JEAN INGELOW.

JEAN INGELOW.1830.THE LONG WHITE SEAM.AsI came round the harbor buoy,The lights began to gleam,No wave the land-locked water stirred,The crags were white as cream;And I marked my love by candle-lightSewing her long white seam.It ’s aye sewing ashore, my dear,Watch and steer at sea,It ’s reef and furl, and haul the line,Set sail and think of thee.I climbed to reach her cottage door;O sweetly my love sings!Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth,My soul to meet it springsAs the shining water leaped of old,When stirred by angel wings.Aye longing to list anew,Awake and in my dream,But never a song she sang like this,Sewing her long white seam.Fair fall the lights, the harbor lights,That brought me in to thee,And peace drop down on that low roofFor the sight that I did see,And the voice, my dear, that rang so clearAll for the love of me.For O, for O, with brows bent lowBy the candle’s flickering gleam,Her wedding gown it was she wrought,Sewing the long white seam.LOVE.FROM “SONGS OF SEVEN.”Ileanedout of window, I smelt the white clover,Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate;“Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover—Hush, nightingale, hush! O, sweet nightingale, waitTill I listen and hearIf a step draweth near,For my love he is late!“The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer,A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree,The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer:To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see?Let the star-clusters grow,Let the sweet waters flow,And cross quickly to me.“You night moths that hover where honey brims overFrom sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep;You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discoverTo him that comes darkling along the rough steep.Ah, my sailor, make haste,For the time runs to waste,And my love lieth deep—“Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover,I ’ve conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night.”By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover,Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight;But I ’ll love him more, moreThan e’er wife loved before,Be the days dark or bright.SWEET IS CHILDHOOD.Sweetis childhood—childhood ’s over,Kiss and part.Sweet is youth; but youth ’s a rover—So ’s my heart.Sweet is rest; but by all showingToil is nigh.We must go. Alas! the going,Say “good-bye.”CHARLES KINGSLEY.1819-1875.AIRLY BEACON.AirlyBeacon, Airly Beacon;Oh the pleasant sight to seeShires and towns from Airly Beacon,While my love climbed up to me!Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;Oh the happy hours we layDeep in fern on Airly Beacon,Courting through the summer’s day!Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;Oh the weary haunt for me,All alone on Airly Beacon,With his baby on my knee!THE SANDS OF DEE.“Oh,Mary, go and call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,And call the cattle homeAcross the sands of Dee;”The western wind was wild and dark with foam,And all alone went she.The western tide crept up along the sand,And o’er and o’er the sand,And round and round the sand,As far as eye could see.The rolling mist came down and hid the land:And never home came she.“Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—A tress of golden hair,A drownèd maiden’s hairAbove the nets at sea?”Was never salmon yet that shone so fairAmong the stakes on Dee.They rowed her in across the rolling foam,The cruel crawling foam,The cruel hungry foam,To her grave beside the sea:But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle homeAcross the sands of Dee.“Three fishers went sailing away to the West”THREE FISHERS WENT SAILING.Threefishers went sailing away to the West,Away to the West as the sun went down;Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,And the children stood watching them out of the town;For men must work, and women must weep,And there ’s little to earn, and many to keep,Though the harbor bar be moaning.Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.But men must work, and women must weep,Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,And the harbor bar be moaning.Three corpses lay out on the shining sandsIn the morning gleam as the tide went down,And the women are weeping and wringing their handsFor those who will never come home to the town;For men must work, and women must weep,And the sooner it ’s over, the sooner to sleep;And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.A FAREWELL.To C. E. G.—1856.Myfairest child, I have no song to give you;No lark could pipe in skies so dull and gray;Yet, if you will, one quiet hint I ’ll leave you,For every day.I ’ll tell you how to sing a clearer carolThan lark who hails the dawn of breezy down;To earn yourself a purer poet’s laurelThan Shakespeare’s crown.Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever;Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long;And so make Life, and Death, and that For Ever,One grand sweet song.WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.1775-1864.ROSE AYLMER.Ah,what avails the sceptered race!Ah, what the form divine!What every virtue, every grace!Rose Aylmer, all were thine.Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyesMay weep, but never see,A night of memories and of sighsI consecrate to thee.RUBIES.OftenI have heard it saidThat her lips are ruby-red.Little heed I what they say,I have seen as red as they.Ere she smiled on other men,Real rubies were they then.When she kissed me once in play,Rubies were less bright than they,And less bright were those which shoneIn the palace of the Sun.Will they be as bright again?Not if kissed by other men.THE FAULT IS NOT MINE.Thefault is not mine if I love you too much,I loved you too little too long,Such ever your graces, your tenderness such,And the music the heart gave the tongue.A time is now coming when Love must be gone,Tho’ he never abandoned me yet.Acknowledge our friendship, our passion disown,Our follies (ah can you?) forget.UNDER THE LINDENS.Underthe lindens lately satA couple, and no more, in chat;I wondered what they would be atUnder the lindens.I saw four eyes and four lips meet,I heard the words,“How sweet! how sweet!”Had then the Faeries given a treatUnder the lindens?I pondered long and could not tellWhat dainty pleased them both so well:Bees! bees! was it your hydromelUnder the lindens?SIXTEEN.InClementina’s artless mienLucilla asks me what I see,—And are the roses of sixteenEnough for me?Lucilla asks, if that be all,Have I not culled as sweet before?Ah yes, Lucilla! and their fallI still deplore.I now behold another scene,Where Pleasure beams with heaven’s own light,—More pure, more constant, more serene,And not less bright:Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose,Whose chain of flowers no force can sever,And Modesty, who, when she goes,Is gone forever!IANTHE.ThankHeaven, Ianthe, once againOur hands and ardent lips shall meet,And Pleasure, to assert his reign,Scatter ten thousand kisses sweet:Then cease repeating while you mourn,“I wonder when he will return.”Ah wherefore should you so admireThe flowing words that fill my song,Why call them artless, yet require“Some promise from that tuneful tongue?”I doubt if heaven itself could partA tuneful tongue and tender heart.IantheONE LOVELY NAME.Onelovely name adorns my song,And, dwelling in the heart,For ever falters at the tongue,And trembles to depart.FORSAKEN.Mother,I can not mind my wheel;My fingers ache, my lips are dry;Oh! if you felt the pain I feel!But oh, who ever felt as I!No longer could I doubt him true,All other men may use deceit;He always said my eyes were blue,And often swore my lips were sweet.FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON.1821-1895.A GARDEN LYRIC.The flow of life is yet a rillThat laughs, and leaps, and glistens;And still the woodland rings, and stillThe old Damœtas listens.Wehave loiter’d and laugh’d in the flowery croft,We have met under wintry skies;Her voice is the dearest voice, and softIs the light in her gentle eyes;It is bliss in the silent woods, amongGay crowds, or in any placeTo hear her voice, to gaze on her youngConfiding face.For ever may roses divinely blow,And wine-dark pansies charmBy the prim box path where I felt the glowOf her dimpled, trusting arm,And the sweep of her silk as she turned and smiledA smile as pure as her pearls;The breeze was in love with the darling Child,As it moved her curls.She showed me her ferns and woodbine-sprays,Foxglove and jasmine stars,A mist of blue in the beds, a blazeOf red in the celadon jars:And velvety bees in convolvulus bells,And roses of bountiful June—Oh, who would think their summer spellsCould die so soon!For a glad song came from the milking shed,On a wind of the summer south,And the green was golden above her head,And a sunbeam kiss’d her mouth;Sweet were the lips where that sunbeam dwelt;And the wings of Time were fleetAs I gazed; and neither spoke, for we feltLife was so sweet!And the odorous limes were dim aboveAs we leant on a drooping bough;And the darkling air was a breath of love,And a witching thrush sang “Now!”For the sun dropt low, and the twilight grewAs we listen’d and sigh’d, and leant;That day was the sweetest day—and we knewWhat the sweetness meant.THE CUCKOO.Weheard it calling, clear and low,That tender April morn; we stoodAnd listened in the quiet wood,We heard it, ay, long years ago.It came, and with a strange, sweet cry,A friend, but from a far-off land;We stood and listened, hand in hand,And heart to heart, my Love and I.In dreamland then we found our joy,And so it seemed as ’t were the BirdThat Helen in old times had heardAt noon beneath the oaks of Troy.O time far off, and yet so near!It came to her in that hush’d grove,It warbled while the wooing throve,It sang the song she loved to hear.And now I hear its voice again,And still its message is of peace,It sings of love that will not cease—For me it never sings in vain.GERTRUDE’S NECKLACE.AsGertrude skipt from babe to girl,Her Necklace lengthen’d, pearl by pearl;Year after year it grew, and grew,For every birthday gave her two.Her neck is lovely,—soft and fair,And now her Necklace glimmers there.So cradled, let it fall and rise,And all her graces symbolize.Perchance this pearl, without a speck,Once was as warm on Sappho’s neck;Where are the happy, twilight pearlsThat braided Beatrice’s curls?Is Gerty loved? Is Gerty loth?Or, if she ’s either, is she both?She ’s fancy free, but sweeter farThan many plighted maidens are:Will Gerty smile us all away,And still be Gerty? Who can say?But let her wear her Precious Toy,And I ’ll rejoice to see her joy:Her bauble ’s only one degreeLess frail, less fugitive than we,For time, ere long, will snap the skein,And scatter all her Pearls again.Gertrude’s NecklaceSAMUEL LOVER.1797-1868.THE ANGEL’S WHISPER.*Ababywas sleeping,Its mother was weeping,For the husband was far on the wild raging Sea;And the tempest was swellingRound the fisherman’s dwelling;And she cried, “Dermot darling, oh come back to me!”Her beads while she numbered,The baby still slumbered,And smiled in her face as she bended her knee;“O blest be that warning,My child thy sleep adorning,For I know that the angels are whispering with thee!“And while they are keepingBright watch o’er thy sleeping,Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me!And say thou wouldst ratherThey ’d watch o’er thy father;For I know that the angels are whispering with thee!”The dawn of the morningSaw Dermot returning,And the wife wept with joy her babe’s father to see;And closely caressingHer child, with a blessing,Said, “I knew that the angels were whispering with thee!”*A superstition of great beauty prevails in Ireland that when a child smiles in its sleep it is “talking with angels.”WHAT WILL YOU DO, LOVE?I.“Whatwill you do, love, when I am goingWith white sail flowing,The seas beyond—What will you do, love, when waves divide us,And friends may chide usFor being fond?”“Tho’ waves divide us—and friends be chiding,In faith abiding,I ’ll still be true!And I ’ll pray for thee on the stormy ocean,In deep devotion—That ’s what I ’ll do!”II.“What would you do, love, if distant tidingsThy fond confidingsShould undermine?—And I abiding ’neath sultry skies,Should think other eyesWere as bright as thine?”“Oh, name it not:—tho’ guilt and shameWere on thy nameI ’d still be true:But that heart of thine—should another share it—I could not bear it!What would I do?”III.“What would you do, love, when home returningWith hopes high burning,With wealth for you,If my bark, which bounded o’er foreign foam,Should be lost near home—Ah! what would you do?”—“So thou wert spared—I ’d bless the morrow,In want and sorrow,That left me you;And I ’d welcome thee from the wasting billow,This heart thy pillow—That ’s what I ’d do!”CHARLES MACKAY.1814-1889.I LOVE MY LOVE.I.Whatis the meaning of the songThat rings so clear and loud,Thou nightingale amid the copse—Thou lark above the cloud?What says the song, thou joyous thrush,Up in the walnut-tree?“I love my Love, because I knowMy Love loves me.”II.What is the meaning of thy thought,O maiden fair and young?There is such pleasure in thine eyes,Such music on thy tongue;There is such glory on thy face—What can the meaning be?“I love my Love, because I knowMy Love loves me.”III.O happy words! at Beauty’s feetWe sing them ere our prime;And when the early summers pass,And Care comes on with Time,Still be it ours, in Care’s despite,To join the chorus free—“I love my Love, because I knowMy Love loves me.”O YE TEARS!Oyetears! O ye tears! that have long refused to flow,Ye are welcome to my heart,—thawing, thawing, like the snow;I feel the hard clod soften, and the early snow-drop spring,And the healing fountains gush, and the wildernesses sing.O ye tears! O ye tears! I am thankful that ye run;Though ye trickle in the darkness, ye shall glitter in the sun.The rainbow cannot shine if the rain refuse to fall,And the eyes that cannot weep are the saddest eyes of all.O ye tears! O ye tears! till I felt you on my cheek,I was selfish in my sorrow, I was stubborn, I was weak.Ye have given me strength to conquer, and I stand erect and free,And know that I am human by the light of sympathy.O ye tears! O ye tears! ye relieve me of my pain:The barren rock of pride has been stricken once again;Like the rock that Moses smote, amid Horeb’s burning sand,It yields the flowing water to make gladness in the land.There is light upon my path, there is sunshine in my heart,And the leaf and fruit of life shall not utterly depart.Ye restore to me the freshness and the bloom of long ago—O ye tears! happy tears! I am thankful that ye flow!FRANCIS MAHONEY.1805-1866.THE BELLS OF SHANDON.Sabbata pango;Funera plango;Solemnia clango.—Inscription on an old bell.Withdeep affectionAnd recollectionI often think ofThose Shandon bells,Whose sounds so wild would,In the days of childhood,Fling round my cradleTheir magic spells.On this I ponderWhere’er I wander,And thus grow fonder,Sweet Cork, of thee,—With thy bells of Shandon,That sound so grand onThe pleasant watersOf the river Lee.I ’ve heard bells chimingFull many a clime in,Tolling sublime inCathedral shrine,While at a glibe rateBrass tongues would vibrate;But all their musicSpoke naught like thine.For memory, dwellingOn each proud swellingOf thy belfry, knellingIts bold notes free,Made the bells of ShandonSound far more grand onThe pleasant watersOf the river Lee.I ’ve heard bells tollingOld Adrian’s Mole in,Their thunder rollingFrom the Vatican,—And cymbals gloriousSwinging uproariousIn the gorgeous turretsOf Notre Dame;But thy sounds were sweeterThan the dome of PeterFlings o’er the Tiber,Pealing solemnly.Oh! the bells of ShandonSound far more grand onThe pleasant watersOf the river Lee.There ’s a bell in Moscow;While on tower and kiosk OIn St. SophiaThe Turkman gets,And loud in airCalls men to prayer,From the tapering summitOf tall minarets.Such empty phantomI freely grant them;But there ’s an anthemMore dear to me,—’T is the bells of Shandon,That sound so grand onThe pleasant watersOf the river Lee.GERALD MASSEY.1828.SONG.Allglorious as the Rainbow’s birth,She came in Spring-tide’s golden hours;When Heaven went hand-in-hand with Earth,And May was crowned with buds and flowers!The mounting devil at my heartClomb faintlier as my life did winThe charmèd heaven, she wrought apart,To wake its slumbering Angel in!With radiant mien she trod serene,And passed me smiling by!O! who that looked could chance but love?Not I, sweet soul, not I.The dewy eyelids of the DawnNe’er oped such heaven as hers can show:It seemed her dear eyes might have shoneAs jewels in some starry brow.Her face flashed glory like a shrine,Or lily-bell with sunburst bright;Where came and went love-thoughts divine,As low winds walk the leaves in light:She wore her beauty with the graceOf Summer’s star-clad sky;O! who that looked could help but love?Not I, sweet soul, not I.Her budding breasts like fragrant fruitOf love were ripening to be pressed:Her voice, that shook my heart’s red root,Yet might not break a babe’s soft rest!More liquid than the running brooks,More vernal than the voice of Spring,When Nightingales are in their nooks,And all the leafy thickets ring.The love she coyly hid at heartWas shyly conscious in her eye;O! who that looked could help but love?Not I, sweet soul, not I.ARTHUR O’SHAUGHNESSY.1844-1881.A LOVE SYMPHONY.Alongthe garden ways just nowI heard the flowers speak;The white rose told me of your brow,The red rose of your cheek;The lily of your bended head,The bindweed of your hair:Each looked its loveliest and saidYou were more fair.I went into the wood anon,And heard the wild birds sing,How sweet you were; they warbled on,Piped, trilled the self-same thing.Thrush, blackbird, linnet, without pause,The burden did repeat,And still began again becauseYou were more sweet.And then I went down to the sea,And heard it murmuring too,Part of an ancient mystery,All made of me and you.How many a thousand years agoI loved, and you were sweet—Longer I could not stay, and soI fled back to your feet.“She turned back at the last to wait”I MADE ANOTHER GARDEN.Imadeanother garden, yea,For my new love;I left the dead rose where it lay,And set the new above.Why did the summer not begin?Why did my heart not haste?My old love came and walked therein,And laid the garden waste.She entered with her weary smile,Just as of old;She looked around a little while,And shivered at the cold.Her passing touch was death to all,Her passing look a blight;She made the white rose-petals fall,And turned the red rose white.Her pale robe, clinging to the grass,Seemed like a snakeThat bit the grass and ground, alas!And a sad trail did make.She went up slowly to the gate;And there, just as of yore,She turned back at the last to wait,And say farewell once more.ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.1825-1864.THE LOST CHORD.Seatedone day at the Organ,I was weary and ill at ease,And my fingers wandered idlyOver the noisy keys.I do not know what I was playing,Or what I was dreaming then;But I struck one chord of music,Like the sound of a great Amen.It flooded the crimson twilightLike the close of an Angel’s Psalm,And it lay on my fevered spiritWith a touch of infinite calm.It quieted pain and sorrow,Like love overcoming strife;It seemed the harmonious echoFrom our discordant Life.It linked all perplexèd meaningsInto one perfect peace,And trembled away into silenceAs if it were loth to cease.I have sought, but I seek it vainly,That one lost chord divine,Which came from the soul of the Organ,And entered into mine.It may be that Death’s bright angelWill speak in that chord again,—It may be that only in HeavenI shall hear that grand Amen.SENT TO HEAVEN.Ihada Message to send her,To her whom my soul loved best;But I had my task to finish,And she was gone home to rest.To rest in the far bright heaven;Oh, so far away from here,It was vain to speak to my darling,For I knew she could not hear!I had a message to send her,So tender, and true, and sweet,I longed for an Angel to bear it,And lay it down at her feet.I placed it, one summer evening,On a Cloudlet’s fleecy breast;But it faded in golden splendour,And died in the crimson west.I gave it the Lark next morning,And I watched it soar and soar;But its pinions grew faint and weary,And it fluttered to earth once more.To the heart of a Rose I told it;And the perfume, sweet and rare,Growing faint on the blue bright ether,Was lost in the balmy air.I laid it upon a Censer,And I saw the incense rise;But its clouds of rolling silverCould not reach the far blue skies.I cried, in my passionate longing:—“Has the earth no Angel-friendWho will carry my love the messageThat my heart desires to send?”Then I heard a strain of music,So mighty, so pure, so clear,That my very sorrow was silent,And my heart stood still to hear.And I felt, in my soul’s deep yearning,At last the sure answer stir:—“The music will go up to Heaven,And carry my thought to her.”It rose in harmonious rushingOf mingled voices and strings,And I tenderly laid my messageOn the Music’s outspread wings.I heard it float farther and farther,In sound more perfect than speech;Farther than sight can follow,Farther than soul can reach.And I know that at last my messageHas passed through the golden gate:So my heart is no longer restless,And I am content to wait.B. W. PROCTER (BARRY CORNWALL).1787-1874.THE POET’S SONG TO HIS WIFE.SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.Howmany Summers, love,Have I been thine?How many days, thou dove,Hast thou been mine?Time, like the wingèd windWhen ’t bends the flowers,Hath left no mark behind,To count the hours!Some weight of thought, though loth,On thee he leaves;Some lines of care round bothPerhaps he weaves;Some fears,—a soft regretFor joys scarce known;Sweet looks we half forget;—All else is flown!Ah! with what thankless heartI mourn and sing!Look, where our children start,Like sudden Spring!With tongues all sweet and low,Like a pleasant rhyme,They tell how much I oweTo thee and Time!A PETITION TO TIME.1831.Touchus gently, Time!Let us glide adown thy streamGently,—as we sometimes glideThrough a quiet dream!Humble voyagers are We,Husband, wife, and children three—(One is lost,—an angel, fledTo the azure overhead!)Touch us gently, Time!We ’ve not proud nor soaring wings:Ourambition,ourcontentLies in simple things.Humble voyagers are We,O’er Life’s dim unsounded sea,Seeking only some calm clime:—Touch usgently, gentle Time!A BACCHANALIAN SONG.SET TO MUSIC BY MR. H. PHILLIPS.Sing!—Who singsTo her who weareth a hundred rings?Ah, who is this lady fine?TheVine, boys, theVine!The mother of mighty Wine.A roamer is sheO’er wall and tree,And sometimes very good company.Drink!—Who drinksTo her who blusheth and never thinks?Ah, who is this maid of thine?TheGrape, boys, theGrape!O, never let her escapeUntil she be turned to Wine!For better is sheThan vine can be,And very, very good company!Dream!—Who dreamsOf the God that governs a thousand streams?Ah, who is this Spirit fine?’T isWine, boys, ’t isWine!God Bacchus, a friend of mine.O better is heThan grape or tree,And the best of all good company.SHE WAS NOT FAIR NOR FULL OF GRACE.Shewas not fair, nor full of grace,Nor crowned with thought or aught beside;No wealth had she, of mind or face,To win our love, or raise our pride:No lover’s thought her cheek did touch;No poet’s dream was ’round her thrown;And yet we miss her—ah, too much,Now—she hath flown!We miss her when the morning calls,As one that mingled in our mirth;We miss her when the evening falls,—A trifle wanted on the earth!Some fancy small or subtle thoughtIs checked ere to its blossom grown;Some chain is broken that we wrought,Now—she hath flown!No solid good, nor hope defined,Is marred now she hath sunk in night;And yet the strong immortal MindIs stopped in its triumphant flight!Stern friend, what power is in a tear,What strength in one poor thought alone,When all we know is—“She was here,”And—“She hath flown!”THE SEA-KING.SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.Comesing, Come sing, of the great Sea-King,And the fame that now hangs o’er him,Who once did sweep o’er the vanquish’d deep,And drove the world before him!His deck was a throne, on the ocean lone,And the sea was his park of pleasure,Where he scattered in fear the human deer,And rested,—when he had leisure!Come,—shout and singOf the great Sea-King,And ride in the track he rode in!He sits at the headOf the mighty dead,On the red right hand of Odin!He sprang, from birth, like a God on earth,And soared on his victor pinions,And he traversed the sea, as the eagles flee,When they gaze on their blue dominions.His whole earth life was a conquering strife,And he lived till his beard grew hoary,And he died at last, by his blood-red mast,And now—he is lost in glory!So,—shout and sing, &c.A SERENADE.SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.Awake!—The starry midnight HourHangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight:In its own sweetness sleeps the flower;And the doves lie hushed in deep delight!Awake! Awake!Look forth, my love, for Love’s sweet sake!Awake!—Soft dews will soon ariseFrom daisied mead, and thorny brake;Then, Sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes,And like the tender morning break!Awake! Awake!Dawn forth, my love, for Love’s sweet sake!Awake!—Within the musk-rose bowerI watch, pale flower of love, for thee;Ah, come, and shew the starry HourWhat wealth of love thou hid’st from me!Awake! Awake!Shew all thy love, for Love’s sweet sake!Awake!—Ne’er heed, though listening NightSteal music from thy silver voice:Uncloud thy beauty, rare and bright,And bid the world and me rejoice!Awake! Awake!She comes,—at last, for Love’s sweet sake!King DeathKING DEATH.SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.King Deathwas a rare old fellow!He sate where no sun could shine;And he lifted his hand so yellow,And poured out his coal-black wine.Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!There came to him many a Maiden,Whose eyes had forgot to shine;And Widows, with grief o’erladen,For a draught of his sleepy wine.Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!The Scholar left all his learning;The Poet his fancied woes;And the Beauty her bloom returning,As the beads of the black wine rose.Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!All came to the royal old fellow,Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine,As he gave them his hand so yellow,And pledged them in Death’s black wine.Hurrah!—Hurrah!Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL.Sitdown, sad soul, and countThe moments flying:Come,—tell the sweet amountThat ’s lost by sighing!How many smiles?—a score?Then laugh, and count no more;For day is dying!Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,And no more measureThe flight of Time, nor weepThe loss of leisure;But here, by this lone stream,Lie down with us, and dreamOf starry treasure!We dream: do thou the same:We love—for ever:We laugh; yet few we shame,The gentle, never.Stay, then, till Sorrow dies;Then—hope and happy skiesAre thine for ever!A DRINKING SONG.Drink,and fill the night with mirth!Let us have a mighty measure,Till we quite forget the earth,And soar into the world of pleasure.Drink, and let a health go round,(’T is the drinker’s noble duty,)To the eyes that shine and wound,To the mouths that bud in beauty!Here ’s to Helen! Why, ah! whyDoth she fly from my pursuing?Here ’s to Marian, cold and shy!May she warm before thy wooing!Here ’s to Janet! I ’ve been e’er,Boy and man, her staunch defender,Always sworn that she was fair,Alwaysknownthat she was tender!Fill the deep-mouthed glasses high!Let them with the champagne tremble,Like the loose wrack in the sky,When the four wild winds assemble!Here ’s to all the love on earth,(Love, the young man’s, wise man’s treasure!)Drink, and fill your throats with mirth!Drink, and drown the world in pleasure!PEACE! WHAT DO TEARS AVAIL?Peace!what can tears avail?She lies all dumb and pale,And from her eye,The spirit of lovely life is fading,And she must die!Why looks the lover wroth? the friend upbraiding?Reply, reply!Hath she not dwelt too long’Midst pain, and grief, and wrong?Then, why not die?Why suffer again her doom of sorrow,And hopeless lie?Why nurse the trembling dream until to-morrow?Reply, reply!Death! Take her to thine arms,In all her stainless charms,And with her flyTo heavenly haunts, where, clad in brightness,The Angels lie!Wilt bear her there, O Death! in all her whiteness?Reply,—reply!THE SEA.SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.TheSea! the Sea! the open Sea!The blue, the fresh, the ever free!Without a mark, without a bound,It runneth the earth’s wide regions ’round;It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;Or like a cradled creature lies.I ’m on the Sea! I ’m on the Sea!I am where I would ever be;With the blue above, and the blue below,And silence wheresoe’er I go;If a storm should come and awake the deep,What matter?Ishall ride and sleep.I love (oh!howI love) to rideOn the fierce foaming bursting tide,When every mad wave drowns the moon,Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,And tells how goeth the world below,And why the south-west blasts do blow.I never was on the dull tame shore,But I loved the great Sea more and more,And backwards flew to her billowy breast,Like a bird that seeketh its mother’s nest;And a mother shewas, andisto me;For I was born on the open Sea!The waves were white, and red the morn,In the noisy hour when I was born;And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;And never was heard such an outcry wildAs welcomed to life the Ocean-child!I ’ve lived since then, in calm and strife,Full fifty summers a sailor’s life,With wealth to spend and a power to range,But never have sought, nor sighed for change;And Death, whenever he come to me,Shall come on the wild unbounded Sea!

1830.

AsI came round the harbor buoy,The lights began to gleam,No wave the land-locked water stirred,The crags were white as cream;And I marked my love by candle-lightSewing her long white seam.It ’s aye sewing ashore, my dear,Watch and steer at sea,It ’s reef and furl, and haul the line,Set sail and think of thee.I climbed to reach her cottage door;O sweetly my love sings!Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth,My soul to meet it springsAs the shining water leaped of old,When stirred by angel wings.Aye longing to list anew,Awake and in my dream,But never a song she sang like this,Sewing her long white seam.Fair fall the lights, the harbor lights,That brought me in to thee,And peace drop down on that low roofFor the sight that I did see,And the voice, my dear, that rang so clearAll for the love of me.For O, for O, with brows bent lowBy the candle’s flickering gleam,Her wedding gown it was she wrought,Sewing the long white seam.

sI came round the harbor buoy,

The lights began to gleam,

No wave the land-locked water stirred,

The crags were white as cream;

And I marked my love by candle-light

Sewing her long white seam.

It ’s aye sewing ashore, my dear,

Watch and steer at sea,

It ’s reef and furl, and haul the line,

Set sail and think of thee.

I climbed to reach her cottage door;

O sweetly my love sings!

Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth,

My soul to meet it springs

As the shining water leaped of old,

When stirred by angel wings.

Aye longing to list anew,

Awake and in my dream,

But never a song she sang like this,

Sewing her long white seam.

Fair fall the lights, the harbor lights,

That brought me in to thee,

And peace drop down on that low roof

For the sight that I did see,

And the voice, my dear, that rang so clear

All for the love of me.

For O, for O, with brows bent low

By the candle’s flickering gleam,

Her wedding gown it was she wrought,

Sewing the long white seam.

Ileanedout of window, I smelt the white clover,Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate;“Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover—Hush, nightingale, hush! O, sweet nightingale, waitTill I listen and hearIf a step draweth near,For my love he is late!“The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer,A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree,The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer:To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see?Let the star-clusters grow,Let the sweet waters flow,And cross quickly to me.“You night moths that hover where honey brims overFrom sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep;You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discoverTo him that comes darkling along the rough steep.Ah, my sailor, make haste,For the time runs to waste,And my love lieth deep—“Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover,I ’ve conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night.”By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover,Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight;But I ’ll love him more, moreThan e’er wife loved before,Be the days dark or bright.

leanedout of window, I smelt the white clover,

Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate;

“Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover—

Hush, nightingale, hush! O, sweet nightingale, wait

Till I listen and hear

If a step draweth near,

For my love he is late!

“The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer,

A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree,

The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer:

To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see?

Let the star-clusters grow,

Let the sweet waters flow,

And cross quickly to me.

“You night moths that hover where honey brims over

From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep;

You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover

To him that comes darkling along the rough steep.

Ah, my sailor, make haste,

For the time runs to waste,

And my love lieth deep—

“Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover,

I ’ve conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night.”

By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover,

Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight;

But I ’ll love him more, more

Than e’er wife loved before,

Be the days dark or bright.

Sweetis childhood—childhood ’s over,Kiss and part.Sweet is youth; but youth ’s a rover—So ’s my heart.Sweet is rest; but by all showingToil is nigh.We must go. Alas! the going,Say “good-bye.”

weetis childhood—childhood ’s over,

Kiss and part.

Sweet is youth; but youth ’s a rover—

So ’s my heart.

Sweet is rest; but by all showing

Toil is nigh.

We must go. Alas! the going,

Say “good-bye.”

CHARLES KINGSLEY.1819-1875.AIRLY BEACON.AirlyBeacon, Airly Beacon;Oh the pleasant sight to seeShires and towns from Airly Beacon,While my love climbed up to me!Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;Oh the happy hours we layDeep in fern on Airly Beacon,Courting through the summer’s day!Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;Oh the weary haunt for me,All alone on Airly Beacon,With his baby on my knee!THE SANDS OF DEE.“Oh,Mary, go and call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,And call the cattle homeAcross the sands of Dee;”The western wind was wild and dark with foam,And all alone went she.The western tide crept up along the sand,And o’er and o’er the sand,And round and round the sand,As far as eye could see.The rolling mist came down and hid the land:And never home came she.“Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—A tress of golden hair,A drownèd maiden’s hairAbove the nets at sea?”Was never salmon yet that shone so fairAmong the stakes on Dee.They rowed her in across the rolling foam,The cruel crawling foam,The cruel hungry foam,To her grave beside the sea:But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle homeAcross the sands of Dee.“Three fishers went sailing away to the West”THREE FISHERS WENT SAILING.Threefishers went sailing away to the West,Away to the West as the sun went down;Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,And the children stood watching them out of the town;For men must work, and women must weep,And there ’s little to earn, and many to keep,Though the harbor bar be moaning.Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.But men must work, and women must weep,Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,And the harbor bar be moaning.Three corpses lay out on the shining sandsIn the morning gleam as the tide went down,And the women are weeping and wringing their handsFor those who will never come home to the town;For men must work, and women must weep,And the sooner it ’s over, the sooner to sleep;And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.A FAREWELL.To C. E. G.—1856.Myfairest child, I have no song to give you;No lark could pipe in skies so dull and gray;Yet, if you will, one quiet hint I ’ll leave you,For every day.I ’ll tell you how to sing a clearer carolThan lark who hails the dawn of breezy down;To earn yourself a purer poet’s laurelThan Shakespeare’s crown.Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever;Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long;And so make Life, and Death, and that For Ever,One grand sweet song.

1819-1875.

AirlyBeacon, Airly Beacon;Oh the pleasant sight to seeShires and towns from Airly Beacon,While my love climbed up to me!Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;Oh the happy hours we layDeep in fern on Airly Beacon,Courting through the summer’s day!Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;Oh the weary haunt for me,All alone on Airly Beacon,With his baby on my knee!

irlyBeacon, Airly Beacon;

Oh the pleasant sight to see

Shires and towns from Airly Beacon,

While my love climbed up to me!

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;

Oh the happy hours we lay

Deep in fern on Airly Beacon,

Courting through the summer’s day!

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;

Oh the weary haunt for me,

All alone on Airly Beacon,

With his baby on my knee!

“Oh,Mary, go and call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,And call the cattle homeAcross the sands of Dee;”The western wind was wild and dark with foam,And all alone went she.The western tide crept up along the sand,And o’er and o’er the sand,And round and round the sand,As far as eye could see.The rolling mist came down and hid the land:And never home came she.“Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—A tress of golden hair,A drownèd maiden’s hairAbove the nets at sea?”Was never salmon yet that shone so fairAmong the stakes on Dee.They rowed her in across the rolling foam,The cruel crawling foam,The cruel hungry foam,To her grave beside the sea:But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle homeAcross the sands of Dee.

“O

h,Mary, go and call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home

Across the sands of Dee;”

The western wind was wild and dark with foam,

And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand,

And o’er and o’er the sand,

And round and round the sand,

As far as eye could see.

The rolling mist came down and hid the land:

And never home came she.

“Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—

A tress of golden hair,

A drownèd maiden’s hair

Above the nets at sea?”

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair

Among the stakes on Dee.

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,

The cruel crawling foam,

The cruel hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea:

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home

Across the sands of Dee.

“Three fishers went sailing away to the West”

Threefishers went sailing away to the West,Away to the West as the sun went down;Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,And the children stood watching them out of the town;For men must work, and women must weep,And there ’s little to earn, and many to keep,Though the harbor bar be moaning.Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.But men must work, and women must weep,Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,And the harbor bar be moaning.Three corpses lay out on the shining sandsIn the morning gleam as the tide went down,And the women are weeping and wringing their handsFor those who will never come home to the town;For men must work, and women must weep,And the sooner it ’s over, the sooner to sleep;And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

hreefishers went sailing away to the West,

Away to the West as the sun went down;

Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,

And the children stood watching them out of the town;

For men must work, and women must weep,

And there ’s little to earn, and many to keep,

Though the harbor bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,

And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;

They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,

And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.

But men must work, and women must weep,

Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,

And the harbor bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands

In the morning gleam as the tide went down,

And the women are weeping and wringing their hands

For those who will never come home to the town;

For men must work, and women must weep,

And the sooner it ’s over, the sooner to sleep;

And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

Myfairest child, I have no song to give you;No lark could pipe in skies so dull and gray;Yet, if you will, one quiet hint I ’ll leave you,For every day.I ’ll tell you how to sing a clearer carolThan lark who hails the dawn of breezy down;To earn yourself a purer poet’s laurelThan Shakespeare’s crown.Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever;Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long;And so make Life, and Death, and that For Ever,One grand sweet song.

yfairest child, I have no song to give you;

No lark could pipe in skies so dull and gray;

Yet, if you will, one quiet hint I ’ll leave you,

For every day.

I ’ll tell you how to sing a clearer carol

Than lark who hails the dawn of breezy down;

To earn yourself a purer poet’s laurel

Than Shakespeare’s crown.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever;

Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long;

And so make Life, and Death, and that For Ever,

One grand sweet song.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.1775-1864.ROSE AYLMER.Ah,what avails the sceptered race!Ah, what the form divine!What every virtue, every grace!Rose Aylmer, all were thine.Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyesMay weep, but never see,A night of memories and of sighsI consecrate to thee.RUBIES.OftenI have heard it saidThat her lips are ruby-red.Little heed I what they say,I have seen as red as they.Ere she smiled on other men,Real rubies were they then.When she kissed me once in play,Rubies were less bright than they,And less bright were those which shoneIn the palace of the Sun.Will they be as bright again?Not if kissed by other men.THE FAULT IS NOT MINE.Thefault is not mine if I love you too much,I loved you too little too long,Such ever your graces, your tenderness such,And the music the heart gave the tongue.A time is now coming when Love must be gone,Tho’ he never abandoned me yet.Acknowledge our friendship, our passion disown,Our follies (ah can you?) forget.UNDER THE LINDENS.Underthe lindens lately satA couple, and no more, in chat;I wondered what they would be atUnder the lindens.I saw four eyes and four lips meet,I heard the words,“How sweet! how sweet!”Had then the Faeries given a treatUnder the lindens?I pondered long and could not tellWhat dainty pleased them both so well:Bees! bees! was it your hydromelUnder the lindens?SIXTEEN.InClementina’s artless mienLucilla asks me what I see,—And are the roses of sixteenEnough for me?Lucilla asks, if that be all,Have I not culled as sweet before?Ah yes, Lucilla! and their fallI still deplore.I now behold another scene,Where Pleasure beams with heaven’s own light,—More pure, more constant, more serene,And not less bright:Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose,Whose chain of flowers no force can sever,And Modesty, who, when she goes,Is gone forever!IANTHE.ThankHeaven, Ianthe, once againOur hands and ardent lips shall meet,And Pleasure, to assert his reign,Scatter ten thousand kisses sweet:Then cease repeating while you mourn,“I wonder when he will return.”Ah wherefore should you so admireThe flowing words that fill my song,Why call them artless, yet require“Some promise from that tuneful tongue?”I doubt if heaven itself could partA tuneful tongue and tender heart.IantheONE LOVELY NAME.Onelovely name adorns my song,And, dwelling in the heart,For ever falters at the tongue,And trembles to depart.FORSAKEN.Mother,I can not mind my wheel;My fingers ache, my lips are dry;Oh! if you felt the pain I feel!But oh, who ever felt as I!No longer could I doubt him true,All other men may use deceit;He always said my eyes were blue,And often swore my lips were sweet.

1775-1864.

Ah,what avails the sceptered race!Ah, what the form divine!What every virtue, every grace!Rose Aylmer, all were thine.Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyesMay weep, but never see,A night of memories and of sighsI consecrate to thee.

h,what avails the sceptered race!

Ah, what the form divine!

What every virtue, every grace!

Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes

May weep, but never see,

A night of memories and of sighs

I consecrate to thee.

OftenI have heard it saidThat her lips are ruby-red.Little heed I what they say,I have seen as red as they.Ere she smiled on other men,Real rubies were they then.When she kissed me once in play,Rubies were less bright than they,And less bright were those which shoneIn the palace of the Sun.Will they be as bright again?Not if kissed by other men.

ftenI have heard it said

That her lips are ruby-red.

Little heed I what they say,

I have seen as red as they.

Ere she smiled on other men,

Real rubies were they then.

When she kissed me once in play,

Rubies were less bright than they,

And less bright were those which shone

In the palace of the Sun.

Will they be as bright again?

Not if kissed by other men.

Thefault is not mine if I love you too much,I loved you too little too long,Such ever your graces, your tenderness such,And the music the heart gave the tongue.A time is now coming when Love must be gone,Tho’ he never abandoned me yet.Acknowledge our friendship, our passion disown,Our follies (ah can you?) forget.

hefault is not mine if I love you too much,

I loved you too little too long,

Such ever your graces, your tenderness such,

And the music the heart gave the tongue.

A time is now coming when Love must be gone,

Tho’ he never abandoned me yet.

Acknowledge our friendship, our passion disown,

Our follies (ah can you?) forget.

Underthe lindens lately satA couple, and no more, in chat;I wondered what they would be atUnder the lindens.I saw four eyes and four lips meet,I heard the words,“How sweet! how sweet!”Had then the Faeries given a treatUnder the lindens?I pondered long and could not tellWhat dainty pleased them both so well:Bees! bees! was it your hydromelUnder the lindens?

nderthe lindens lately sat

A couple, and no more, in chat;

I wondered what they would be at

Under the lindens.

I saw four eyes and four lips meet,

I heard the words,“How sweet! how sweet!”

Had then the Faeries given a treat

Under the lindens?

I pondered long and could not tell

What dainty pleased them both so well:

Bees! bees! was it your hydromel

Under the lindens?

InClementina’s artless mienLucilla asks me what I see,—And are the roses of sixteenEnough for me?Lucilla asks, if that be all,Have I not culled as sweet before?Ah yes, Lucilla! and their fallI still deplore.I now behold another scene,Where Pleasure beams with heaven’s own light,—More pure, more constant, more serene,And not less bright:Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose,Whose chain of flowers no force can sever,And Modesty, who, when she goes,Is gone forever!

nClementina’s artless mien

Lucilla asks me what I see,—

And are the roses of sixteen

Enough for me?

Lucilla asks, if that be all,

Have I not culled as sweet before?

Ah yes, Lucilla! and their fall

I still deplore.

I now behold another scene,

Where Pleasure beams with heaven’s own light,—

More pure, more constant, more serene,

And not less bright:

Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose,

Whose chain of flowers no force can sever,

And Modesty, who, when she goes,

Is gone forever!

ThankHeaven, Ianthe, once againOur hands and ardent lips shall meet,And Pleasure, to assert his reign,Scatter ten thousand kisses sweet:Then cease repeating while you mourn,“I wonder when he will return.”Ah wherefore should you so admireThe flowing words that fill my song,Why call them artless, yet require“Some promise from that tuneful tongue?”I doubt if heaven itself could partA tuneful tongue and tender heart.

hankHeaven, Ianthe, once again

Our hands and ardent lips shall meet,

And Pleasure, to assert his reign,

Scatter ten thousand kisses sweet:

Then cease repeating while you mourn,

“I wonder when he will return.”

Ah wherefore should you so admire

The flowing words that fill my song,

Why call them artless, yet require

“Some promise from that tuneful tongue?”

I doubt if heaven itself could part

A tuneful tongue and tender heart.

Ianthe

Onelovely name adorns my song,And, dwelling in the heart,For ever falters at the tongue,And trembles to depart.

nelovely name adorns my song,

And, dwelling in the heart,

For ever falters at the tongue,

And trembles to depart.

Mother,I can not mind my wheel;My fingers ache, my lips are dry;Oh! if you felt the pain I feel!But oh, who ever felt as I!No longer could I doubt him true,All other men may use deceit;He always said my eyes were blue,And often swore my lips were sweet.

other,I can not mind my wheel;

My fingers ache, my lips are dry;

Oh! if you felt the pain I feel!

But oh, who ever felt as I!

No longer could I doubt him true,

All other men may use deceit;

He always said my eyes were blue,

And often swore my lips were sweet.

FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON.1821-1895.A GARDEN LYRIC.The flow of life is yet a rillThat laughs, and leaps, and glistens;And still the woodland rings, and stillThe old Damœtas listens.Wehave loiter’d and laugh’d in the flowery croft,We have met under wintry skies;Her voice is the dearest voice, and softIs the light in her gentle eyes;It is bliss in the silent woods, amongGay crowds, or in any placeTo hear her voice, to gaze on her youngConfiding face.For ever may roses divinely blow,And wine-dark pansies charmBy the prim box path where I felt the glowOf her dimpled, trusting arm,And the sweep of her silk as she turned and smiledA smile as pure as her pearls;The breeze was in love with the darling Child,As it moved her curls.She showed me her ferns and woodbine-sprays,Foxglove and jasmine stars,A mist of blue in the beds, a blazeOf red in the celadon jars:And velvety bees in convolvulus bells,And roses of bountiful June—Oh, who would think their summer spellsCould die so soon!For a glad song came from the milking shed,On a wind of the summer south,And the green was golden above her head,And a sunbeam kiss’d her mouth;Sweet were the lips where that sunbeam dwelt;And the wings of Time were fleetAs I gazed; and neither spoke, for we feltLife was so sweet!And the odorous limes were dim aboveAs we leant on a drooping bough;And the darkling air was a breath of love,And a witching thrush sang “Now!”For the sun dropt low, and the twilight grewAs we listen’d and sigh’d, and leant;That day was the sweetest day—and we knewWhat the sweetness meant.THE CUCKOO.Weheard it calling, clear and low,That tender April morn; we stoodAnd listened in the quiet wood,We heard it, ay, long years ago.It came, and with a strange, sweet cry,A friend, but from a far-off land;We stood and listened, hand in hand,And heart to heart, my Love and I.In dreamland then we found our joy,And so it seemed as ’t were the BirdThat Helen in old times had heardAt noon beneath the oaks of Troy.O time far off, and yet so near!It came to her in that hush’d grove,It warbled while the wooing throve,It sang the song she loved to hear.And now I hear its voice again,And still its message is of peace,It sings of love that will not cease—For me it never sings in vain.GERTRUDE’S NECKLACE.AsGertrude skipt from babe to girl,Her Necklace lengthen’d, pearl by pearl;Year after year it grew, and grew,For every birthday gave her two.Her neck is lovely,—soft and fair,And now her Necklace glimmers there.So cradled, let it fall and rise,And all her graces symbolize.Perchance this pearl, without a speck,Once was as warm on Sappho’s neck;Where are the happy, twilight pearlsThat braided Beatrice’s curls?Is Gerty loved? Is Gerty loth?Or, if she ’s either, is she both?She ’s fancy free, but sweeter farThan many plighted maidens are:Will Gerty smile us all away,And still be Gerty? Who can say?But let her wear her Precious Toy,And I ’ll rejoice to see her joy:Her bauble ’s only one degreeLess frail, less fugitive than we,For time, ere long, will snap the skein,And scatter all her Pearls again.

1821-1895.

The flow of life is yet a rillThat laughs, and leaps, and glistens;And still the woodland rings, and stillThe old Damœtas listens.

The flow of life is yet a rill

That laughs, and leaps, and glistens;

And still the woodland rings, and still

The old Damœtas listens.

Wehave loiter’d and laugh’d in the flowery croft,We have met under wintry skies;Her voice is the dearest voice, and softIs the light in her gentle eyes;It is bliss in the silent woods, amongGay crowds, or in any placeTo hear her voice, to gaze on her youngConfiding face.For ever may roses divinely blow,And wine-dark pansies charmBy the prim box path where I felt the glowOf her dimpled, trusting arm,And the sweep of her silk as she turned and smiledA smile as pure as her pearls;The breeze was in love with the darling Child,As it moved her curls.She showed me her ferns and woodbine-sprays,Foxglove and jasmine stars,A mist of blue in the beds, a blazeOf red in the celadon jars:And velvety bees in convolvulus bells,And roses of bountiful June—Oh, who would think their summer spellsCould die so soon!For a glad song came from the milking shed,On a wind of the summer south,And the green was golden above her head,And a sunbeam kiss’d her mouth;Sweet were the lips where that sunbeam dwelt;And the wings of Time were fleetAs I gazed; and neither spoke, for we feltLife was so sweet!And the odorous limes were dim aboveAs we leant on a drooping bough;And the darkling air was a breath of love,And a witching thrush sang “Now!”For the sun dropt low, and the twilight grewAs we listen’d and sigh’d, and leant;That day was the sweetest day—and we knewWhat the sweetness meant.

ehave loiter’d and laugh’d in the flowery croft,

We have met under wintry skies;

Her voice is the dearest voice, and soft

Is the light in her gentle eyes;

It is bliss in the silent woods, among

Gay crowds, or in any place

To hear her voice, to gaze on her young

Confiding face.

For ever may roses divinely blow,

And wine-dark pansies charm

By the prim box path where I felt the glow

Of her dimpled, trusting arm,

And the sweep of her silk as she turned and smiled

A smile as pure as her pearls;

The breeze was in love with the darling Child,

As it moved her curls.

She showed me her ferns and woodbine-sprays,

Foxglove and jasmine stars,

A mist of blue in the beds, a blaze

Of red in the celadon jars:

And velvety bees in convolvulus bells,

And roses of bountiful June—

Oh, who would think their summer spells

Could die so soon!

For a glad song came from the milking shed,

On a wind of the summer south,

And the green was golden above her head,

And a sunbeam kiss’d her mouth;

Sweet were the lips where that sunbeam dwelt;

And the wings of Time were fleet

As I gazed; and neither spoke, for we felt

Life was so sweet!

And the odorous limes were dim above

As we leant on a drooping bough;

And the darkling air was a breath of love,

And a witching thrush sang “Now!”

For the sun dropt low, and the twilight grew

As we listen’d and sigh’d, and leant;

That day was the sweetest day—and we knew

What the sweetness meant.

Weheard it calling, clear and low,That tender April morn; we stoodAnd listened in the quiet wood,We heard it, ay, long years ago.It came, and with a strange, sweet cry,A friend, but from a far-off land;We stood and listened, hand in hand,And heart to heart, my Love and I.In dreamland then we found our joy,And so it seemed as ’t were the BirdThat Helen in old times had heardAt noon beneath the oaks of Troy.O time far off, and yet so near!It came to her in that hush’d grove,It warbled while the wooing throve,It sang the song she loved to hear.And now I hear its voice again,And still its message is of peace,It sings of love that will not cease—For me it never sings in vain.

eheard it calling, clear and low,

That tender April morn; we stood

And listened in the quiet wood,

We heard it, ay, long years ago.

It came, and with a strange, sweet cry,

A friend, but from a far-off land;

We stood and listened, hand in hand,

And heart to heart, my Love and I.

In dreamland then we found our joy,

And so it seemed as ’t were the Bird

That Helen in old times had heard

At noon beneath the oaks of Troy.

O time far off, and yet so near!

It came to her in that hush’d grove,

It warbled while the wooing throve,

It sang the song she loved to hear.

And now I hear its voice again,

And still its message is of peace,

It sings of love that will not cease—

For me it never sings in vain.

AsGertrude skipt from babe to girl,Her Necklace lengthen’d, pearl by pearl;Year after year it grew, and grew,For every birthday gave her two.Her neck is lovely,—soft and fair,And now her Necklace glimmers there.So cradled, let it fall and rise,And all her graces symbolize.Perchance this pearl, without a speck,Once was as warm on Sappho’s neck;Where are the happy, twilight pearlsThat braided Beatrice’s curls?Is Gerty loved? Is Gerty loth?Or, if she ’s either, is she both?She ’s fancy free, but sweeter farThan many plighted maidens are:Will Gerty smile us all away,And still be Gerty? Who can say?But let her wear her Precious Toy,And I ’ll rejoice to see her joy:Her bauble ’s only one degreeLess frail, less fugitive than we,For time, ere long, will snap the skein,And scatter all her Pearls again.

sGertrude skipt from babe to girl,

Her Necklace lengthen’d, pearl by pearl;

Year after year it grew, and grew,

For every birthday gave her two.

Her neck is lovely,—soft and fair,

And now her Necklace glimmers there.

So cradled, let it fall and rise,

And all her graces symbolize.

Perchance this pearl, without a speck,

Once was as warm on Sappho’s neck;

Where are the happy, twilight pearls

That braided Beatrice’s curls?

Is Gerty loved? Is Gerty loth?

Or, if she ’s either, is she both?

She ’s fancy free, but sweeter far

Than many plighted maidens are:

Will Gerty smile us all away,

And still be Gerty? Who can say?

But let her wear her Precious Toy,

And I ’ll rejoice to see her joy:

Her bauble ’s only one degree

Less frail, less fugitive than we,

For time, ere long, will snap the skein,

And scatter all her Pearls again.

Gertrude’s Necklace

SAMUEL LOVER.1797-1868.THE ANGEL’S WHISPER.*Ababywas sleeping,Its mother was weeping,For the husband was far on the wild raging Sea;And the tempest was swellingRound the fisherman’s dwelling;And she cried, “Dermot darling, oh come back to me!”Her beads while she numbered,The baby still slumbered,And smiled in her face as she bended her knee;“O blest be that warning,My child thy sleep adorning,For I know that the angels are whispering with thee!“And while they are keepingBright watch o’er thy sleeping,Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me!And say thou wouldst ratherThey ’d watch o’er thy father;For I know that the angels are whispering with thee!”The dawn of the morningSaw Dermot returning,And the wife wept with joy her babe’s father to see;And closely caressingHer child, with a blessing,Said, “I knew that the angels were whispering with thee!”*A superstition of great beauty prevails in Ireland that when a child smiles in its sleep it is “talking with angels.”WHAT WILL YOU DO, LOVE?I.“Whatwill you do, love, when I am goingWith white sail flowing,The seas beyond—What will you do, love, when waves divide us,And friends may chide usFor being fond?”“Tho’ waves divide us—and friends be chiding,In faith abiding,I ’ll still be true!And I ’ll pray for thee on the stormy ocean,In deep devotion—That ’s what I ’ll do!”II.“What would you do, love, if distant tidingsThy fond confidingsShould undermine?—And I abiding ’neath sultry skies,Should think other eyesWere as bright as thine?”“Oh, name it not:—tho’ guilt and shameWere on thy nameI ’d still be true:But that heart of thine—should another share it—I could not bear it!What would I do?”III.“What would you do, love, when home returningWith hopes high burning,With wealth for you,If my bark, which bounded o’er foreign foam,Should be lost near home—Ah! what would you do?”—“So thou wert spared—I ’d bless the morrow,In want and sorrow,That left me you;And I ’d welcome thee from the wasting billow,This heart thy pillow—That ’s what I ’d do!”

1797-1868.

Ababywas sleeping,Its mother was weeping,For the husband was far on the wild raging Sea;And the tempest was swellingRound the fisherman’s dwelling;And she cried, “Dermot darling, oh come back to me!”Her beads while she numbered,The baby still slumbered,And smiled in her face as she bended her knee;“O blest be that warning,My child thy sleep adorning,For I know that the angels are whispering with thee!“And while they are keepingBright watch o’er thy sleeping,Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me!And say thou wouldst ratherThey ’d watch o’er thy father;For I know that the angels are whispering with thee!”The dawn of the morningSaw Dermot returning,And the wife wept with joy her babe’s father to see;And closely caressingHer child, with a blessing,Said, “I knew that the angels were whispering with thee!”

babywas sleeping,

Its mother was weeping,

For the husband was far on the wild raging Sea;

And the tempest was swelling

Round the fisherman’s dwelling;

And she cried, “Dermot darling, oh come back to me!”

Her beads while she numbered,

The baby still slumbered,

And smiled in her face as she bended her knee;

“O blest be that warning,

My child thy sleep adorning,

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee!

“And while they are keeping

Bright watch o’er thy sleeping,

Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me!

And say thou wouldst rather

They ’d watch o’er thy father;

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee!”

The dawn of the morning

Saw Dermot returning,

And the wife wept with joy her babe’s father to see;

And closely caressing

Her child, with a blessing,

Said, “I knew that the angels were whispering with thee!”

*A superstition of great beauty prevails in Ireland that when a child smiles in its sleep it is “talking with angels.”

I.“Whatwill you do, love, when I am goingWith white sail flowing,The seas beyond—What will you do, love, when waves divide us,And friends may chide usFor being fond?”“Tho’ waves divide us—and friends be chiding,In faith abiding,I ’ll still be true!And I ’ll pray for thee on the stormy ocean,In deep devotion—That ’s what I ’ll do!”II.“What would you do, love, if distant tidingsThy fond confidingsShould undermine?—And I abiding ’neath sultry skies,Should think other eyesWere as bright as thine?”“Oh, name it not:—tho’ guilt and shameWere on thy nameI ’d still be true:But that heart of thine—should another share it—I could not bear it!What would I do?”III.“What would you do, love, when home returningWith hopes high burning,With wealth for you,If my bark, which bounded o’er foreign foam,Should be lost near home—Ah! what would you do?”—“So thou wert spared—I ’d bless the morrow,In want and sorrow,That left me you;And I ’d welcome thee from the wasting billow,This heart thy pillow—That ’s what I ’d do!”

“W

hatwill you do, love, when I am going

With white sail flowing,

The seas beyond—

What will you do, love, when waves divide us,

And friends may chide us

For being fond?”

“Tho’ waves divide us—and friends be chiding,

In faith abiding,

I ’ll still be true!

And I ’ll pray for thee on the stormy ocean,

In deep devotion—

That ’s what I ’ll do!”

“What would you do, love, if distant tidings

Thy fond confidings

Should undermine?—

And I abiding ’neath sultry skies,

Should think other eyes

Were as bright as thine?”

“Oh, name it not:—tho’ guilt and shame

Were on thy name

I ’d still be true:

But that heart of thine—should another share it—

I could not bear it!

What would I do?”

“What would you do, love, when home returning

With hopes high burning,

With wealth for you,

If my bark, which bounded o’er foreign foam,

Should be lost near home—

Ah! what would you do?”—

“So thou wert spared—I ’d bless the morrow,

In want and sorrow,

That left me you;

And I ’d welcome thee from the wasting billow,

This heart thy pillow—

That ’s what I ’d do!”

CHARLES MACKAY.1814-1889.I LOVE MY LOVE.I.Whatis the meaning of the songThat rings so clear and loud,Thou nightingale amid the copse—Thou lark above the cloud?What says the song, thou joyous thrush,Up in the walnut-tree?“I love my Love, because I knowMy Love loves me.”II.What is the meaning of thy thought,O maiden fair and young?There is such pleasure in thine eyes,Such music on thy tongue;There is such glory on thy face—What can the meaning be?“I love my Love, because I knowMy Love loves me.”III.O happy words! at Beauty’s feetWe sing them ere our prime;And when the early summers pass,And Care comes on with Time,Still be it ours, in Care’s despite,To join the chorus free—“I love my Love, because I knowMy Love loves me.”O YE TEARS!Oyetears! O ye tears! that have long refused to flow,Ye are welcome to my heart,—thawing, thawing, like the snow;I feel the hard clod soften, and the early snow-drop spring,And the healing fountains gush, and the wildernesses sing.O ye tears! O ye tears! I am thankful that ye run;Though ye trickle in the darkness, ye shall glitter in the sun.The rainbow cannot shine if the rain refuse to fall,And the eyes that cannot weep are the saddest eyes of all.O ye tears! O ye tears! till I felt you on my cheek,I was selfish in my sorrow, I was stubborn, I was weak.Ye have given me strength to conquer, and I stand erect and free,And know that I am human by the light of sympathy.O ye tears! O ye tears! ye relieve me of my pain:The barren rock of pride has been stricken once again;Like the rock that Moses smote, amid Horeb’s burning sand,It yields the flowing water to make gladness in the land.There is light upon my path, there is sunshine in my heart,And the leaf and fruit of life shall not utterly depart.Ye restore to me the freshness and the bloom of long ago—O ye tears! happy tears! I am thankful that ye flow!

1814-1889.

I.Whatis the meaning of the songThat rings so clear and loud,Thou nightingale amid the copse—Thou lark above the cloud?What says the song, thou joyous thrush,Up in the walnut-tree?“I love my Love, because I knowMy Love loves me.”II.What is the meaning of thy thought,O maiden fair and young?There is such pleasure in thine eyes,Such music on thy tongue;There is such glory on thy face—What can the meaning be?“I love my Love, because I knowMy Love loves me.”III.O happy words! at Beauty’s feetWe sing them ere our prime;And when the early summers pass,And Care comes on with Time,Still be it ours, in Care’s despite,To join the chorus free—“I love my Love, because I knowMy Love loves me.”

hatis the meaning of the song

That rings so clear and loud,

Thou nightingale amid the copse—

Thou lark above the cloud?

What says the song, thou joyous thrush,

Up in the walnut-tree?

“I love my Love, because I know

My Love loves me.”

What is the meaning of thy thought,

O maiden fair and young?

There is such pleasure in thine eyes,

Such music on thy tongue;

There is such glory on thy face—

What can the meaning be?

“I love my Love, because I know

My Love loves me.”

O happy words! at Beauty’s feet

We sing them ere our prime;

And when the early summers pass,

And Care comes on with Time,

Still be it ours, in Care’s despite,

To join the chorus free—

“I love my Love, because I know

My Love loves me.”

Oyetears! O ye tears! that have long refused to flow,Ye are welcome to my heart,—thawing, thawing, like the snow;I feel the hard clod soften, and the early snow-drop spring,And the healing fountains gush, and the wildernesses sing.O ye tears! O ye tears! I am thankful that ye run;Though ye trickle in the darkness, ye shall glitter in the sun.The rainbow cannot shine if the rain refuse to fall,And the eyes that cannot weep are the saddest eyes of all.O ye tears! O ye tears! till I felt you on my cheek,I was selfish in my sorrow, I was stubborn, I was weak.Ye have given me strength to conquer, and I stand erect and free,And know that I am human by the light of sympathy.O ye tears! O ye tears! ye relieve me of my pain:The barren rock of pride has been stricken once again;Like the rock that Moses smote, amid Horeb’s burning sand,It yields the flowing water to make gladness in the land.There is light upon my path, there is sunshine in my heart,And the leaf and fruit of life shall not utterly depart.Ye restore to me the freshness and the bloom of long ago—O ye tears! happy tears! I am thankful that ye flow!

yetears! O ye tears! that have long refused to flow,

Ye are welcome to my heart,—thawing, thawing, like the snow;

I feel the hard clod soften, and the early snow-drop spring,

And the healing fountains gush, and the wildernesses sing.

O ye tears! O ye tears! I am thankful that ye run;

Though ye trickle in the darkness, ye shall glitter in the sun.

The rainbow cannot shine if the rain refuse to fall,

And the eyes that cannot weep are the saddest eyes of all.

O ye tears! O ye tears! till I felt you on my cheek,

I was selfish in my sorrow, I was stubborn, I was weak.

Ye have given me strength to conquer, and I stand erect and free,

And know that I am human by the light of sympathy.

O ye tears! O ye tears! ye relieve me of my pain:

The barren rock of pride has been stricken once again;

Like the rock that Moses smote, amid Horeb’s burning sand,

It yields the flowing water to make gladness in the land.

There is light upon my path, there is sunshine in my heart,

And the leaf and fruit of life shall not utterly depart.

Ye restore to me the freshness and the bloom of long ago—

O ye tears! happy tears! I am thankful that ye flow!

FRANCIS MAHONEY.1805-1866.THE BELLS OF SHANDON.Sabbata pango;Funera plango;Solemnia clango.—Inscription on an old bell.Withdeep affectionAnd recollectionI often think ofThose Shandon bells,Whose sounds so wild would,In the days of childhood,Fling round my cradleTheir magic spells.On this I ponderWhere’er I wander,And thus grow fonder,Sweet Cork, of thee,—With thy bells of Shandon,That sound so grand onThe pleasant watersOf the river Lee.I ’ve heard bells chimingFull many a clime in,Tolling sublime inCathedral shrine,While at a glibe rateBrass tongues would vibrate;But all their musicSpoke naught like thine.For memory, dwellingOn each proud swellingOf thy belfry, knellingIts bold notes free,Made the bells of ShandonSound far more grand onThe pleasant watersOf the river Lee.I ’ve heard bells tollingOld Adrian’s Mole in,Their thunder rollingFrom the Vatican,—And cymbals gloriousSwinging uproariousIn the gorgeous turretsOf Notre Dame;But thy sounds were sweeterThan the dome of PeterFlings o’er the Tiber,Pealing solemnly.Oh! the bells of ShandonSound far more grand onThe pleasant watersOf the river Lee.There ’s a bell in Moscow;While on tower and kiosk OIn St. SophiaThe Turkman gets,And loud in airCalls men to prayer,From the tapering summitOf tall minarets.Such empty phantomI freely grant them;But there ’s an anthemMore dear to me,—’T is the bells of Shandon,That sound so grand onThe pleasant watersOf the river Lee.

1805-1866.

Sabbata pango;Funera plango;Solemnia clango.—Inscription on an old bell.

Sabbata pango;

Funera plango;

Solemnia clango.

—Inscription on an old bell.

Withdeep affectionAnd recollectionI often think ofThose Shandon bells,Whose sounds so wild would,In the days of childhood,Fling round my cradleTheir magic spells.On this I ponderWhere’er I wander,And thus grow fonder,Sweet Cork, of thee,—With thy bells of Shandon,That sound so grand onThe pleasant watersOf the river Lee.I ’ve heard bells chimingFull many a clime in,Tolling sublime inCathedral shrine,While at a glibe rateBrass tongues would vibrate;But all their musicSpoke naught like thine.For memory, dwellingOn each proud swellingOf thy belfry, knellingIts bold notes free,Made the bells of ShandonSound far more grand onThe pleasant watersOf the river Lee.I ’ve heard bells tollingOld Adrian’s Mole in,Their thunder rollingFrom the Vatican,—And cymbals gloriousSwinging uproariousIn the gorgeous turretsOf Notre Dame;But thy sounds were sweeterThan the dome of PeterFlings o’er the Tiber,Pealing solemnly.Oh! the bells of ShandonSound far more grand onThe pleasant watersOf the river Lee.There ’s a bell in Moscow;While on tower and kiosk OIn St. SophiaThe Turkman gets,And loud in airCalls men to prayer,From the tapering summitOf tall minarets.Such empty phantomI freely grant them;But there ’s an anthemMore dear to me,—’T is the bells of Shandon,That sound so grand onThe pleasant watersOf the river Lee.

ithdeep affection

And recollection

I often think of

Those Shandon bells,

Whose sounds so wild would,

In the days of childhood,

Fling round my cradle

Their magic spells.

On this I ponder

Where’er I wander,

And thus grow fonder,

Sweet Cork, of thee,—

With thy bells of Shandon,

That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

I ’ve heard bells chiming

Full many a clime in,

Tolling sublime in

Cathedral shrine,

While at a glibe rate

Brass tongues would vibrate;

But all their music

Spoke naught like thine.

For memory, dwelling

On each proud swelling

Of thy belfry, knelling

Its bold notes free,

Made the bells of Shandon

Sound far more grand on

The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

I ’ve heard bells tolling

Old Adrian’s Mole in,

Their thunder rolling

From the Vatican,—

And cymbals glorious

Swinging uproarious

In the gorgeous turrets

Of Notre Dame;

But thy sounds were sweeter

Than the dome of Peter

Flings o’er the Tiber,

Pealing solemnly.

Oh! the bells of Shandon

Sound far more grand on

The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

There ’s a bell in Moscow;

While on tower and kiosk O

In St. Sophia

The Turkman gets,

And loud in air

Calls men to prayer,

From the tapering summit

Of tall minarets.

Such empty phantom

I freely grant them;

But there ’s an anthem

More dear to me,—

’T is the bells of Shandon,

That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

GERALD MASSEY.1828.SONG.Allglorious as the Rainbow’s birth,She came in Spring-tide’s golden hours;When Heaven went hand-in-hand with Earth,And May was crowned with buds and flowers!The mounting devil at my heartClomb faintlier as my life did winThe charmèd heaven, she wrought apart,To wake its slumbering Angel in!With radiant mien she trod serene,And passed me smiling by!O! who that looked could chance but love?Not I, sweet soul, not I.The dewy eyelids of the DawnNe’er oped such heaven as hers can show:It seemed her dear eyes might have shoneAs jewels in some starry brow.Her face flashed glory like a shrine,Or lily-bell with sunburst bright;Where came and went love-thoughts divine,As low winds walk the leaves in light:She wore her beauty with the graceOf Summer’s star-clad sky;O! who that looked could help but love?Not I, sweet soul, not I.Her budding breasts like fragrant fruitOf love were ripening to be pressed:Her voice, that shook my heart’s red root,Yet might not break a babe’s soft rest!More liquid than the running brooks,More vernal than the voice of Spring,When Nightingales are in their nooks,And all the leafy thickets ring.The love she coyly hid at heartWas shyly conscious in her eye;O! who that looked could help but love?Not I, sweet soul, not I.

1828.

Allglorious as the Rainbow’s birth,She came in Spring-tide’s golden hours;When Heaven went hand-in-hand with Earth,And May was crowned with buds and flowers!The mounting devil at my heartClomb faintlier as my life did winThe charmèd heaven, she wrought apart,To wake its slumbering Angel in!With radiant mien she trod serene,And passed me smiling by!O! who that looked could chance but love?Not I, sweet soul, not I.The dewy eyelids of the DawnNe’er oped such heaven as hers can show:It seemed her dear eyes might have shoneAs jewels in some starry brow.Her face flashed glory like a shrine,Or lily-bell with sunburst bright;Where came and went love-thoughts divine,As low winds walk the leaves in light:She wore her beauty with the graceOf Summer’s star-clad sky;O! who that looked could help but love?Not I, sweet soul, not I.Her budding breasts like fragrant fruitOf love were ripening to be pressed:Her voice, that shook my heart’s red root,Yet might not break a babe’s soft rest!More liquid than the running brooks,More vernal than the voice of Spring,When Nightingales are in their nooks,And all the leafy thickets ring.The love she coyly hid at heartWas shyly conscious in her eye;O! who that looked could help but love?Not I, sweet soul, not I.

llglorious as the Rainbow’s birth,

She came in Spring-tide’s golden hours;

When Heaven went hand-in-hand with Earth,

And May was crowned with buds and flowers!

The mounting devil at my heart

Clomb faintlier as my life did win

The charmèd heaven, she wrought apart,

To wake its slumbering Angel in!

With radiant mien she trod serene,

And passed me smiling by!

O! who that looked could chance but love?

Not I, sweet soul, not I.

The dewy eyelids of the Dawn

Ne’er oped such heaven as hers can show:

It seemed her dear eyes might have shone

As jewels in some starry brow.

Her face flashed glory like a shrine,

Or lily-bell with sunburst bright;

Where came and went love-thoughts divine,

As low winds walk the leaves in light:

She wore her beauty with the grace

Of Summer’s star-clad sky;

O! who that looked could help but love?

Not I, sweet soul, not I.

Her budding breasts like fragrant fruit

Of love were ripening to be pressed:

Her voice, that shook my heart’s red root,

Yet might not break a babe’s soft rest!

More liquid than the running brooks,

More vernal than the voice of Spring,

When Nightingales are in their nooks,

And all the leafy thickets ring.

The love she coyly hid at heart

Was shyly conscious in her eye;

O! who that looked could help but love?

Not I, sweet soul, not I.

ARTHUR O’SHAUGHNESSY.1844-1881.A LOVE SYMPHONY.Alongthe garden ways just nowI heard the flowers speak;The white rose told me of your brow,The red rose of your cheek;The lily of your bended head,The bindweed of your hair:Each looked its loveliest and saidYou were more fair.I went into the wood anon,And heard the wild birds sing,How sweet you were; they warbled on,Piped, trilled the self-same thing.Thrush, blackbird, linnet, without pause,The burden did repeat,And still began again becauseYou were more sweet.And then I went down to the sea,And heard it murmuring too,Part of an ancient mystery,All made of me and you.How many a thousand years agoI loved, and you were sweet—Longer I could not stay, and soI fled back to your feet.“She turned back at the last to wait”I MADE ANOTHER GARDEN.Imadeanother garden, yea,For my new love;I left the dead rose where it lay,And set the new above.Why did the summer not begin?Why did my heart not haste?My old love came and walked therein,And laid the garden waste.She entered with her weary smile,Just as of old;She looked around a little while,And shivered at the cold.Her passing touch was death to all,Her passing look a blight;She made the white rose-petals fall,And turned the red rose white.Her pale robe, clinging to the grass,Seemed like a snakeThat bit the grass and ground, alas!And a sad trail did make.She went up slowly to the gate;And there, just as of yore,She turned back at the last to wait,And say farewell once more.

1844-1881.

Alongthe garden ways just nowI heard the flowers speak;The white rose told me of your brow,The red rose of your cheek;The lily of your bended head,The bindweed of your hair:Each looked its loveliest and saidYou were more fair.I went into the wood anon,And heard the wild birds sing,How sweet you were; they warbled on,Piped, trilled the self-same thing.Thrush, blackbird, linnet, without pause,The burden did repeat,And still began again becauseYou were more sweet.And then I went down to the sea,And heard it murmuring too,Part of an ancient mystery,All made of me and you.How many a thousand years agoI loved, and you were sweet—Longer I could not stay, and soI fled back to your feet.

longthe garden ways just now

I heard the flowers speak;

The white rose told me of your brow,

The red rose of your cheek;

The lily of your bended head,

The bindweed of your hair:

Each looked its loveliest and said

You were more fair.

I went into the wood anon,

And heard the wild birds sing,

How sweet you were; they warbled on,

Piped, trilled the self-same thing.

Thrush, blackbird, linnet, without pause,

The burden did repeat,

And still began again because

You were more sweet.

And then I went down to the sea,

And heard it murmuring too,

Part of an ancient mystery,

All made of me and you.

How many a thousand years ago

I loved, and you were sweet—

Longer I could not stay, and so

I fled back to your feet.

“She turned back at the last to wait”

Imadeanother garden, yea,For my new love;I left the dead rose where it lay,And set the new above.Why did the summer not begin?Why did my heart not haste?My old love came and walked therein,And laid the garden waste.She entered with her weary smile,Just as of old;She looked around a little while,And shivered at the cold.Her passing touch was death to all,Her passing look a blight;She made the white rose-petals fall,And turned the red rose white.Her pale robe, clinging to the grass,Seemed like a snakeThat bit the grass and ground, alas!And a sad trail did make.She went up slowly to the gate;And there, just as of yore,She turned back at the last to wait,And say farewell once more.

madeanother garden, yea,

For my new love;

I left the dead rose where it lay,

And set the new above.

Why did the summer not begin?

Why did my heart not haste?

My old love came and walked therein,

And laid the garden waste.

She entered with her weary smile,

Just as of old;

She looked around a little while,

And shivered at the cold.

Her passing touch was death to all,

Her passing look a blight;

She made the white rose-petals fall,

And turned the red rose white.

Her pale robe, clinging to the grass,

Seemed like a snake

That bit the grass and ground, alas!

And a sad trail did make.

She went up slowly to the gate;

And there, just as of yore,

She turned back at the last to wait,

And say farewell once more.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.1825-1864.THE LOST CHORD.Seatedone day at the Organ,I was weary and ill at ease,And my fingers wandered idlyOver the noisy keys.I do not know what I was playing,Or what I was dreaming then;But I struck one chord of music,Like the sound of a great Amen.It flooded the crimson twilightLike the close of an Angel’s Psalm,And it lay on my fevered spiritWith a touch of infinite calm.It quieted pain and sorrow,Like love overcoming strife;It seemed the harmonious echoFrom our discordant Life.It linked all perplexèd meaningsInto one perfect peace,And trembled away into silenceAs if it were loth to cease.I have sought, but I seek it vainly,That one lost chord divine,Which came from the soul of the Organ,And entered into mine.It may be that Death’s bright angelWill speak in that chord again,—It may be that only in HeavenI shall hear that grand Amen.SENT TO HEAVEN.Ihada Message to send her,To her whom my soul loved best;But I had my task to finish,And she was gone home to rest.To rest in the far bright heaven;Oh, so far away from here,It was vain to speak to my darling,For I knew she could not hear!I had a message to send her,So tender, and true, and sweet,I longed for an Angel to bear it,And lay it down at her feet.I placed it, one summer evening,On a Cloudlet’s fleecy breast;But it faded in golden splendour,And died in the crimson west.I gave it the Lark next morning,And I watched it soar and soar;But its pinions grew faint and weary,And it fluttered to earth once more.To the heart of a Rose I told it;And the perfume, sweet and rare,Growing faint on the blue bright ether,Was lost in the balmy air.I laid it upon a Censer,And I saw the incense rise;But its clouds of rolling silverCould not reach the far blue skies.I cried, in my passionate longing:—“Has the earth no Angel-friendWho will carry my love the messageThat my heart desires to send?”Then I heard a strain of music,So mighty, so pure, so clear,That my very sorrow was silent,And my heart stood still to hear.And I felt, in my soul’s deep yearning,At last the sure answer stir:—“The music will go up to Heaven,And carry my thought to her.”It rose in harmonious rushingOf mingled voices and strings,And I tenderly laid my messageOn the Music’s outspread wings.I heard it float farther and farther,In sound more perfect than speech;Farther than sight can follow,Farther than soul can reach.And I know that at last my messageHas passed through the golden gate:So my heart is no longer restless,And I am content to wait.

1825-1864.

Seatedone day at the Organ,I was weary and ill at ease,And my fingers wandered idlyOver the noisy keys.I do not know what I was playing,Or what I was dreaming then;But I struck one chord of music,Like the sound of a great Amen.It flooded the crimson twilightLike the close of an Angel’s Psalm,And it lay on my fevered spiritWith a touch of infinite calm.It quieted pain and sorrow,Like love overcoming strife;It seemed the harmonious echoFrom our discordant Life.It linked all perplexèd meaningsInto one perfect peace,And trembled away into silenceAs if it were loth to cease.I have sought, but I seek it vainly,That one lost chord divine,Which came from the soul of the Organ,And entered into mine.It may be that Death’s bright angelWill speak in that chord again,—It may be that only in HeavenI shall hear that grand Amen.

eatedone day at the Organ,

I was weary and ill at ease,

And my fingers wandered idly

Over the noisy keys.

I do not know what I was playing,

Or what I was dreaming then;

But I struck one chord of music,

Like the sound of a great Amen.

It flooded the crimson twilight

Like the close of an Angel’s Psalm,

And it lay on my fevered spirit

With a touch of infinite calm.

It quieted pain and sorrow,

Like love overcoming strife;

It seemed the harmonious echo

From our discordant Life.

It linked all perplexèd meanings

Into one perfect peace,

And trembled away into silence

As if it were loth to cease.

I have sought, but I seek it vainly,

That one lost chord divine,

Which came from the soul of the Organ,

And entered into mine.

It may be that Death’s bright angel

Will speak in that chord again,—

It may be that only in Heaven

I shall hear that grand Amen.

Ihada Message to send her,To her whom my soul loved best;But I had my task to finish,And she was gone home to rest.To rest in the far bright heaven;Oh, so far away from here,It was vain to speak to my darling,For I knew she could not hear!I had a message to send her,So tender, and true, and sweet,I longed for an Angel to bear it,And lay it down at her feet.I placed it, one summer evening,On a Cloudlet’s fleecy breast;But it faded in golden splendour,And died in the crimson west.I gave it the Lark next morning,And I watched it soar and soar;But its pinions grew faint and weary,And it fluttered to earth once more.To the heart of a Rose I told it;And the perfume, sweet and rare,Growing faint on the blue bright ether,Was lost in the balmy air.I laid it upon a Censer,And I saw the incense rise;But its clouds of rolling silverCould not reach the far blue skies.I cried, in my passionate longing:—“Has the earth no Angel-friendWho will carry my love the messageThat my heart desires to send?”Then I heard a strain of music,So mighty, so pure, so clear,That my very sorrow was silent,And my heart stood still to hear.And I felt, in my soul’s deep yearning,At last the sure answer stir:—“The music will go up to Heaven,And carry my thought to her.”It rose in harmonious rushingOf mingled voices and strings,And I tenderly laid my messageOn the Music’s outspread wings.I heard it float farther and farther,In sound more perfect than speech;Farther than sight can follow,Farther than soul can reach.And I know that at last my messageHas passed through the golden gate:So my heart is no longer restless,And I am content to wait.

hada Message to send her,

To her whom my soul loved best;

But I had my task to finish,

And she was gone home to rest.

To rest in the far bright heaven;

Oh, so far away from here,

It was vain to speak to my darling,

For I knew she could not hear!

I had a message to send her,

So tender, and true, and sweet,

I longed for an Angel to bear it,

And lay it down at her feet.

I placed it, one summer evening,

On a Cloudlet’s fleecy breast;

But it faded in golden splendour,

And died in the crimson west.

I gave it the Lark next morning,

And I watched it soar and soar;

But its pinions grew faint and weary,

And it fluttered to earth once more.

To the heart of a Rose I told it;

And the perfume, sweet and rare,

Growing faint on the blue bright ether,

Was lost in the balmy air.

I laid it upon a Censer,

And I saw the incense rise;

But its clouds of rolling silver

Could not reach the far blue skies.

I cried, in my passionate longing:—

“Has the earth no Angel-friend

Who will carry my love the message

That my heart desires to send?”

Then I heard a strain of music,

So mighty, so pure, so clear,

That my very sorrow was silent,

And my heart stood still to hear.

And I felt, in my soul’s deep yearning,

At last the sure answer stir:—

“The music will go up to Heaven,

And carry my thought to her.”

It rose in harmonious rushing

Of mingled voices and strings,

And I tenderly laid my message

On the Music’s outspread wings.

I heard it float farther and farther,

In sound more perfect than speech;

Farther than sight can follow,

Farther than soul can reach.

And I know that at last my message

Has passed through the golden gate:

So my heart is no longer restless,

And I am content to wait.

B. W. PROCTER (BARRY CORNWALL).1787-1874.THE POET’S SONG TO HIS WIFE.SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.Howmany Summers, love,Have I been thine?How many days, thou dove,Hast thou been mine?Time, like the wingèd windWhen ’t bends the flowers,Hath left no mark behind,To count the hours!Some weight of thought, though loth,On thee he leaves;Some lines of care round bothPerhaps he weaves;Some fears,—a soft regretFor joys scarce known;Sweet looks we half forget;—All else is flown!Ah! with what thankless heartI mourn and sing!Look, where our children start,Like sudden Spring!With tongues all sweet and low,Like a pleasant rhyme,They tell how much I oweTo thee and Time!A PETITION TO TIME.1831.Touchus gently, Time!Let us glide adown thy streamGently,—as we sometimes glideThrough a quiet dream!Humble voyagers are We,Husband, wife, and children three—(One is lost,—an angel, fledTo the azure overhead!)Touch us gently, Time!We ’ve not proud nor soaring wings:Ourambition,ourcontentLies in simple things.Humble voyagers are We,O’er Life’s dim unsounded sea,Seeking only some calm clime:—Touch usgently, gentle Time!A BACCHANALIAN SONG.SET TO MUSIC BY MR. H. PHILLIPS.Sing!—Who singsTo her who weareth a hundred rings?Ah, who is this lady fine?TheVine, boys, theVine!The mother of mighty Wine.A roamer is sheO’er wall and tree,And sometimes very good company.Drink!—Who drinksTo her who blusheth and never thinks?Ah, who is this maid of thine?TheGrape, boys, theGrape!O, never let her escapeUntil she be turned to Wine!For better is sheThan vine can be,And very, very good company!Dream!—Who dreamsOf the God that governs a thousand streams?Ah, who is this Spirit fine?’T isWine, boys, ’t isWine!God Bacchus, a friend of mine.O better is heThan grape or tree,And the best of all good company.SHE WAS NOT FAIR NOR FULL OF GRACE.Shewas not fair, nor full of grace,Nor crowned with thought or aught beside;No wealth had she, of mind or face,To win our love, or raise our pride:No lover’s thought her cheek did touch;No poet’s dream was ’round her thrown;And yet we miss her—ah, too much,Now—she hath flown!We miss her when the morning calls,As one that mingled in our mirth;We miss her when the evening falls,—A trifle wanted on the earth!Some fancy small or subtle thoughtIs checked ere to its blossom grown;Some chain is broken that we wrought,Now—she hath flown!No solid good, nor hope defined,Is marred now she hath sunk in night;And yet the strong immortal MindIs stopped in its triumphant flight!Stern friend, what power is in a tear,What strength in one poor thought alone,When all we know is—“She was here,”And—“She hath flown!”THE SEA-KING.SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.Comesing, Come sing, of the great Sea-King,And the fame that now hangs o’er him,Who once did sweep o’er the vanquish’d deep,And drove the world before him!His deck was a throne, on the ocean lone,And the sea was his park of pleasure,Where he scattered in fear the human deer,And rested,—when he had leisure!Come,—shout and singOf the great Sea-King,And ride in the track he rode in!He sits at the headOf the mighty dead,On the red right hand of Odin!He sprang, from birth, like a God on earth,And soared on his victor pinions,And he traversed the sea, as the eagles flee,When they gaze on their blue dominions.His whole earth life was a conquering strife,And he lived till his beard grew hoary,And he died at last, by his blood-red mast,And now—he is lost in glory!So,—shout and sing, &c.A SERENADE.SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.Awake!—The starry midnight HourHangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight:In its own sweetness sleeps the flower;And the doves lie hushed in deep delight!Awake! Awake!Look forth, my love, for Love’s sweet sake!Awake!—Soft dews will soon ariseFrom daisied mead, and thorny brake;Then, Sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes,And like the tender morning break!Awake! Awake!Dawn forth, my love, for Love’s sweet sake!Awake!—Within the musk-rose bowerI watch, pale flower of love, for thee;Ah, come, and shew the starry HourWhat wealth of love thou hid’st from me!Awake! Awake!Shew all thy love, for Love’s sweet sake!Awake!—Ne’er heed, though listening NightSteal music from thy silver voice:Uncloud thy beauty, rare and bright,And bid the world and me rejoice!Awake! Awake!She comes,—at last, for Love’s sweet sake!King DeathKING DEATH.SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.King Deathwas a rare old fellow!He sate where no sun could shine;And he lifted his hand so yellow,And poured out his coal-black wine.Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!There came to him many a Maiden,Whose eyes had forgot to shine;And Widows, with grief o’erladen,For a draught of his sleepy wine.Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!The Scholar left all his learning;The Poet his fancied woes;And the Beauty her bloom returning,As the beads of the black wine rose.Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!All came to the royal old fellow,Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine,As he gave them his hand so yellow,And pledged them in Death’s black wine.Hurrah!—Hurrah!Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL.Sitdown, sad soul, and countThe moments flying:Come,—tell the sweet amountThat ’s lost by sighing!How many smiles?—a score?Then laugh, and count no more;For day is dying!Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,And no more measureThe flight of Time, nor weepThe loss of leisure;But here, by this lone stream,Lie down with us, and dreamOf starry treasure!We dream: do thou the same:We love—for ever:We laugh; yet few we shame,The gentle, never.Stay, then, till Sorrow dies;Then—hope and happy skiesAre thine for ever!A DRINKING SONG.Drink,and fill the night with mirth!Let us have a mighty measure,Till we quite forget the earth,And soar into the world of pleasure.Drink, and let a health go round,(’T is the drinker’s noble duty,)To the eyes that shine and wound,To the mouths that bud in beauty!Here ’s to Helen! Why, ah! whyDoth she fly from my pursuing?Here ’s to Marian, cold and shy!May she warm before thy wooing!Here ’s to Janet! I ’ve been e’er,Boy and man, her staunch defender,Always sworn that she was fair,Alwaysknownthat she was tender!Fill the deep-mouthed glasses high!Let them with the champagne tremble,Like the loose wrack in the sky,When the four wild winds assemble!Here ’s to all the love on earth,(Love, the young man’s, wise man’s treasure!)Drink, and fill your throats with mirth!Drink, and drown the world in pleasure!PEACE! WHAT DO TEARS AVAIL?Peace!what can tears avail?She lies all dumb and pale,And from her eye,The spirit of lovely life is fading,And she must die!Why looks the lover wroth? the friend upbraiding?Reply, reply!Hath she not dwelt too long’Midst pain, and grief, and wrong?Then, why not die?Why suffer again her doom of sorrow,And hopeless lie?Why nurse the trembling dream until to-morrow?Reply, reply!Death! Take her to thine arms,In all her stainless charms,And with her flyTo heavenly haunts, where, clad in brightness,The Angels lie!Wilt bear her there, O Death! in all her whiteness?Reply,—reply!THE SEA.SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.TheSea! the Sea! the open Sea!The blue, the fresh, the ever free!Without a mark, without a bound,It runneth the earth’s wide regions ’round;It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;Or like a cradled creature lies.I ’m on the Sea! I ’m on the Sea!I am where I would ever be;With the blue above, and the blue below,And silence wheresoe’er I go;If a storm should come and awake the deep,What matter?Ishall ride and sleep.I love (oh!howI love) to rideOn the fierce foaming bursting tide,When every mad wave drowns the moon,Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,And tells how goeth the world below,And why the south-west blasts do blow.I never was on the dull tame shore,But I loved the great Sea more and more,And backwards flew to her billowy breast,Like a bird that seeketh its mother’s nest;And a mother shewas, andisto me;For I was born on the open Sea!The waves were white, and red the morn,In the noisy hour when I was born;And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;And never was heard such an outcry wildAs welcomed to life the Ocean-child!I ’ve lived since then, in calm and strife,Full fifty summers a sailor’s life,With wealth to spend and a power to range,But never have sought, nor sighed for change;And Death, whenever he come to me,Shall come on the wild unbounded Sea!

1787-1874.

Howmany Summers, love,Have I been thine?How many days, thou dove,Hast thou been mine?Time, like the wingèd windWhen ’t bends the flowers,Hath left no mark behind,To count the hours!Some weight of thought, though loth,On thee he leaves;Some lines of care round bothPerhaps he weaves;Some fears,—a soft regretFor joys scarce known;Sweet looks we half forget;—All else is flown!Ah! with what thankless heartI mourn and sing!Look, where our children start,Like sudden Spring!With tongues all sweet and low,Like a pleasant rhyme,They tell how much I oweTo thee and Time!

owmany Summers, love,

Have I been thine?

How many days, thou dove,

Hast thou been mine?

Time, like the wingèd wind

When ’t bends the flowers,

Hath left no mark behind,

To count the hours!

Some weight of thought, though loth,

On thee he leaves;

Some lines of care round both

Perhaps he weaves;

Some fears,—a soft regret

For joys scarce known;

Sweet looks we half forget;—

All else is flown!

Ah! with what thankless heart

I mourn and sing!

Look, where our children start,

Like sudden Spring!

With tongues all sweet and low,

Like a pleasant rhyme,

They tell how much I owe

To thee and Time!

Touchus gently, Time!Let us glide adown thy streamGently,—as we sometimes glideThrough a quiet dream!Humble voyagers are We,Husband, wife, and children three—(One is lost,—an angel, fledTo the azure overhead!)Touch us gently, Time!We ’ve not proud nor soaring wings:Ourambition,ourcontentLies in simple things.Humble voyagers are We,O’er Life’s dim unsounded sea,Seeking only some calm clime:—Touch usgently, gentle Time!

ouchus gently, Time!

Let us glide adown thy stream

Gently,—as we sometimes glide

Through a quiet dream!

Humble voyagers are We,

Husband, wife, and children three—

(One is lost,—an angel, fled

To the azure overhead!)

Touch us gently, Time!

We ’ve not proud nor soaring wings:

Ourambition,ourcontent

Lies in simple things.

Humble voyagers are We,

O’er Life’s dim unsounded sea,

Seeking only some calm clime:—

Touch usgently, gentle Time!

Sing!—Who singsTo her who weareth a hundred rings?Ah, who is this lady fine?TheVine, boys, theVine!The mother of mighty Wine.A roamer is sheO’er wall and tree,And sometimes very good company.Drink!—Who drinksTo her who blusheth and never thinks?Ah, who is this maid of thine?TheGrape, boys, theGrape!O, never let her escapeUntil she be turned to Wine!For better is sheThan vine can be,And very, very good company!Dream!—Who dreamsOf the God that governs a thousand streams?Ah, who is this Spirit fine?’T isWine, boys, ’t isWine!God Bacchus, a friend of mine.O better is heThan grape or tree,And the best of all good company.

ing!—Who sings

To her who weareth a hundred rings?

Ah, who is this lady fine?

TheVine, boys, theVine!

The mother of mighty Wine.

A roamer is she

O’er wall and tree,

And sometimes very good company.

Drink!—Who drinks

To her who blusheth and never thinks?

Ah, who is this maid of thine?

TheGrape, boys, theGrape!

O, never let her escape

Until she be turned to Wine!

For better is she

Than vine can be,

And very, very good company!

Dream!—Who dreams

Of the God that governs a thousand streams?

Ah, who is this Spirit fine?

’T isWine, boys, ’t isWine!

God Bacchus, a friend of mine.

O better is he

Than grape or tree,

And the best of all good company.

Shewas not fair, nor full of grace,Nor crowned with thought or aught beside;No wealth had she, of mind or face,To win our love, or raise our pride:No lover’s thought her cheek did touch;No poet’s dream was ’round her thrown;And yet we miss her—ah, too much,Now—she hath flown!We miss her when the morning calls,As one that mingled in our mirth;We miss her when the evening falls,—A trifle wanted on the earth!Some fancy small or subtle thoughtIs checked ere to its blossom grown;Some chain is broken that we wrought,Now—she hath flown!No solid good, nor hope defined,Is marred now she hath sunk in night;And yet the strong immortal MindIs stopped in its triumphant flight!Stern friend, what power is in a tear,What strength in one poor thought alone,When all we know is—“She was here,”And—“She hath flown!”

hewas not fair, nor full of grace,

Nor crowned with thought or aught beside;

No wealth had she, of mind or face,

To win our love, or raise our pride:

No lover’s thought her cheek did touch;

No poet’s dream was ’round her thrown;

And yet we miss her—ah, too much,

Now—she hath flown!

We miss her when the morning calls,

As one that mingled in our mirth;

We miss her when the evening falls,—

A trifle wanted on the earth!

Some fancy small or subtle thought

Is checked ere to its blossom grown;

Some chain is broken that we wrought,

Now—she hath flown!

No solid good, nor hope defined,

Is marred now she hath sunk in night;

And yet the strong immortal Mind

Is stopped in its triumphant flight!

Stern friend, what power is in a tear,

What strength in one poor thought alone,

When all we know is—“She was here,”

And—“She hath flown!”

Comesing, Come sing, of the great Sea-King,And the fame that now hangs o’er him,Who once did sweep o’er the vanquish’d deep,And drove the world before him!His deck was a throne, on the ocean lone,And the sea was his park of pleasure,Where he scattered in fear the human deer,And rested,—when he had leisure!Come,—shout and singOf the great Sea-King,And ride in the track he rode in!He sits at the headOf the mighty dead,On the red right hand of Odin!He sprang, from birth, like a God on earth,And soared on his victor pinions,And he traversed the sea, as the eagles flee,When they gaze on their blue dominions.His whole earth life was a conquering strife,And he lived till his beard grew hoary,And he died at last, by his blood-red mast,And now—he is lost in glory!So,—shout and sing, &c.

omesing, Come sing, of the great Sea-King,

And the fame that now hangs o’er him,

Who once did sweep o’er the vanquish’d deep,

And drove the world before him!

His deck was a throne, on the ocean lone,

And the sea was his park of pleasure,

Where he scattered in fear the human deer,

And rested,—when he had leisure!

Come,—shout and sing

Of the great Sea-King,

And ride in the track he rode in!

He sits at the head

Of the mighty dead,

On the red right hand of Odin!

He sprang, from birth, like a God on earth,

And soared on his victor pinions,

And he traversed the sea, as the eagles flee,

When they gaze on their blue dominions.

His whole earth life was a conquering strife,

And he lived till his beard grew hoary,

And he died at last, by his blood-red mast,

And now—he is lost in glory!

So,—shout and sing, &c.

Awake!—The starry midnight HourHangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight:In its own sweetness sleeps the flower;And the doves lie hushed in deep delight!Awake! Awake!Look forth, my love, for Love’s sweet sake!Awake!—Soft dews will soon ariseFrom daisied mead, and thorny brake;Then, Sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes,And like the tender morning break!Awake! Awake!Dawn forth, my love, for Love’s sweet sake!Awake!—Within the musk-rose bowerI watch, pale flower of love, for thee;Ah, come, and shew the starry HourWhat wealth of love thou hid’st from me!Awake! Awake!Shew all thy love, for Love’s sweet sake!Awake!—Ne’er heed, though listening NightSteal music from thy silver voice:Uncloud thy beauty, rare and bright,And bid the world and me rejoice!Awake! Awake!She comes,—at last, for Love’s sweet sake!

wake!—The starry midnight Hour

Hangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight:

In its own sweetness sleeps the flower;

And the doves lie hushed in deep delight!

Awake! Awake!

Look forth, my love, for Love’s sweet sake!

Awake!—Soft dews will soon arise

From daisied mead, and thorny brake;

Then, Sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes,

And like the tender morning break!

Awake! Awake!

Dawn forth, my love, for Love’s sweet sake!

Awake!—Within the musk-rose bower

I watch, pale flower of love, for thee;

Ah, come, and shew the starry Hour

What wealth of love thou hid’st from me!

Awake! Awake!

Shew all thy love, for Love’s sweet sake!

Awake!—Ne’er heed, though listening Night

Steal music from thy silver voice:

Uncloud thy beauty, rare and bright,

And bid the world and me rejoice!

Awake! Awake!

She comes,—at last, for Love’s sweet sake!

King Death

King Deathwas a rare old fellow!He sate where no sun could shine;And he lifted his hand so yellow,And poured out his coal-black wine.Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!There came to him many a Maiden,Whose eyes had forgot to shine;And Widows, with grief o’erladen,For a draught of his sleepy wine.Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!The Scholar left all his learning;The Poet his fancied woes;And the Beauty her bloom returning,As the beads of the black wine rose.Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!All came to the royal old fellow,Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine,As he gave them his hand so yellow,And pledged them in Death’s black wine.Hurrah!—Hurrah!Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!

ing Deathwas a rare old fellow!

He sate where no sun could shine;

And he lifted his hand so yellow,

And poured out his coal-black wine.

Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!

There came to him many a Maiden,

Whose eyes had forgot to shine;

And Widows, with grief o’erladen,

For a draught of his sleepy wine.

Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!

The Scholar left all his learning;

The Poet his fancied woes;

And the Beauty her bloom returning,

As the beads of the black wine rose.

Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!

All came to the royal old fellow,

Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine,

As he gave them his hand so yellow,

And pledged them in Death’s black wine.

Hurrah!—Hurrah!

Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!

Sitdown, sad soul, and countThe moments flying:Come,—tell the sweet amountThat ’s lost by sighing!How many smiles?—a score?Then laugh, and count no more;For day is dying!Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,And no more measureThe flight of Time, nor weepThe loss of leisure;But here, by this lone stream,Lie down with us, and dreamOf starry treasure!We dream: do thou the same:We love—for ever:We laugh; yet few we shame,The gentle, never.Stay, then, till Sorrow dies;Then—hope and happy skiesAre thine for ever!

itdown, sad soul, and count

The moments flying:

Come,—tell the sweet amount

That ’s lost by sighing!

How many smiles?—a score?

Then laugh, and count no more;

For day is dying!

Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,

And no more measure

The flight of Time, nor weep

The loss of leisure;

But here, by this lone stream,

Lie down with us, and dream

Of starry treasure!

We dream: do thou the same:

We love—for ever:

We laugh; yet few we shame,

The gentle, never.

Stay, then, till Sorrow dies;

Then—hope and happy skies

Are thine for ever!

Drink,and fill the night with mirth!Let us have a mighty measure,Till we quite forget the earth,And soar into the world of pleasure.Drink, and let a health go round,(’T is the drinker’s noble duty,)To the eyes that shine and wound,To the mouths that bud in beauty!Here ’s to Helen! Why, ah! whyDoth she fly from my pursuing?Here ’s to Marian, cold and shy!May she warm before thy wooing!Here ’s to Janet! I ’ve been e’er,Boy and man, her staunch defender,Always sworn that she was fair,Alwaysknownthat she was tender!Fill the deep-mouthed glasses high!Let them with the champagne tremble,Like the loose wrack in the sky,When the four wild winds assemble!Here ’s to all the love on earth,(Love, the young man’s, wise man’s treasure!)Drink, and fill your throats with mirth!Drink, and drown the world in pleasure!

rink,and fill the night with mirth!

Let us have a mighty measure,

Till we quite forget the earth,

And soar into the world of pleasure.

Drink, and let a health go round,

(’T is the drinker’s noble duty,)

To the eyes that shine and wound,

To the mouths that bud in beauty!

Here ’s to Helen! Why, ah! why

Doth she fly from my pursuing?

Here ’s to Marian, cold and shy!

May she warm before thy wooing!

Here ’s to Janet! I ’ve been e’er,

Boy and man, her staunch defender,

Always sworn that she was fair,

Alwaysknownthat she was tender!

Fill the deep-mouthed glasses high!

Let them with the champagne tremble,

Like the loose wrack in the sky,

When the four wild winds assemble!

Here ’s to all the love on earth,

(Love, the young man’s, wise man’s treasure!)

Drink, and fill your throats with mirth!

Drink, and drown the world in pleasure!

Peace!what can tears avail?She lies all dumb and pale,And from her eye,The spirit of lovely life is fading,And she must die!Why looks the lover wroth? the friend upbraiding?Reply, reply!Hath she not dwelt too long’Midst pain, and grief, and wrong?Then, why not die?Why suffer again her doom of sorrow,And hopeless lie?Why nurse the trembling dream until to-morrow?Reply, reply!Death! Take her to thine arms,In all her stainless charms,And with her flyTo heavenly haunts, where, clad in brightness,The Angels lie!Wilt bear her there, O Death! in all her whiteness?Reply,—reply!

eace!what can tears avail?

She lies all dumb and pale,

And from her eye,

The spirit of lovely life is fading,

And she must die!

Why looks the lover wroth? the friend upbraiding?

Reply, reply!

Hath she not dwelt too long

’Midst pain, and grief, and wrong?

Then, why not die?

Why suffer again her doom of sorrow,

And hopeless lie?

Why nurse the trembling dream until to-morrow?

Reply, reply!

Death! Take her to thine arms,

In all her stainless charms,

And with her fly

To heavenly haunts, where, clad in brightness,

The Angels lie!

Wilt bear her there, O Death! in all her whiteness?

Reply,—reply!

TheSea! the Sea! the open Sea!The blue, the fresh, the ever free!Without a mark, without a bound,It runneth the earth’s wide regions ’round;It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;Or like a cradled creature lies.I ’m on the Sea! I ’m on the Sea!I am where I would ever be;With the blue above, and the blue below,And silence wheresoe’er I go;If a storm should come and awake the deep,What matter?Ishall ride and sleep.I love (oh!howI love) to rideOn the fierce foaming bursting tide,When every mad wave drowns the moon,Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,And tells how goeth the world below,And why the south-west blasts do blow.I never was on the dull tame shore,But I loved the great Sea more and more,And backwards flew to her billowy breast,Like a bird that seeketh its mother’s nest;And a mother shewas, andisto me;For I was born on the open Sea!The waves were white, and red the morn,In the noisy hour when I was born;And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;And never was heard such an outcry wildAs welcomed to life the Ocean-child!I ’ve lived since then, in calm and strife,Full fifty summers a sailor’s life,With wealth to spend and a power to range,But never have sought, nor sighed for change;And Death, whenever he come to me,Shall come on the wild unbounded Sea!

heSea! the Sea! the open Sea!

The blue, the fresh, the ever free!

Without a mark, without a bound,

It runneth the earth’s wide regions ’round;

It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;

Or like a cradled creature lies.

I ’m on the Sea! I ’m on the Sea!

I am where I would ever be;

With the blue above, and the blue below,

And silence wheresoe’er I go;

If a storm should come and awake the deep,

What matter?Ishall ride and sleep.

I love (oh!howI love) to ride

On the fierce foaming bursting tide,

When every mad wave drowns the moon,

Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,

And tells how goeth the world below,

And why the south-west blasts do blow.

I never was on the dull tame shore,

But I loved the great Sea more and more,

And backwards flew to her billowy breast,

Like a bird that seeketh its mother’s nest;

And a mother shewas, andisto me;

For I was born on the open Sea!

The waves were white, and red the morn,

In the noisy hour when I was born;

And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,

And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;

And never was heard such an outcry wild

As welcomed to life the Ocean-child!

I ’ve lived since then, in calm and strife,

Full fifty summers a sailor’s life,

With wealth to spend and a power to range,

But never have sought, nor sighed for change;

And Death, whenever he come to me,

Shall come on the wild unbounded Sea!

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