is living yet!I remember, I rememberWhere I was used to swing,And thought the air must rush as freshTo swallows on the wing;My spirit flew in feathers then,That is so heavy now,And summer pools could hardly coolThe fever on my brow!I remember, I rememberThe fir trees dark and high;I used to think their slender topsWere close against the sky:It was a childish ignorance,But now ’t is little joyTo know I ’m farther off from heav’nThan when I was a boy.BALLAD.She’s up and gone, the graceless Girl!And robbed my failing years;My blood before was thin and coldBut now ’t is turned to tears;—My shadow falls upon my grave,So near the brink I stand,She might have stayed a little yet,And led me by the hand!Ay, call her on the barren moor,And call her on the hill,’T is nothing but the heron’s cry,And plover’s answer shrill;My child is flown on wilder wings,Than they have ever spread,And I may even walk a wasteThat widened when she fled.Full many a thankless child has been,But never one like mine;Her meat was served on plates of gold,Her drink was rosy wine;But now she ’ll share the robin’s food,And sup the common rill,Before her feet will turn againTo meet her father’s will!SONG.I.Thestars are with the voyagerWherever he may sail;The moon is constant to her time;The sun will never fail;But follow, follow round the world,The green earth and the sea;So love is with the lover’s heart,Wherever he may be.II.Wherever he may be, the starsMust daily lose their light;The moon will veil her in the shade;The sun will set at night.The sun may set, but constant loveWill shine when he ’s away;So that dull night is never night,And day is brighter day.RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES(LORD HOUGHTON).1809-1885.THE BROOKSIDE.Iwanderedby the brook-side,I wandered by the mill,—I could not hear the brook flow,The noisy wheel was still;There was no burr of grasshopper,No chirp of any bird,But the beating of my own heartWas all the sound I heard.I sat beside the elm-tree,I watched the long, long, shade,And as it grew still longer,I did not feel afraid;For I listened for a footfall,I listened for a word,—But the beating of my own heartWas all the sound I heard.He came not,—no, he came not,—The night came on alone,—The little stars sat one by one,Each on his golden throne;The evening air passed by my cheek,The leaves above were stirred,—But the beating of my own heartWas all the sound I heard.Fast silent tears were flowing,When something stood behind,—A hand was on my shoulder,I knew its touch was kind:It drew me nearer—nearer,—We did not speak one word,For the beating of our own heartsWas all the sound we heard.I wandered by the brook-sideTHE VENETIAN SERENADE.Whenalong the light ripple the far serenadeHas accosted the ear of each passionate maid,She may open the window that looks on the stream,—She may smile on her pillow and blend it in dream;Half in words, half in music, it pierces the gloom,“I am coming—Stalì*—but you know not for whom!Stalì—not for whom!”Now the tones become clearer,—you hear more and moreHow the water divided returns on the oar,—Does the prow of the Gondola strike on the stair?Do the voices and instruments pause and prepare?Oh! they faint on the ear as the lamp on the view,“I am passing—Premì—but I stay not for you!Premì—not for you!”Then return to your couch, you who stifle a tear,Then awake not, fair sleeper—believe he is here;For the young and the loving no sorrow endures,If to-day be another’s,—to-morrow is yours;May, the next time you listen, your fancy be true,“I am coming—Sciàr—and for you and to you!Sciàr—and to you!”*The words here used are the calls of the gondoliers, indicating the direction they are rowing. “Sciàr” is to stop the boat.FROM LOVE AND NATURE.TheSun came through the frosty mistMost like a dead-white moon;Thy soothing tones I seemed to list,As voices in a swoon.Still as an island stood our ship,The waters gave no sound,But when I touched thy quivering lipI felt the world go round.We seemed the only sentient thingsUpon that silent sea:Our hearts the only living springsOf all that yet could be!

1795-1846.

Omay,thou art a merry time,Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale!When hedge-pipes they begin to chime,And summer-flowers to sow the dale.When lasses and their lovers meetBeneath the early village-thorn,And to the sound of tabor sweetBid welcome to the Maying-morn!O May, thou art a merry time,Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale!When hedge-pipes they begin to chime,And summer-flowers to sow the dale.When grey-beards and their gossips comeWith crutch in hand our sports to see,And both go tottering, tattling home,Topful of wine as well as glee!O May, thou art a merry time,Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale!When hedge-pipes they begin to chime,And summer-flowers to sow the dale.But Youth was aye the time for bliss,So taste it, Shepherds! while ye may:For who can tell that joy like thisWill come another holiday?O May, thou art a merry time,Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale!When hedge-pipes they begin to chime,And summer-flowers to sow the dale.

may,thou art a merry time,

Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale!

When hedge-pipes they begin to chime,

And summer-flowers to sow the dale.

When lasses and their lovers meet

Beneath the early village-thorn,

And to the sound of tabor sweet

Bid welcome to the Maying-morn!

O May, thou art a merry time,

Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale!

When hedge-pipes they begin to chime,

And summer-flowers to sow the dale.

When grey-beards and their gossips come

With crutch in hand our sports to see,

And both go tottering, tattling home,

Topful of wine as well as glee!

O May, thou art a merry time,

Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale!

When hedge-pipes they begin to chime,

And summer-flowers to sow the dale.

But Youth was aye the time for bliss,

So taste it, Shepherds! while ye may:

For who can tell that joy like this

Will come another holiday?

O May, thou art a merry time,

Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale!

When hedge-pipes they begin to chime,

And summer-flowers to sow the dale.

I’vebeen roaming! I ’ve been roaming!Where the meadow dew is sweet,And like a queen I ’m comingWith its pearls upon my feet.I ’ve been roaming! I ’ve been roaming!O’er red rose and lily fair,And like a sylph I ’m comingWith their blossoms in my hair.I ’ve been roaming! I ’ve been roaming!Where the honeysuckle creeps,And like a bee I ’m comingWith its kisses on my lips.I ’ve been roaming! I ’ve been roaming!Over hill and over plain,And like a bird I ’m comingTo my bower back again!

’vebeen roaming! I ’ve been roaming!

Where the meadow dew is sweet,

And like a queen I ’m coming

With its pearls upon my feet.

I ’ve been roaming! I ’ve been roaming!

O’er red rose and lily fair,

And like a sylph I ’m coming

With their blossoms in my hair.

I ’ve been roaming! I ’ve been roaming!

Where the honeysuckle creeps,

And like a bee I ’m coming

With its kisses on my lips.

I ’ve been roaming! I ’ve been roaming!

Over hill and over plain,

And like a bird I ’m coming

To my bower back again!

“I ’ve been roaming, I ’ve been roaming”

Thestreams that wind amid the hillsAnd lost in pleasure slowly roam,While their deep joy the valley fills,—Even these will leave their mountain home;So may it, Love! with others be,But I will never wend from thee.The leaf forsakes the parent spray,The blossom quits the stem as fast;The rose-enamour’d bird will strayAnd leave his eglantine at last:So may it, Love! with others be,But I will never wend from thee.

hestreams that wind amid the hills

And lost in pleasure slowly roam,

While their deep joy the valley fills,—

Even these will leave their mountain home;

So may it, Love! with others be,

But I will never wend from thee.

The leaf forsakes the parent spray,

The blossom quits the stem as fast;

The rose-enamour’d bird will stray

And leave his eglantine at last:

So may it, Love! with others be,

But I will never wend from thee.

Awakethee, my Lady-love!Wake thee, and rise!The sun through the bower peepsInto thine eyes!Behold how the early larkSprings from the corn!Hark, hark how the flower-birdWinds her wee horn!The swallow’s glad shriek is heardAll through the air!The stock-dove is murmuringLoud as she dare!Apollo’s winged buglemanCannot contain,But peals his loud trumpet-callOnce and again!Then wake thee, my Lady-love,Bird of my bower!The sweetest and sleepiestBird at this hour!

wakethee, my Lady-love!

Wake thee, and rise!

The sun through the bower peeps

Into thine eyes!

Behold how the early lark

Springs from the corn!

Hark, hark how the flower-bird

Winds her wee horn!

The swallow’s glad shriek is heard

All through the air!

The stock-dove is murmuring

Loud as she dare!

Apollo’s winged bugleman

Cannot contain,

But peals his loud trumpet-call

Once and again!

Then wake thee, my Lady-love,

Bird of my bower!

The sweetest and sleepiest

Bird at this hour!

LORD DE TABLEY.1835.A WINTER SKETCH.Whenthe snow begins to feather,And the woods begin to roarClashing angry boughs together,As the breakers grind the shoreNature then a bankrupt goes,Full of wreck and full of woes.When the swan for warmer forelandsLeaves the sea-firth’s icebound edge,When the gray geese from the morelandsCleave the clouds in noisy wedge,Woodlands stand in frozen chains,Hung with ropes of solid rains.Shepherds creep to byre and haven,Sheep in drifts are nipped and numb;Some belated rook or ravenRocks upon a sign-post dumb;Mere-waves, solid as a clod,Roar with skaters, thunder-shod.All the roofs and chimneys rumble;Roads are ridged with slush and sleet;Down the orchard apples tumble;Ploughboys stamp their frosty feet;Millers, jolted down the lanes,Hardly feel for cold their reins.Snipes are calling from the trenches,Frozen half and half at flow;In the porches servant wenchesWork with shovels at the snow;Rusty blackbirds, weak of wing,Clean forget they once could sing.Dogs and boys fetch down the cattle,Deep in mire and powdered pale;Spinning-wheels commence to rattle;Landlords spice the smoking ale.Hail, white winter, lady fine,In a cup of elder wine!THE SECOND MADRIGAL.Woothy lass while May is here;Winter vows are colder.Have thy kiss when lips are near;To-morrow you are older.Think, if clear the throstle sing,A month his note will thicken;A throat of gold in a golden springAt the edge of the snow will sicken.Take thy cup and take thy girl,While they come for asking;In thy heyday melt the pearlAt the love-ray basking.Ale is good for careless bards,Wine for wayworn sinners.They who hold the strongest cardsRise from life as winners.

1835.

Whenthe snow begins to feather,And the woods begin to roarClashing angry boughs together,As the breakers grind the shoreNature then a bankrupt goes,Full of wreck and full of woes.When the swan for warmer forelandsLeaves the sea-firth’s icebound edge,When the gray geese from the morelandsCleave the clouds in noisy wedge,Woodlands stand in frozen chains,Hung with ropes of solid rains.Shepherds creep to byre and haven,Sheep in drifts are nipped and numb;Some belated rook or ravenRocks upon a sign-post dumb;Mere-waves, solid as a clod,Roar with skaters, thunder-shod.All the roofs and chimneys rumble;Roads are ridged with slush and sleet;Down the orchard apples tumble;Ploughboys stamp their frosty feet;Millers, jolted down the lanes,Hardly feel for cold their reins.Snipes are calling from the trenches,Frozen half and half at flow;In the porches servant wenchesWork with shovels at the snow;Rusty blackbirds, weak of wing,Clean forget they once could sing.Dogs and boys fetch down the cattle,Deep in mire and powdered pale;Spinning-wheels commence to rattle;Landlords spice the smoking ale.Hail, white winter, lady fine,In a cup of elder wine!

henthe snow begins to feather,

And the woods begin to roar

Clashing angry boughs together,

As the breakers grind the shore

Nature then a bankrupt goes,

Full of wreck and full of woes.

When the swan for warmer forelands

Leaves the sea-firth’s icebound edge,

When the gray geese from the morelands

Cleave the clouds in noisy wedge,

Woodlands stand in frozen chains,

Hung with ropes of solid rains.

Shepherds creep to byre and haven,

Sheep in drifts are nipped and numb;

Some belated rook or raven

Rocks upon a sign-post dumb;

Mere-waves, solid as a clod,

Roar with skaters, thunder-shod.

All the roofs and chimneys rumble;

Roads are ridged with slush and sleet;

Down the orchard apples tumble;

Ploughboys stamp their frosty feet;

Millers, jolted down the lanes,

Hardly feel for cold their reins.

Snipes are calling from the trenches,

Frozen half and half at flow;

In the porches servant wenches

Work with shovels at the snow;

Rusty blackbirds, weak of wing,

Clean forget they once could sing.

Dogs and boys fetch down the cattle,

Deep in mire and powdered pale;

Spinning-wheels commence to rattle;

Landlords spice the smoking ale.

Hail, white winter, lady fine,

In a cup of elder wine!

Woothy lass while May is here;Winter vows are colder.Have thy kiss when lips are near;To-morrow you are older.Think, if clear the throstle sing,A month his note will thicken;A throat of gold in a golden springAt the edge of the snow will sicken.Take thy cup and take thy girl,While they come for asking;In thy heyday melt the pearlAt the love-ray basking.Ale is good for careless bards,Wine for wayworn sinners.They who hold the strongest cardsRise from life as winners.

oothy lass while May is here;

Winter vows are colder.

Have thy kiss when lips are near;

To-morrow you are older.

Think, if clear the throstle sing,

A month his note will thicken;

A throat of gold in a golden spring

At the edge of the snow will sicken.

Take thy cup and take thy girl,

While they come for asking;

In thy heyday melt the pearl

At the love-ray basking.

Ale is good for careless bards,

Wine for wayworn sinners.

They who hold the strongest cards

Rise from life as winners.

AUBREY DE VERE.1788-1846.SONG.I.Softly,O midnight Hours!Move softly o’er the bowersWhere lies in happy sleep a girl so fair!For ye have power, men say,Our hearts in sleep to sway,And cage cold fancies in a moonlight snare.Round ivory neck and armEnclasp a separate charm:Hang o’er her poised; but breathe nor sigh nor prayer:Silently ye may smile,But hold your breath the while,And let the wind sweep back your cloudy hair!II.Bend down your glittering urnsEre yet the dawn returns,And star with dew the lawn her feet shall tread;Upon the air rain balm;Bid all the woods be calm;Ambrosial dreams with healthful slumbers wed.That so the Maiden mayWith smiles your care repayWhen from her couch she lifts her golden head;Waking with earliest birds,Ere yet the misty herdsLeave warm ’mid the grey grass their dusky bed.SONG.Seeknot the tree of silkiest barkAnd balmiest bud,To carve her name—while yet ’t is dark—Upon the wood!The world is full of noble tasksAnd wreaths hard-won:Each work demands strong hearts, strong hands,Till day is done.Sing not that violet-veinèd skin,That cheek’s pale roses;The lily of that form whereinHer soul reposes!Forth to the fight, true man, true knight!The clash of armsShall more prevail than whispered taleTo win her charms.The warrior for the True, the Right,Fights in Love’s name:The love that lures thee from that fightLures thee to shame.That love which lifts the heart, yet leavesThe spirit free,—That love, or none, is fit for one,Man-shaped like thee.SONG.I.WhenI was young, I said to Sorrow,“Come, and I will play with thee:”—He is near me now all day;And at night returns to say,“I will come again to-morrow,I will come and stay with thee.”II.Through the woods we walk together;His soft footsteps rustle nigh me;To shield an unregarded head,He hath built a winter shed;And all night in rainy weather,I hear his gentle breathings by me.

1788-1846.

I.Softly,O midnight Hours!Move softly o’er the bowersWhere lies in happy sleep a girl so fair!For ye have power, men say,Our hearts in sleep to sway,And cage cold fancies in a moonlight snare.Round ivory neck and armEnclasp a separate charm:Hang o’er her poised; but breathe nor sigh nor prayer:Silently ye may smile,But hold your breath the while,And let the wind sweep back your cloudy hair!II.Bend down your glittering urnsEre yet the dawn returns,And star with dew the lawn her feet shall tread;Upon the air rain balm;Bid all the woods be calm;Ambrosial dreams with healthful slumbers wed.That so the Maiden mayWith smiles your care repayWhen from her couch she lifts her golden head;Waking with earliest birds,Ere yet the misty herdsLeave warm ’mid the grey grass their dusky bed.

oftly,O midnight Hours!

Move softly o’er the bowers

Where lies in happy sleep a girl so fair!

For ye have power, men say,

Our hearts in sleep to sway,

And cage cold fancies in a moonlight snare.

Round ivory neck and arm

Enclasp a separate charm:

Hang o’er her poised; but breathe nor sigh nor prayer:

Silently ye may smile,

But hold your breath the while,

And let the wind sweep back your cloudy hair!

Bend down your glittering urns

Ere yet the dawn returns,

And star with dew the lawn her feet shall tread;

Upon the air rain balm;

Bid all the woods be calm;

Ambrosial dreams with healthful slumbers wed.

That so the Maiden may

With smiles your care repay

When from her couch she lifts her golden head;

Waking with earliest birds,

Ere yet the misty herds

Leave warm ’mid the grey grass their dusky bed.

Seeknot the tree of silkiest barkAnd balmiest bud,To carve her name—while yet ’t is dark—Upon the wood!The world is full of noble tasksAnd wreaths hard-won:Each work demands strong hearts, strong hands,Till day is done.Sing not that violet-veinèd skin,That cheek’s pale roses;The lily of that form whereinHer soul reposes!Forth to the fight, true man, true knight!The clash of armsShall more prevail than whispered taleTo win her charms.The warrior for the True, the Right,Fights in Love’s name:The love that lures thee from that fightLures thee to shame.That love which lifts the heart, yet leavesThe spirit free,—That love, or none, is fit for one,Man-shaped like thee.

eeknot the tree of silkiest bark

And balmiest bud,

To carve her name—while yet ’t is dark—

Upon the wood!

The world is full of noble tasks

And wreaths hard-won:

Each work demands strong hearts, strong hands,

Till day is done.

Sing not that violet-veinèd skin,

That cheek’s pale roses;

The lily of that form wherein

Her soul reposes!

Forth to the fight, true man, true knight!

The clash of arms

Shall more prevail than whispered tale

To win her charms.

The warrior for the True, the Right,

Fights in Love’s name:

The love that lures thee from that fight

Lures thee to shame.

That love which lifts the heart, yet leaves

The spirit free,—

That love, or none, is fit for one,

Man-shaped like thee.

I.WhenI was young, I said to Sorrow,“Come, and I will play with thee:”—He is near me now all day;And at night returns to say,“I will come again to-morrow,I will come and stay with thee.”II.Through the woods we walk together;His soft footsteps rustle nigh me;To shield an unregarded head,He hath built a winter shed;And all night in rainy weather,I hear his gentle breathings by me.

henI was young, I said to Sorrow,

“Come, and I will play with thee:”—

He is near me now all day;

And at night returns to say,

“I will come again to-morrow,

I will come and stay with thee.”

Through the woods we walk together;

His soft footsteps rustle nigh me;

To shield an unregarded head,

He hath built a winter shed;

And all night in rainy weather,

I hear his gentle breathings by me.

CHARLES DICKENS.1812-1870.THE IVY GREEN.Oh,a dainty plant is the Ivy green,That creepeth o’er ruins old!Of right choice food are his meals I ween,In his cell so lone and cold.The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,To pleasure his dainty whim:And the mouldering dust that years have madeIs a merry meal for him.Creeping where no life is seen,A rare old plant is the Ivy green.Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,And a staunch old heart has he.How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,To his friend, the huge Oak tree!And slily he traileth along the ground,And his leaves he gently waves,As he joyously hugs and crawleth roundThe rich mould of dead men’s graves.Creeping where grim death has been,A rare old plant is the Ivy green.Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,And nations have scattered been;But the stout old Ivy shall never fadeFrom its hale and hearty green.The brave old plant in its lonely daysShall fatten upon the past:For the stateliest building man can raiseIs the Ivy’s food at last.Creeping on, where time has been,A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

1812-1870.

Oh,a dainty plant is the Ivy green,That creepeth o’er ruins old!Of right choice food are his meals I ween,In his cell so lone and cold.The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,To pleasure his dainty whim:And the mouldering dust that years have madeIs a merry meal for him.Creeping where no life is seen,A rare old plant is the Ivy green.Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,And a staunch old heart has he.How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,To his friend, the huge Oak tree!And slily he traileth along the ground,And his leaves he gently waves,As he joyously hugs and crawleth roundThe rich mould of dead men’s graves.Creeping where grim death has been,A rare old plant is the Ivy green.Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,And nations have scattered been;But the stout old Ivy shall never fadeFrom its hale and hearty green.The brave old plant in its lonely daysShall fatten upon the past:For the stateliest building man can raiseIs the Ivy’s food at last.Creeping on, where time has been,A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

h,a dainty plant is the Ivy green,

That creepeth o’er ruins old!

Of right choice food are his meals I ween,

In his cell so lone and cold.

The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,

To pleasure his dainty whim:

And the mouldering dust that years have made

Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,

And a staunch old heart has he.

How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,

To his friend, the huge Oak tree!

And slily he traileth along the ground,

And his leaves he gently waves,

As he joyously hugs and crawleth round

The rich mould of dead men’s graves.

Creeping where grim death has been,

A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,

And nations have scattered been;

But the stout old Ivy shall never fade

From its hale and hearty green.

The brave old plant in its lonely days

Shall fatten upon the past:

For the stateliest building man can raise

Is the Ivy’s food at last.

Creeping on, where time has been,

A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

AUSTIN DOBSON.1840.THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES’S.A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN.Theladies of St. James’sGo swinging to the play;Their footmen run before them,With a “Stand by! Clear the way!”But Phyllida, my Phyllida!She takes her buckled shoon,When we go out a-courtingBeneath the harvest moon.The ladies of St. James’sWear satin on their backs;They sit all night atOmbre,With candles all of wax:But Phyllida, my Phyllida!She dons her russet gown,And runs to gather May dewBefore the world is down.The ladies of St. James’sThey are so fine and fair,You ’d think a box of essencesWas broken in the air:But Phyllida, my Phyllida!The breath of heath and furze,When breezes blow at morning,Is scarce so fresh as hers.The ladies of St. James’sThey ’re painted to the eyes;Their white it stays forever,Their red it never dies:But Phyllida, my Phyllida!Her color comes and goes;It trembles to a lily,It wavers to a rose.The ladies of St. James’s,With “Mercy!” and with “Lud!”They season all their speeches(They come of noble blood):But Phyllida, my Phyllida!Her shy and simple wordsAre sweet as, after rain-drops,The music of the birds.The ladies of St. James’s,They have their fits and freaks;They smile on you—for seconds,They frown on you—for weeks:But Phyllida, my Phyllida!Come either storm or shine,From Shrovetide unto ShrovetideIs always true—and mine.My Phyllida, my Phyllida!I care not though they heapThe hearts of all St. James’s,And give me all to keep;I care not whose the beautiesOf all the world may be,For Phyllida—for PhyllidaIs all the world to me!“A maid I know,--and March winds blow”THE MILKMAID.A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE.Acrossthe grass I see her pass;She comes with tripping pace,—A maid I know,—and March winds blowHer hair across her face;—With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!Dolly shall be mine,Before the spray is white with May,Or blooms the eglantine.The March winds blow. I watch her go:Her eye is brown and clear;Her cheek is brown and soft as down(To those who see it near!)—With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!Dolly shall be mine,Before the spray is white with May,Or blooms the eglantine.What has she not that they have got,—The dames that walk in silk!If she undo her ’kerchief blue,Her neck is white as milk.With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!Dolly shall be mine,Before the spray is white with May,Or blooms the eglantine.Let those who will be proud and chill!For me, from June to June,My Dolly’s words are sweet as curds,—Her laugh is like a tune;—With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!Dolly shall be mine,Before the spray is white with May,Or blooms the eglantine.Break, break to hear, O crocus-spear!O tall Lent-lilies, flame!There ’ll be a bride at Easter-tide,And Dolly is her name.With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!Dolly shall be mine,Before the spray is white with May,Or blooms the eglantine.

1840.

Theladies of St. James’sGo swinging to the play;Their footmen run before them,With a “Stand by! Clear the way!”But Phyllida, my Phyllida!She takes her buckled shoon,When we go out a-courtingBeneath the harvest moon.The ladies of St. James’sWear satin on their backs;They sit all night atOmbre,With candles all of wax:But Phyllida, my Phyllida!She dons her russet gown,And runs to gather May dewBefore the world is down.The ladies of St. James’sThey are so fine and fair,You ’d think a box of essencesWas broken in the air:But Phyllida, my Phyllida!The breath of heath and furze,When breezes blow at morning,Is scarce so fresh as hers.The ladies of St. James’sThey ’re painted to the eyes;Their white it stays forever,Their red it never dies:But Phyllida, my Phyllida!Her color comes and goes;It trembles to a lily,It wavers to a rose.The ladies of St. James’s,With “Mercy!” and with “Lud!”They season all their speeches(They come of noble blood):But Phyllida, my Phyllida!Her shy and simple wordsAre sweet as, after rain-drops,The music of the birds.The ladies of St. James’s,They have their fits and freaks;They smile on you—for seconds,They frown on you—for weeks:But Phyllida, my Phyllida!Come either storm or shine,From Shrovetide unto ShrovetideIs always true—and mine.My Phyllida, my Phyllida!I care not though they heapThe hearts of all St. James’s,And give me all to keep;I care not whose the beautiesOf all the world may be,For Phyllida—for PhyllidaIs all the world to me!

heladies of St. James’s

Go swinging to the play;

Their footmen run before them,

With a “Stand by! Clear the way!”

But Phyllida, my Phyllida!

She takes her buckled shoon,

When we go out a-courting

Beneath the harvest moon.

The ladies of St. James’s

Wear satin on their backs;

They sit all night atOmbre,

With candles all of wax:

But Phyllida, my Phyllida!

She dons her russet gown,

And runs to gather May dew

Before the world is down.

The ladies of St. James’s

They are so fine and fair,

You ’d think a box of essences

Was broken in the air:

But Phyllida, my Phyllida!

The breath of heath and furze,

When breezes blow at morning,

Is scarce so fresh as hers.

The ladies of St. James’s

They ’re painted to the eyes;

Their white it stays forever,

Their red it never dies:

But Phyllida, my Phyllida!

Her color comes and goes;

It trembles to a lily,

It wavers to a rose.

The ladies of St. James’s,

With “Mercy!” and with “Lud!”

They season all their speeches

(They come of noble blood):

But Phyllida, my Phyllida!

Her shy and simple words

Are sweet as, after rain-drops,

The music of the birds.

The ladies of St. James’s,

They have their fits and freaks;

They smile on you—for seconds,

They frown on you—for weeks:

But Phyllida, my Phyllida!

Come either storm or shine,

From Shrovetide unto Shrovetide

Is always true—and mine.

My Phyllida, my Phyllida!

I care not though they heap

The hearts of all St. James’s,

And give me all to keep;

I care not whose the beauties

Of all the world may be,

For Phyllida—for Phyllida

Is all the world to me!

“A maid I know,--and March winds blow”

Acrossthe grass I see her pass;She comes with tripping pace,—A maid I know,—and March winds blowHer hair across her face;—With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!Dolly shall be mine,Before the spray is white with May,Or blooms the eglantine.The March winds blow. I watch her go:Her eye is brown and clear;Her cheek is brown and soft as down(To those who see it near!)—With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!Dolly shall be mine,Before the spray is white with May,Or blooms the eglantine.What has she not that they have got,—The dames that walk in silk!If she undo her ’kerchief blue,Her neck is white as milk.With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!Dolly shall be mine,Before the spray is white with May,Or blooms the eglantine.Let those who will be proud and chill!For me, from June to June,My Dolly’s words are sweet as curds,—Her laugh is like a tune;—With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!Dolly shall be mine,Before the spray is white with May,Or blooms the eglantine.Break, break to hear, O crocus-spear!O tall Lent-lilies, flame!There ’ll be a bride at Easter-tide,And Dolly is her name.With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!Dolly shall be mine,Before the spray is white with May,Or blooms the eglantine.

crossthe grass I see her pass;

She comes with tripping pace,—

A maid I know,—and March winds blow

Her hair across her face;—

With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!

Dolly shall be mine,

Before the spray is white with May,

Or blooms the eglantine.

The March winds blow. I watch her go:

Her eye is brown and clear;

Her cheek is brown and soft as down

(To those who see it near!)—

With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!

Dolly shall be mine,

Before the spray is white with May,

Or blooms the eglantine.

What has she not that they have got,—

The dames that walk in silk!

If she undo her ’kerchief blue,

Her neck is white as milk.

With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!

Dolly shall be mine,

Before the spray is white with May,

Or blooms the eglantine.

Let those who will be proud and chill!

For me, from June to June,

My Dolly’s words are sweet as curds,—

Her laugh is like a tune;—

With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!

Dolly shall be mine,

Before the spray is white with May,

Or blooms the eglantine.

Break, break to hear, O crocus-spear!

O tall Lent-lilies, flame!

There ’ll be a bride at Easter-tide,

And Dolly is her name.

With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!

Dolly shall be mine,

Before the spray is white with May,

Or blooms the eglantine.

ALFRED DOMETT.1811-1887.A GLEE FOR WINTER.Hence,rude Winter! crabbed old fellow,Never merry, never mellow!Well-a-day! in rain and snowWhat will keep one’s heart aglow?Groups of kinsmen, old and young,Oldest they old friends among!Groups of friends, so old and true,That they seem our kinsmen too!These all merry all together,Charm away chill Winter weather!What will kill this dull old fellow?Ale that ’s bright, and wine that ’s mellow!Dear old songs for ever new;Some true love, and laughter too;Pleasant wit, and harmless fun,And a dance when day is done!Music—friends so true and tried—Whispered love by warm fireside—Mirth at all times all together—Make sweet May of Winter weather!A KISS.SAPPHO TO PHAON.I.Sweetmouth! O let me takeOne draught from that delicious cup!The hot Sahara-thirst to slakeThat burns me up!II.Sweet breath!—all flowers that are,Within that darling frame must bloom;My heart revives so at the rareDivine perfume!III.—Nay, ’t is a dear deceit,A drunkard’s cup that mouth of thine;Sure poison-flowers are breathing, sweet,That fragrance fine!IV.I drank—the drink betrayed meInto a madder, fiercer fever;The scent of those love-blossoms made meMore faint than ever!V.Yet though quick death it wereThat rich heart-vintage I must drain,And quaff that hidden garden’s air,Again—again!

1811-1887.

Hence,rude Winter! crabbed old fellow,Never merry, never mellow!Well-a-day! in rain and snowWhat will keep one’s heart aglow?Groups of kinsmen, old and young,Oldest they old friends among!Groups of friends, so old and true,That they seem our kinsmen too!These all merry all together,Charm away chill Winter weather!What will kill this dull old fellow?Ale that ’s bright, and wine that ’s mellow!Dear old songs for ever new;Some true love, and laughter too;Pleasant wit, and harmless fun,And a dance when day is done!Music—friends so true and tried—Whispered love by warm fireside—Mirth at all times all together—Make sweet May of Winter weather!

ence,rude Winter! crabbed old fellow,

Never merry, never mellow!

Well-a-day! in rain and snow

What will keep one’s heart aglow?

Groups of kinsmen, old and young,

Oldest they old friends among!

Groups of friends, so old and true,

That they seem our kinsmen too!

These all merry all together,

Charm away chill Winter weather!

What will kill this dull old fellow?

Ale that ’s bright, and wine that ’s mellow!

Dear old songs for ever new;

Some true love, and laughter too;

Pleasant wit, and harmless fun,

And a dance when day is done!

Music—friends so true and tried—

Whispered love by warm fireside—

Mirth at all times all together—

Make sweet May of Winter weather!

I.Sweetmouth! O let me takeOne draught from that delicious cup!The hot Sahara-thirst to slakeThat burns me up!II.Sweet breath!—all flowers that are,Within that darling frame must bloom;My heart revives so at the rareDivine perfume!III.—Nay, ’t is a dear deceit,A drunkard’s cup that mouth of thine;Sure poison-flowers are breathing, sweet,That fragrance fine!IV.I drank—the drink betrayed meInto a madder, fiercer fever;The scent of those love-blossoms made meMore faint than ever!V.Yet though quick death it wereThat rich heart-vintage I must drain,And quaff that hidden garden’s air,Again—again!

weetmouth! O let me take

One draught from that delicious cup!

The hot Sahara-thirst to slake

That burns me up!

Sweet breath!—all flowers that are,

Within that darling frame must bloom;

My heart revives so at the rare

Divine perfume!

—Nay, ’t is a dear deceit,

A drunkard’s cup that mouth of thine;

Sure poison-flowers are breathing, sweet,

That fragrance fine!

I drank—the drink betrayed me

Into a madder, fiercer fever;

The scent of those love-blossoms made me

More faint than ever!

Yet though quick death it were

That rich heart-vintage I must drain,

And quaff that hidden garden’s air,

Again—again!

LADY DUFFERIN.1807-1867.SONG.*April 30, 1833.I.Whenanother’s voice thou hearest,With a sad and gentle tone,Let its sound but waken, dearest,Memory ofmylove alone!When in stranger lands thou meetestWarm, true hearts, which welcome thee,Let each friendly look thou greetestSeem a message, Love, fromme!II.When night’s quiet sky is o’er thee,When the pale stars dimly burn,Dream thatoneis watching for thee,Who but lives for thy return!Wheresoe’er thy steps are roving,Night or day, by land or sea,Think of her, whose life of lovingIs but one long thought of thee!*These lines were written to the author’s husband, then at sea, in 1833, and set to music by herself.“That bright May morning long ago”LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.I’msitting on the stile, Mary,Where we sat, side by side,That bright May morning long agoWhen first you were my bride.The corn was springing fresh and green,The lark sang loud and high,The red was on your lip, Mary,The love-light in your eye.The place is little changed, Mary,The day is bright as then,The lark’s loud song is in my ear,The corn is green again;But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,Your breath warm on my cheek,And I still keep list’ning for the wordsYou never more may speak.’T is but a step down yonder lane,The little Church stands near—The Church where we were wed, Mary,—I see the spire from here;But the graveyard lies between, Mary,—My step might break your rest,—Where you, my darling, lie asleepWith your baby on your breast.I ’m very lonely now, Mary,—The poor make no new friends;—But, oh! they love the better stillThe few our Father sends.And you were all I had, Mary,My blessing and my pride;There ’s nothing left to care for nowSince my poor Mary died.Yours was the good brave heart, Mary,That still kept hoping on,When trust in God had left my soul,And half my strength was gone.There was comfort ever on your lip,And the kind look on your brow.I bless you, Mary, for that same,Though you can’t hear me now.I thank you for the patient smileWhen your heart was fit to break;When the hunger pain was gnawing thereYou hid it for my sake.I bless you for the pleasant wordWhen your heart was sad and sore.Oh! I ’m thankful you are gone, Mary,Where grief can’t reach you more!I ’m bidding you a long farewell,My Mary—kind and true!But I ’ll not forget you, darling,In the land I ’m going to.They say there ’s bread and work for all,And the sun shines always there;But I ’ll not forget old Ireland,Were it fifty times as fair.And when amid those grand old woodsI sit and shut my eyes,My heart will travel back againTo where my Mary lies;I ’ll think I see the little stileWhere we sat, side by side,—And the springing corn and bright May morn,When first you were my bride.

1807-1867.

I.Whenanother’s voice thou hearest,With a sad and gentle tone,Let its sound but waken, dearest,Memory ofmylove alone!When in stranger lands thou meetestWarm, true hearts, which welcome thee,Let each friendly look thou greetestSeem a message, Love, fromme!II.When night’s quiet sky is o’er thee,When the pale stars dimly burn,Dream thatoneis watching for thee,Who but lives for thy return!Wheresoe’er thy steps are roving,Night or day, by land or sea,Think of her, whose life of lovingIs but one long thought of thee!

henanother’s voice thou hearest,

With a sad and gentle tone,

Let its sound but waken, dearest,

Memory ofmylove alone!

When in stranger lands thou meetest

Warm, true hearts, which welcome thee,

Let each friendly look thou greetest

Seem a message, Love, fromme!

When night’s quiet sky is o’er thee,

When the pale stars dimly burn,

Dream thatoneis watching for thee,

Who but lives for thy return!

Wheresoe’er thy steps are roving,

Night or day, by land or sea,

Think of her, whose life of loving

Is but one long thought of thee!

*These lines were written to the author’s husband, then at sea, in 1833, and set to music by herself.

“That bright May morning long ago”

I’msitting on the stile, Mary,Where we sat, side by side,That bright May morning long agoWhen first you were my bride.The corn was springing fresh and green,The lark sang loud and high,The red was on your lip, Mary,The love-light in your eye.The place is little changed, Mary,The day is bright as then,The lark’s loud song is in my ear,The corn is green again;But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,Your breath warm on my cheek,And I still keep list’ning for the wordsYou never more may speak.’T is but a step down yonder lane,The little Church stands near—The Church where we were wed, Mary,—I see the spire from here;But the graveyard lies between, Mary,—My step might break your rest,—Where you, my darling, lie asleepWith your baby on your breast.I ’m very lonely now, Mary,—The poor make no new friends;—But, oh! they love the better stillThe few our Father sends.And you were all I had, Mary,My blessing and my pride;There ’s nothing left to care for nowSince my poor Mary died.Yours was the good brave heart, Mary,That still kept hoping on,When trust in God had left my soul,And half my strength was gone.There was comfort ever on your lip,And the kind look on your brow.I bless you, Mary, for that same,Though you can’t hear me now.I thank you for the patient smileWhen your heart was fit to break;When the hunger pain was gnawing thereYou hid it for my sake.I bless you for the pleasant wordWhen your heart was sad and sore.Oh! I ’m thankful you are gone, Mary,Where grief can’t reach you more!I ’m bidding you a long farewell,My Mary—kind and true!But I ’ll not forget you, darling,In the land I ’m going to.They say there ’s bread and work for all,And the sun shines always there;But I ’ll not forget old Ireland,Were it fifty times as fair.And when amid those grand old woodsI sit and shut my eyes,My heart will travel back againTo where my Mary lies;I ’ll think I see the little stileWhere we sat, side by side,—And the springing corn and bright May morn,When first you were my bride.

’msitting on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat, side by side,

That bright May morning long ago

When first you were my bride.

The corn was springing fresh and green,

The lark sang loud and high,

The red was on your lip, Mary,

The love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,

The day is bright as then,

The lark’s loud song is in my ear,

The corn is green again;

But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,

Your breath warm on my cheek,

And I still keep list’ning for the words

You never more may speak.

’T is but a step down yonder lane,

The little Church stands near—

The Church where we were wed, Mary,—

I see the spire from here;

But the graveyard lies between, Mary,—

My step might break your rest,—

Where you, my darling, lie asleep

With your baby on your breast.

I ’m very lonely now, Mary,—

The poor make no new friends;—

But, oh! they love the better still

The few our Father sends.

And you were all I had, Mary,

My blessing and my pride;

There ’s nothing left to care for now

Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good brave heart, Mary,

That still kept hoping on,

When trust in God had left my soul,

And half my strength was gone.

There was comfort ever on your lip,

And the kind look on your brow.

I bless you, Mary, for that same,

Though you can’t hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile

When your heart was fit to break;

When the hunger pain was gnawing there

You hid it for my sake.

I bless you for the pleasant word

When your heart was sad and sore.

Oh! I ’m thankful you are gone, Mary,

Where grief can’t reach you more!

I ’m bidding you a long farewell,

My Mary—kind and true!

But I ’ll not forget you, darling,

In the land I ’m going to.

They say there ’s bread and work for all,

And the sun shines always there;

But I ’ll not forget old Ireland,

Were it fifty times as fair.

And when amid those grand old woods

I sit and shut my eyes,

My heart will travel back again

To where my Mary lies;

I ’ll think I see the little stile

Where we sat, side by side,—

And the springing corn and bright May morn,

When first you were my bride.

MICHAEL FIELD.WINDS TO-DAY ARE LARGE AND FREE.Windsto-day are large and free,Winds to-day are westerly;From the land they seem to blowWhence the sap begins to flowAnd the dimpled light to spread,From the country of the dead.Ah, it is a wild, sweet landWhere the coming May is planned,Where such influences throbAs our frosts can never robOf their triumph, when they boundThrough the tree and from the ground.Great within me is my soul,Great to journey to its goal,To the country of the dead;For the cornel-tips are red,And a passion rich in strifeDrives me toward the home of life.Oh, to keep the spring with themWho have flushed the cornel-stem,Who imagine at its sourceAll the year’s delicious course,Then express by wind and lightSomething of their rapture’s height!LET US WREATHE THE MIGHTY CUP.Letus wreathe the mighty cup,Then with song we ’ll lift it up,And, before we drain the glowOf the juice that foams belowFlowers and cool leaves round the brim,Let us swell the praise of himWho is tyrant of the heart,Cupid with his flaming dart!Pride before his face is bowed,Strength and heedless beauty cowed;Underneath his fatal wingsBend discrowned the heads of kings;Maidens blanch beneath his eyeAnd its laughing mastery;Through each land his arrows sound,By his fetters all are bound.WHERE WINDS ABOUND.Wherewinds abound,And fields are hilly,Shy daffadillyLooks down on the ground.Rose cones of larchAre just beginning;Though oaks are spinningNo oak-leaves in March.Spring ’s at the core,The boughs are sappy:Good to be happySo long, long before!

Windsto-day are large and free,Winds to-day are westerly;From the land they seem to blowWhence the sap begins to flowAnd the dimpled light to spread,From the country of the dead.Ah, it is a wild, sweet landWhere the coming May is planned,Where such influences throbAs our frosts can never robOf their triumph, when they boundThrough the tree and from the ground.Great within me is my soul,Great to journey to its goal,To the country of the dead;For the cornel-tips are red,And a passion rich in strifeDrives me toward the home of life.Oh, to keep the spring with themWho have flushed the cornel-stem,Who imagine at its sourceAll the year’s delicious course,Then express by wind and lightSomething of their rapture’s height!

indsto-day are large and free,

Winds to-day are westerly;

From the land they seem to blow

Whence the sap begins to flow

And the dimpled light to spread,

From the country of the dead.

Ah, it is a wild, sweet land

Where the coming May is planned,

Where such influences throb

As our frosts can never rob

Of their triumph, when they bound

Through the tree and from the ground.

Great within me is my soul,

Great to journey to its goal,

To the country of the dead;

For the cornel-tips are red,

And a passion rich in strife

Drives me toward the home of life.

Oh, to keep the spring with them

Who have flushed the cornel-stem,

Who imagine at its source

All the year’s delicious course,

Then express by wind and light

Something of their rapture’s height!

Letus wreathe the mighty cup,Then with song we ’ll lift it up,And, before we drain the glowOf the juice that foams belowFlowers and cool leaves round the brim,Let us swell the praise of himWho is tyrant of the heart,Cupid with his flaming dart!Pride before his face is bowed,Strength and heedless beauty cowed;Underneath his fatal wingsBend discrowned the heads of kings;Maidens blanch beneath his eyeAnd its laughing mastery;Through each land his arrows sound,By his fetters all are bound.

etus wreathe the mighty cup,

Then with song we ’ll lift it up,

And, before we drain the glow

Of the juice that foams below

Flowers and cool leaves round the brim,

Let us swell the praise of him

Who is tyrant of the heart,

Cupid with his flaming dart!

Pride before his face is bowed,

Strength and heedless beauty cowed;

Underneath his fatal wings

Bend discrowned the heads of kings;

Maidens blanch beneath his eye

And its laughing mastery;

Through each land his arrows sound,

By his fetters all are bound.

Wherewinds abound,And fields are hilly,Shy daffadillyLooks down on the ground.Rose cones of larchAre just beginning;Though oaks are spinningNo oak-leaves in March.Spring ’s at the core,The boughs are sappy:Good to be happySo long, long before!

herewinds abound,

And fields are hilly,

Shy daffadilly

Looks down on the ground.

Rose cones of larch

Are just beginning;

Though oaks are spinning

No oak-leaves in March.

Spring ’s at the core,

The boughs are sappy:

Good to be happy

So long, long before!

NORMAN GALE.1862.A SONG.Firstthe fine, faint, dreamy motionOf the tender bloodCircling in the veins of children—This is Life, the bud.Next the fresh, advancing beautyGrowing from the gloom,Waking eyes and fuller bosom—This is Life, the bloom.Then the pain that follows after,Grievous to be borne,Pricking, steeped in subtle poison—This is Love, the thorn.SONG.Waitbut a little while—The bird will bringA heart in tune for melodiesUnto the spring,Till he who ’s in the cedar thereIs moved to trill a song so rare,And pipe her fair.Wait but a little while—The bud will break;The inner rose will ope and glowFor summer’s sake;Fond bees will lodge within her breastTill she herself is plucked and prestWhere I would rest.Wait but a little while—The maid will growGracious with lips and hands to thee,With breast of snow.To-day Love ’s mute, but time hath sownA soul in her to match thine own,Though yet ungrown.

1862.

Firstthe fine, faint, dreamy motionOf the tender bloodCircling in the veins of children—This is Life, the bud.Next the fresh, advancing beautyGrowing from the gloom,Waking eyes and fuller bosom—This is Life, the bloom.Then the pain that follows after,Grievous to be borne,Pricking, steeped in subtle poison—This is Love, the thorn.

irstthe fine, faint, dreamy motion

Of the tender blood

Circling in the veins of children—

This is Life, the bud.

Next the fresh, advancing beauty

Growing from the gloom,

Waking eyes and fuller bosom—

This is Life, the bloom.

Then the pain that follows after,

Grievous to be borne,

Pricking, steeped in subtle poison—

This is Love, the thorn.

Waitbut a little while—The bird will bringA heart in tune for melodiesUnto the spring,Till he who ’s in the cedar thereIs moved to trill a song so rare,And pipe her fair.Wait but a little while—The bud will break;The inner rose will ope and glowFor summer’s sake;Fond bees will lodge within her breastTill she herself is plucked and prestWhere I would rest.Wait but a little while—The maid will growGracious with lips and hands to thee,With breast of snow.To-day Love ’s mute, but time hath sownA soul in her to match thine own,Though yet ungrown.

aitbut a little while—

The bird will bring

A heart in tune for melodies

Unto the spring,

Till he who ’s in the cedar there

Is moved to trill a song so rare,

And pipe her fair.

Wait but a little while—

The bud will break;

The inner rose will ope and glow

For summer’s sake;

Fond bees will lodge within her breast

Till she herself is plucked and prest

Where I would rest.

Wait but a little while—

The maid will grow

Gracious with lips and hands to thee,

With breast of snow.

To-day Love ’s mute, but time hath sown

A soul in her to match thine own,

Though yet ungrown.

EDMUND GOSSE.1849.SONG FOR THE LUTE.Ibringa garland for your headOf blossoms fresh and fair;My own hands wound their white and redTo ring about your hair:Here is a lily, here a rose,A warm narcissus that scarce blows,And fairer blossoms no man knows.So crowned and chapleted with flowers,I pray you be not proud;For after brief and summer hoursComes autumn with a shroud;—Though fragrant as a flower you lie,You and your garland, bye and bye,Will fade and wither up and die.

1849.

Ibringa garland for your headOf blossoms fresh and fair;My own hands wound their white and redTo ring about your hair:Here is a lily, here a rose,A warm narcissus that scarce blows,And fairer blossoms no man knows.So crowned and chapleted with flowers,I pray you be not proud;For after brief and summer hoursComes autumn with a shroud;—Though fragrant as a flower you lie,You and your garland, bye and bye,Will fade and wither up and die.

bringa garland for your head

Of blossoms fresh and fair;

My own hands wound their white and red

To ring about your hair:

Here is a lily, here a rose,

A warm narcissus that scarce blows,

And fairer blossoms no man knows.

So crowned and chapleted with flowers,

I pray you be not proud;

For after brief and summer hours

Comes autumn with a shroud;—

Though fragrant as a flower you lie,

You and your garland, bye and bye,

Will fade and wither up and die.

THOMAS HOOD.1798-1845.BALLAD.I.Itwas not in the winterOur loving lot was cast;It was the time of roses,—We plucked them as we passed;II.That churlish season never frownedOn early lovers yet:—Oh, no—the world was newly crownedWith flowers when first we met!III.’T was twilight, and I bade you go,But still you held me fast;It was the time of roses,—We plucked them as we passed.—SONG.OLady,leave thy silken threadAnd flowery tapestrie:There ’s living roses on the bush,And blossoms on the tree;Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless handSome random bud will meet;Thou canst not tread, but thou wilt findThe daisy at thy feet.’T is like the birthday of the world,When earth was born in bloom;The light is made of many dyes,The air is all perfume;There ’s crimson buds, and white and blue—The very rainbow showersHave turned to blossoms where they fell,And sown the earth with flowers.There ’s fairy tulips in the east,The garden of the sun;The very streams reflect the hues,And blossom as they run:While Morn opes like a crimson rose,Still wet with pearly showers;Then, Lady, leave the silken threadThou twinest into flowers!“I remember, I remember”I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.Iremember,I remember,The house where I was born,The little window where the sunCame peeping in at morn;He never came a wink too soon,Nor brought too long a day,But now, I often wish the nightHad borne my breath away!I remember, I remember,The roses, red and white,The vi’lets, and the lily-cups,Those flowers made of light!The lilacs where the robin built,And where my brother setThe laburnum on his birthday,—The tree is living yet!I remember, I rememberWhere I was used to swing,And thought the air must rush as freshTo swallows on the wing;My spirit flew in feathers then,That is so heavy now,And summer pools could hardly coolThe fever on my brow!I remember, I rememberThe fir trees dark and high;I used to think their slender topsWere close against the sky:It was a childish ignorance,But now ’t is little joyTo know I ’m farther off from heav’nThan when I was a boy.BALLAD.She’s up and gone, the graceless Girl!And robbed my failing years;My blood before was thin and coldBut now ’t is turned to tears;—My shadow falls upon my grave,So near the brink I stand,She might have stayed a little yet,And led me by the hand!Ay, call her on the barren moor,And call her on the hill,’T is nothing but the heron’s cry,And plover’s answer shrill;My child is flown on wilder wings,Than they have ever spread,And I may even walk a wasteThat widened when she fled.Full many a thankless child has been,But never one like mine;Her meat was served on plates of gold,Her drink was rosy wine;But now she ’ll share the robin’s food,And sup the common rill,Before her feet will turn againTo meet her father’s will!SONG.I.Thestars are with the voyagerWherever he may sail;The moon is constant to her time;The sun will never fail;But follow, follow round the world,The green earth and the sea;So love is with the lover’s heart,Wherever he may be.II.Wherever he may be, the starsMust daily lose their light;The moon will veil her in the shade;The sun will set at night.The sun may set, but constant loveWill shine when he ’s away;So that dull night is never night,And day is brighter day.

1798-1845.

Itwas not in the winterOur loving lot was cast;It was the time of roses,—We plucked them as we passed;II.That churlish season never frownedOn early lovers yet:—Oh, no—the world was newly crownedWith flowers when first we met!III.’T was twilight, and I bade you go,But still you held me fast;It was the time of roses,—We plucked them as we passed.—

twas not in the winter

Our loving lot was cast;

It was the time of roses,—

We plucked them as we passed;

That churlish season never frowned

On early lovers yet:—

Oh, no—the world was newly crowned

With flowers when first we met!

’T was twilight, and I bade you go,

But still you held me fast;

It was the time of roses,—

We plucked them as we passed.—

OLady,leave thy silken threadAnd flowery tapestrie:There ’s living roses on the bush,And blossoms on the tree;Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless handSome random bud will meet;Thou canst not tread, but thou wilt findThe daisy at thy feet.’T is like the birthday of the world,When earth was born in bloom;The light is made of many dyes,The air is all perfume;There ’s crimson buds, and white and blue—The very rainbow showersHave turned to blossoms where they fell,And sown the earth with flowers.There ’s fairy tulips in the east,The garden of the sun;The very streams reflect the hues,And blossom as they run:While Morn opes like a crimson rose,Still wet with pearly showers;Then, Lady, leave the silken threadThou twinest into flowers!

Lady,leave thy silken thread

And flowery tapestrie:

There ’s living roses on the bush,

And blossoms on the tree;

Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand

Some random bud will meet;

Thou canst not tread, but thou wilt find

The daisy at thy feet.

’T is like the birthday of the world,

When earth was born in bloom;

The light is made of many dyes,

The air is all perfume;

There ’s crimson buds, and white and blue—

The very rainbow showers

Have turned to blossoms where they fell,

And sown the earth with flowers.

There ’s fairy tulips in the east,

The garden of the sun;

The very streams reflect the hues,

And blossom as they run:

While Morn opes like a crimson rose,

Still wet with pearly showers;

Then, Lady, leave the silken thread

Thou twinest into flowers!

“I remember, I remember”

Iremember,I remember,The house where I was born,The little window where the sunCame peeping in at morn;He never came a wink too soon,Nor brought too long a day,But now, I often wish the nightHad borne my breath away!I remember, I remember,The roses, red and white,The vi’lets, and the lily-cups,Those flowers made of light!The lilacs where the robin built,And where my brother setThe laburnum on his birthday,—The tree is living yet!I remember, I rememberWhere I was used to swing,And thought the air must rush as freshTo swallows on the wing;My spirit flew in feathers then,That is so heavy now,And summer pools could hardly coolThe fever on my brow!I remember, I rememberThe fir trees dark and high;I used to think their slender topsWere close against the sky:It was a childish ignorance,But now ’t is little joyTo know I ’m farther off from heav’nThan when I was a boy.

remember,I remember,

The house where I was born,

The little window where the sun

Came peeping in at morn;

He never came a wink too soon,

Nor brought too long a day,

But now, I often wish the night

Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember,

The roses, red and white,

The vi’lets, and the lily-cups,

Those flowers made of light!

The lilacs where the robin built,

And where my brother set

The laburnum on his birthday,—

The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember

Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air must rush as fresh

To swallows on the wing;

My spirit flew in feathers then,

That is so heavy now,

And summer pools could hardly cool

The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember

The fir trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops

Were close against the sky:

It was a childish ignorance,

But now ’t is little joy

To know I ’m farther off from heav’n

Than when I was a boy.

She’s up and gone, the graceless Girl!And robbed my failing years;My blood before was thin and coldBut now ’t is turned to tears;—My shadow falls upon my grave,So near the brink I stand,She might have stayed a little yet,And led me by the hand!Ay, call her on the barren moor,And call her on the hill,’T is nothing but the heron’s cry,And plover’s answer shrill;My child is flown on wilder wings,Than they have ever spread,And I may even walk a wasteThat widened when she fled.Full many a thankless child has been,But never one like mine;Her meat was served on plates of gold,Her drink was rosy wine;But now she ’ll share the robin’s food,And sup the common rill,Before her feet will turn againTo meet her father’s will!

he’s up and gone, the graceless Girl!

And robbed my failing years;

My blood before was thin and cold

But now ’t is turned to tears;—

My shadow falls upon my grave,

So near the brink I stand,

She might have stayed a little yet,

And led me by the hand!

Ay, call her on the barren moor,

And call her on the hill,

’T is nothing but the heron’s cry,

And plover’s answer shrill;

My child is flown on wilder wings,

Than they have ever spread,

And I may even walk a waste

That widened when she fled.

Full many a thankless child has been,

But never one like mine;

Her meat was served on plates of gold,

Her drink was rosy wine;

But now she ’ll share the robin’s food,

And sup the common rill,

Before her feet will turn again

To meet her father’s will!

I.Thestars are with the voyagerWherever he may sail;The moon is constant to her time;The sun will never fail;But follow, follow round the world,The green earth and the sea;So love is with the lover’s heart,Wherever he may be.II.Wherever he may be, the starsMust daily lose their light;The moon will veil her in the shade;The sun will set at night.The sun may set, but constant loveWill shine when he ’s away;So that dull night is never night,And day is brighter day.

hestars are with the voyager

Wherever he may sail;

The moon is constant to her time;

The sun will never fail;

But follow, follow round the world,

The green earth and the sea;

So love is with the lover’s heart,

Wherever he may be.

Wherever he may be, the stars

Must daily lose their light;

The moon will veil her in the shade;

The sun will set at night.

The sun may set, but constant love

Will shine when he ’s away;

So that dull night is never night,

And day is brighter day.

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES(LORD HOUGHTON).1809-1885.THE BROOKSIDE.Iwanderedby the brook-side,I wandered by the mill,—I could not hear the brook flow,The noisy wheel was still;There was no burr of grasshopper,No chirp of any bird,But the beating of my own heartWas all the sound I heard.I sat beside the elm-tree,I watched the long, long, shade,And as it grew still longer,I did not feel afraid;For I listened for a footfall,I listened for a word,—But the beating of my own heartWas all the sound I heard.He came not,—no, he came not,—The night came on alone,—The little stars sat one by one,Each on his golden throne;The evening air passed by my cheek,The leaves above were stirred,—But the beating of my own heartWas all the sound I heard.Fast silent tears were flowing,When something stood behind,—A hand was on my shoulder,I knew its touch was kind:It drew me nearer—nearer,—We did not speak one word,For the beating of our own heartsWas all the sound we heard.I wandered by the brook-sideTHE VENETIAN SERENADE.Whenalong the light ripple the far serenadeHas accosted the ear of each passionate maid,She may open the window that looks on the stream,—She may smile on her pillow and blend it in dream;Half in words, half in music, it pierces the gloom,“I am coming—Stalì*—but you know not for whom!Stalì—not for whom!”Now the tones become clearer,—you hear more and moreHow the water divided returns on the oar,—Does the prow of the Gondola strike on the stair?Do the voices and instruments pause and prepare?Oh! they faint on the ear as the lamp on the view,“I am passing—Premì—but I stay not for you!Premì—not for you!”Then return to your couch, you who stifle a tear,Then awake not, fair sleeper—believe he is here;For the young and the loving no sorrow endures,If to-day be another’s,—to-morrow is yours;May, the next time you listen, your fancy be true,“I am coming—Sciàr—and for you and to you!Sciàr—and to you!”*The words here used are the calls of the gondoliers, indicating the direction they are rowing. “Sciàr” is to stop the boat.FROM LOVE AND NATURE.TheSun came through the frosty mistMost like a dead-white moon;Thy soothing tones I seemed to list,As voices in a swoon.Still as an island stood our ship,The waters gave no sound,But when I touched thy quivering lipI felt the world go round.We seemed the only sentient thingsUpon that silent sea:Our hearts the only living springsOf all that yet could be!

1809-1885.

Iwanderedby the brook-side,I wandered by the mill,—I could not hear the brook flow,The noisy wheel was still;There was no burr of grasshopper,No chirp of any bird,But the beating of my own heartWas all the sound I heard.I sat beside the elm-tree,I watched the long, long, shade,And as it grew still longer,I did not feel afraid;For I listened for a footfall,I listened for a word,—But the beating of my own heartWas all the sound I heard.He came not,—no, he came not,—The night came on alone,—The little stars sat one by one,Each on his golden throne;The evening air passed by my cheek,The leaves above were stirred,—But the beating of my own heartWas all the sound I heard.Fast silent tears were flowing,When something stood behind,—A hand was on my shoulder,I knew its touch was kind:It drew me nearer—nearer,—We did not speak one word,For the beating of our own heartsWas all the sound we heard.

wanderedby the brook-side,

I wandered by the mill,—

I could not hear the brook flow,

The noisy wheel was still;

There was no burr of grasshopper,

No chirp of any bird,

But the beating of my own heart

Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beside the elm-tree,

I watched the long, long, shade,

And as it grew still longer,

I did not feel afraid;

For I listened for a footfall,

I listened for a word,—

But the beating of my own heart

Was all the sound I heard.

He came not,—no, he came not,—

The night came on alone,—

The little stars sat one by one,

Each on his golden throne;

The evening air passed by my cheek,

The leaves above were stirred,—

But the beating of my own heart

Was all the sound I heard.

Fast silent tears were flowing,

When something stood behind,—

A hand was on my shoulder,

I knew its touch was kind:

It drew me nearer—nearer,—

We did not speak one word,

For the beating of our own hearts

Was all the sound we heard.

I wandered by the brook-side

Whenalong the light ripple the far serenadeHas accosted the ear of each passionate maid,She may open the window that looks on the stream,—She may smile on her pillow and blend it in dream;Half in words, half in music, it pierces the gloom,“I am coming—Stalì*—but you know not for whom!Stalì—not for whom!”Now the tones become clearer,—you hear more and moreHow the water divided returns on the oar,—Does the prow of the Gondola strike on the stair?Do the voices and instruments pause and prepare?Oh! they faint on the ear as the lamp on the view,“I am passing—Premì—but I stay not for you!Premì—not for you!”Then return to your couch, you who stifle a tear,Then awake not, fair sleeper—believe he is here;For the young and the loving no sorrow endures,If to-day be another’s,—to-morrow is yours;May, the next time you listen, your fancy be true,“I am coming—Sciàr—and for you and to you!Sciàr—and to you!”

henalong the light ripple the far serenade

Has accosted the ear of each passionate maid,

She may open the window that looks on the stream,—

She may smile on her pillow and blend it in dream;

Half in words, half in music, it pierces the gloom,

“I am coming—Stalì*—but you know not for whom!

Stalì—not for whom!”

Now the tones become clearer,—you hear more and more

How the water divided returns on the oar,—

Does the prow of the Gondola strike on the stair?

Do the voices and instruments pause and prepare?

Oh! they faint on the ear as the lamp on the view,

“I am passing—Premì—but I stay not for you!

Premì—not for you!”

Then return to your couch, you who stifle a tear,

Then awake not, fair sleeper—believe he is here;

For the young and the loving no sorrow endures,

If to-day be another’s,—to-morrow is yours;

May, the next time you listen, your fancy be true,

“I am coming—Sciàr—and for you and to you!

Sciàr—and to you!”

*The words here used are the calls of the gondoliers, indicating the direction they are rowing. “Sciàr” is to stop the boat.

TheSun came through the frosty mistMost like a dead-white moon;Thy soothing tones I seemed to list,As voices in a swoon.Still as an island stood our ship,The waters gave no sound,But when I touched thy quivering lipI felt the world go round.We seemed the only sentient thingsUpon that silent sea:Our hearts the only living springsOf all that yet could be!

heSun came through the frosty mist

Most like a dead-white moon;

Thy soothing tones I seemed to list,

As voices in a swoon.

Still as an island stood our ship,

The waters gave no sound,

But when I touched thy quivering lip

I felt the world go round.

We seemed the only sentient things

Upon that silent sea:

Our hearts the only living springs

Of all that yet could be!

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