Chapter II: Part 2

The rain shone in her hair,
And her face gleam'd in the rain;
And only the night and the rain were there
As she came to me out of the rain.
--_Arthur Symons_

Down by the Sally Gardens

Down by the sally gardens my love and I did meet;
She pass'd the sally gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;
But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.

In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.
She bade me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.
--_William Butler Yeats_

Song

She's somewhere in the sunlight strong,
Her tears are in the falling rain,
She calls me in the wind's soft song,
And with the flowers she comes again.

Yon bird is but her messenger,
The moon is but her silver car.
Yea! sun and moon are sent by her,
And every wistful waiting star.
--_Richard Le Gallienne_

Song

When Delia on the plain appears
Aw'd by a thousand tender fears,
I would approach, but dare not move:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd ear
No other voice but hers can hear,
No other wit but hers approve:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

If she some other youth commend,
Though I was once his fondest friend,
His instant enemy I prove:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

When she is absent, I no more
Delight in all that pleas'd before,
The clearest spring, or shadiest grove:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

When, fond of power, of beauty vain,
Her nets she spread for every swain,
I strove to hate, but vainly strove:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
--_George Lyttleton_

Advice Against Travel

Traverse not the globe for lore! The sternest
But the surest teacher is the heart;
Studying that and that alone, thou learnest
Best and soonest whence and what thou art.

Moor, Chinese, Egyptian, Russian, Roman,
Tread one common down-hill path of doom;
Everywhere the names are man and woman,
Everywhere the old sad sins find room.

Evil angels tempt us in all places.
What but sands or snows hath earth to give?
Dream not, friend, of deserts and oases;
But look inwards, and begin to live!
--_James Clarence Mangan_

Remember

Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand.

It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
--_Christina Georgina Rossetti_

There be none of Beauty's daughters
With a magic like thee;
And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charmed ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming.

And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o'er the deep;
Whose breast is gently heaving
As an infant's asleep;
So, the spirit bows before thee,
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of Summer's ocean.
--_George Gordon_ (_Lord Byron_)

A Valentine

What shall I send my love today
When all the woods attune to love,
And I would show the lark and dove
That I can love as well as they? ...

I'll send a kiss, for that would be
The quickest sent, the lightest borne;
And well I know to-morrow morn
She'll send it back again to me.

Go, happy winds! ah, do not stay
Enamour'd of my lady's cheek,
But hasten home, and I'll bespeak
Your services another day!
--_Matilda Betham Edwards_

To His Mistress, Objecting to His Neither Toying
nor Talking

You say I love not, 'cause I do not play
Still with your curls, and kiss the time away.
You blame me, too, because I can't devise
Some sport, to please those babies in your eyes;
By Love's religion, I must here confess it,
The most I love when I the least express it.
Small griefs find tongues; full casks are ever found
To give, if any, yet but little sound.
Deep waters noiseless are; and this we know,
That chiding streams betray small depths below.
So, when Love speechless is, she doth express
A depth in love, and that depth bottomless.
Now since my love is tongueless, know me such,
Who speak but little, 'cause I love so much.
--_Robert Herrick_

When You Are Old

When you are old and gray and full of sleep
And, nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead,
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
--_William Butler Yeats_

Song

False though she be to me and love,
I'll ne'er pursue revenge:
For still the charmer I approve,
Though I deplore her change.

In hours of bliss we oft have met,
They could not always last;
And though the present I regret,
I'm grateful for the past.
--_William Congreve_

Song

I lately vow'd, but 'twas in haste,
That I no more would court
The joys that seem when they are past
As dull as they are short.

I oft to hate my mistress swear,
But soon my weakness find;
I make my oaths when she's severe,
But break them when she's kind.
--_John Oldmixon_

My Loves

Name the leaves on all the trees,
Name the waves on all the seas,
Name the notes of all the groves,
Thus thou namest all my loves.

I do love the young, the old,
Maiden modest, virgin bold;
Tiny beauties and the tall--
Earth has room enough for all!

Which is better--who can say?--
Mary grave or Lucy gay?
She who half her charms conceals,
She who flashes while she feels?

Why should I my love confine?
Why should fair be mine or thine?
If I praise a tulip, why
Should I pass the primrose by?

Paris was a pedant fool
Meting beauty by the rule:
Pallas? Juno? Venus?--he
Should have chosen all the three!
--_John Stuart Blackie_

Cupid Mistaken

Venus whipt Cupid t'other day,
For having lost his bow and quiver;
For he had given them both away
To Stella, queen of Isis river.

"Mamma! you wrong me while you strike,"
Cried weeping Cupid, "for I vow,
Stella and you are so alike,
I thought that I had lent them you."
--_William Somerville_

Song

Hard is the fate of him who loves,
Yet dares not tell his trembling pain,
But to the sympathetic groves,
But to the lonely listening plain.

Oh! when she blesses next your shade,
Oh! when her footsteps next are seen
In flowery tracts along the mead,
In fresher mazes o'er the green,

Ye gentle spirits of the vale,
To whom the tears of love are dear,
From dying lilies waft a gale,
And sigh my sorrows in her ear.

Oh, tell her what she cannot blame,
Though fear my tongue must ever bind;
Oh, tell her that my virtuous flame
Is as her spotless soul, refin'd.

Not her own guardian angel eyes
With chaster tenderness his care,
Not purer her own wishes rise,
Not holier her own sighs in prayer.

But if, at first, her virgin fear
Should start at love's suspected name,
With that of friendship soothe her ear--
True love and friendship are the same.
--_William Somerville_

Faith

Better trust all, and be deceived,
And weep that trust and that deceiving,
Than doubt one heart that, if believed,
Had bless'd one's life with true believing.

O, in this mocking world too fast
The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth!
Better be cheated to the last
Than lose the blessed hope of truth.
--_Frances Anne Kemble_

Memories

A beautiful and happy girl,
With step as light as summer air,
Eyes glad with smiles, and brow of pearl,
Shadow'd by many a careless curl
Of unconfined and flowing hair;
A seeming child in everything,
Save thoughtful brow and ripening charms,
As Nature wears the smile of Spring
When sinking into Summer's arms.

A mind rejoicing in the light
Which melted through its graceful bower,
Leaf after leaf, dew-moist and bright,
And stainless in its holy white,
Unfolding like a morning flower:
A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute,
With every breath of feeling woke,
And, even when the tongue was mute,
From eye and lip in music spoke.
--_John Greenleaf Whittier_

The Forest Maid

O fairest of the rural maids!
Thy birth was in the forest shades;
And all the beauty of the place
Is in thy heart and on thy face.

The twilight of the trees and rocks
Is in the light shade of thy locks,
Thy step is as the wind that weaves
Its playful way among the leaves.

Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene
And silent waters heaven is seen;
Their lashes are the herds that look
On their young figures in the brook.

The forest depths by foot unpress'd
Are not more sinless than thy breast;
The holy peace that fills the air
Of those calm solitudes is there.
--_William Cullen Bryant_

All's Well

The clouds, which rise with thunder, slake
Our thirsty souls with rain;
The blow most dreaded falls to break
From off our limbs a chain;
And wrongs of man to man but make
The love of God more plain.
As through the shadowy lens of even
The eye looks farthest into heaven
On gleams of star and depths of blue
The glaring sunshine never knew!
--_John Greenleaf Whittier_

A Violinist

The lark above our heads doth know
A heaven we see not here below;
She sees it, and for joy she sings;
Then falls with ineffectual wings.

Ah, soaring soul! faint not nor tire!
Each heaven attain'd reveals a higher,
Thy thought is of thy failure; we
List raptured, and thank God for thee.
--_Francis William Bourdillon_

To Helen

Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
The weary way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece,
And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand,
Ah! Psyche, from the regions which
Are holy land!
--_Edgar Allan Poe_

The Truth of Woman

Woman's faith, and woman's trust--
Write the characters in dust;
Stamp them on the running stream,
Print them on the moon's pale beam,
And each evanescent letter
Shall be clearer, firmer, better,
And more permanent, I ween,
Than the thing those letters mean.

I have strain'd the spider's thread
'Gainst the promise of a maid;
I have weigh'd a grain of sand
'Gainst her plight of heart and hand;
I hold my true love of the token,
How her faith proved light and her word was broken:
Again her word and truth she plight,
And I believed them again ere night.
--_Sir Walter Scott_

Ageanax

Dear voyager, a lucky star be thine,
To Mytilene sailing over sea,
Or foul or fair the constellations shine,
Or east or west the wind-blown billows flee.
May halcyon-birds that hover o'er the brine
Diffuse abroad their own tranquillity,
Till ocean stretches stilly as the wine
In this deep cup which now we drain to thee.

From lip to lip the merry circle through
We pass the tankard and repeat thy name;
And having pledged thee once, we pledge anew,
Lest in thy friends' neglect thou suffer shame.
God-speed to ship, good health to pious crew,
Peace by the way, and port of noble fame!
--_Edward Cracroft Lefroy_

Names

I asked my fair, one happy day,
What I should call her in my lay;
By what sweet name from Rome or Greece:
Lalage, Neaera, Chloris,
Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris,
Arethusa or Lucrece.

"Ah!" returned my gentle fair,
"Beloved, what are names but air?
Choose whatever suits the line;
Call me Sappho, call me Chloris,
Call me Lalage or Doris,
Only, only call me Thine!"
--_Samuel Taylor Coleridge_

A Summer Day in Old Sicily

Gods, what a sun! I think the world's aglow
This garment irks me. Phoebus, it is hot!
'Twere sad if Glycera should find me shot
By flame-tipp'd arrows from the Archer's bow.
Perchance he envies me,--the villain! O
For one tree's shadow or a cliff-side grot!
Where shall I shelter that he slay me not?
In what cool air or element?--I know.

The sea shall save me from the sweltering land:
Far out I'll wade, till creeping up and up,
The cold green water quenches every limb.
Then to the jealous god with lifted hand
I'll pour libation from a rosy cup,
And leap, and dive, and see the tunnies swim.
--_Edward Cracroft Lefroy_

On a Nightingale in April

The yellow moon is a dancing phantom
Down secret ways of the flowing shade;
And the waveless stream has a murmuring whisper
Where the alders wade.

Not a breath, not a sigh, save the slow stream's whisper:
Only the moon is a dancing blade
That leads a host of the Crescent warriors
To a phantom raid.

Out of the lands of Faerie a summons,
A long strange cry that thrills thro' the glade:--
The grey-green glooms of the elm are stirring,
Newly afraid.

Last heard, white music, under the olives
Where once Theocritus sang and play'd--
Thy Thracian song is the old new wonder--
O moon-white maid!
--_William Sharp_

Home-Thoughts from Abroad

O, to be in England
Now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England--now!

And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray's edge--
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower
--Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
--_Robert Browning_

FEW HAPPY MATCHES

Say, mighty Love, and teach my song,
To whom thy sweetest joys belong,
And who the happy pairs
Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands,
Find blessings twisted with their bands
To soften all their cares.

Two kindest souls alone must meet,
'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet,
And feeds their mutual loves:
Bright Venus on her rolling throne
Is drawn by gentlest birds alone,
And Cupids yoke the doves.
--_Dr. Isaac Watts_

A Song

Gentle love, this hour befriend me,
To my eyes resign thy dart;
Notes of melting music lend me,
To dissolve a frozen heart.

Chill as mountain snow her bosom,
Though I tender language use,
'Tis by cold indifference frozen,
To my arms, and to my Muse.

See! my dying eyes are pleading,
Where a breaking heart appears;
For thy pity interceding
With the eloquence of tears.

While the lamp of life is fading,
And beneath thy coldness dies,
Death my ebbing pulse invading,
Take my soul into thy eyes.
--_Aaron Hill_

Love's Likeness

O mark yon Rose-tree! When the West
Breathes on her with too warm a zest,
She turns her cheek away;
Yet if one moment he refrain,
She turns her cheek to him again,
And woos him still to stay!

Is she not like a maiden coy
Press'd by some amorous-breathing boy?
Tho' coy, she courts him too,
Winding away her slender form,
She will not have him woo so warm,
And yet will have him woo!
--_George Darley_

My Lady

I loved her for that she was beautiful;
And that to me she seem'd to be all Nature,
And all varieties of things in one:
Would set at night in clouds of tears, and rise
All light and laughter in the morning; fear
No petty customs nor appearances;
But think what others only dream'd about;
And say what others did but think; and do
What others did but say; and glory in
What others dared but do; so pure withal
In soul; in heart and act such conscious yet
Such perfect innocence, she made round her
A halo of delight. 'Twas these which won me;--
And that she never school'd within her breast
One thought or feeling, but gave holiday
To all; and that she made all even mine
In the communion of Love; and we
Grew like each other, for we loved each other;
She, mild and generous as the air in Spring;
And I, like Earth all budding out with love.
--_Philip James Bailey_

To a Discarded Toast

Celia, confess 'tis all in vain
To patch the ruins of thy face;
Nor of ill-natur'd time complain,
That robs it of each blooming grace.

If love no more shall bend his bow,
Nor point his arrows from thine eye,
If no lac'd fop, nor feathered beau,
Despairing at thy feet shall die.

Yet still, my charmer, wit like thine
Shall triumph over age and fate;
Thy setting beams with lustre shine,
And rival their meridian height.

Beauty, fair flower! soon fades away,
And transient are the joys of love;
But wit, and virtue ne'er decay,
Ador'd below, and bless'd above.
--_William Somerville_

The Bonnie Wee Thing

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing,
Lovely wee thing, wast thou mine,
I wad wear thee in my bosom,
Lest my jewel I should tine.

Wishfully I look and languish
In that bonnie face o' thine;
And my heart it stounds wi' anguish,
Lest my wee thing be na mine.

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty,
In ae constellation shine;
To adore thee is my duty,
Goddess o' this sould of mine.
--_Robert Burns_

Song from "The Princess"

Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font;
The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.
Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost,
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.

Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me.

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake:
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.
--_Alfred Tennyson_

Song

She is not fair to outward view
As many maidens be;
Her loveliness I never knew
Until she smiled on me;
O, then I saw her eye was bright,
A well of love, a spring of light!

But now her looks are coy and cold,
To mine they ne'er reply,
And yet I cease not to behold
The love-light in her eye:
Her very frowns are fairer far
Than smiles of other maidens are.
--_Hartley Coleridge_

To a Lofty Beauty, from Her Poor Kinsman

Fair maid, had I not heard thy baby cries,
Nor seen thy girlish, sweet vicissitude,
Thy mazy motions, striving to elude,
Yet wooing still a parent's watchful eyes,
Thy humours, many as the opal's dyes,
And lovely all;--methinks thy scornful mood,
And bearing high of stately womanhood,--
Thy brow, where Beauty sits to tyrannize
O'er humble love, had made me sadly fear thee;
For never sure was seen a royal bride,
Whose gentleness gave grace to so much pride--
My very thoughts would tremble to be near thee:
But when I see thee at thy father's side,
Old times unqueen thee, and old loves endear thee.
--_Hartley Coleridge_

Time of Roses

It was not in the Winter
Our loving lot was cast;
It was the time of roses--
We pluck'd them as we pass'd!

That churlish season never frown'd
On early lovers yet:
O no--the world was newly crown'd
With flowers when first we met!

'Twas twilight, and I bade you go
But still you held me fast;
It was the time of roses--
We pluck'd them as we pass'd!
--_Thomas Hood_

Hermione

Thou hast beauty bright and fair,
Manner noble, aspect free,
Eyes that are untouch'd by care;
What then do we ask from thee?
Hermione, Hermione!

Thou hast reason quick and strong,
Wit that envious men admire,
And a voice, itself a song!
What then can we still desire?
Hermione, Hermione!

Something thou dost want, O queen!
(As the gold doth ask alloy),
Tears--amidst thy laughter seen,
Pity--mingling with thy joy.
This is all we ask from thee,
Hermione, Hermione!
--_Bryan Waller Proctor_

Delia

Fair the face of orient day,
Fair the tints of op'ning rose;
But fairer still my Delia dawns,
More lovely far her beauty blows.

Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay,
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear;
But, Delia, more delightful still,
Steal thine accents on mine ear.

The flower-enamour'd busy bee
The rosy banquet loves to sip;
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip.

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips
Let me, no vagrant insect, rove!
O let me steal one liquid kiss!
For oh! my soul is parch'd with love.
--_Robert Burns_

Speaking and Kissing

The air which thy smooth voice doth break,
Into my soul like lightning flies;
My life retires while thou dost speak,
And thy soft breath its room supplies.

Lost in this pleasing ecstasy,
I join my trembling lips to thine,
And back receive that life from thee
Which I so gladly did resign.

Forbear, Platonic fools! t'inquire
What numbers do the soul compose;
No harmony can life inspire
But that which from these accents flows.
--_Thomas Stanley_

A Rondeau to Ethel

"In tea-cup times"! The style of dress
Would meet your beauty, I confess;
Belinda-like, the patch you'd wear;
I picture you the powdered hair,--
You'd make a charming Shepherdess!

And I--no doubt--could well express
Sir Plume's complete conceitedness,--
Could poise a clouded cane with care
"In tea-cup times"!

The parts would fit precisely--yes;
We should achieve a huge success!
You should disdain, and I despair,
With quite the true Augustan air;
But ... could I love you more, or less,--
"In tea-cup times"?
--_Austin Dobson_

The Nun

If you become a nun, dear,
A friar I will be;
In any cell you run, dear,
Pray look behind for me.
The roses all turn pale, too;
The doves all take the veil, too;
The blind will see the show.
What! you become a nun, my dear?
I'll not believe it, no!

If you become a nun, dear,
The bishop Love will be;
The Cupids every one, dear,
Will chant "We trust in thee."
The incense will go sighing,
The candles fall a-dying,
The water turn to wine;
What! you go take the vows, my dear?
You may--but they'll be mine!
--_Leigh Hunt_

Under the Wattle

"Why should not Wattle do
For Mistletoe?
Ask'd one--they were but two--
Where wattles grow.

He was her lover, too,
Who urged her so--
"Why should not Wattle do
For Mistletoe?"

A rose-cheek rosier grew;
Rose-lips breathed low--
"Since it is here--and You--
I hardly know
Why Wattle should not do."
--_Douglas Brook Wheelton Sladen_

Eutopia

There is a garden where lilies
And roses are side by side;
And all day between them in silence
The silken butterflies glide.

I may not enter the garden,
Tho' I know the road thereto;
And morn by morn to the gateway
I see the children go.

They bring back light on their faces;
But they cannot bring back to me
What the lilies say to the roses,
Or the songs of the butterflies be.
--_Francis Turner Palgrave_

Designed and Printed
in the Shop of
P. F. Volland Company
Chicago

End of Project Gutenberg's A Little Book of Old Time Verse, by Various