Chapter XV: Part 15

And ever the witching smile, to her face beguiled, Paused and broadened, and broke in a ripple of fun, And the soul of a child looked out of the eyes of a child, Or ever the tale was done.

O my child, who wronged you first, and began First the dance of death that you dance so well? Soul for soul: and I think the soul of a man Shall answer for yours in hell.

Arthur Symons [1865-

THE BALLAD OF CAMDEN TOWN

I walked with Maisie long years back The streets of Camden Town, I splendid in my suit of black, And she divine in brown.

Hers was a proud and noble face, A secret heart, and eyes Like water in a lonely place Beneath unclouded skies.

A bed, a chest, a faded mat, And broken chairs a few, Were all we had to grace our flat In Hazel Avenue.

But I could walk to Hampstead Heath, And crown her head with daisies, And watch the streaming world beneath, And men with other Maisies.

When I was ill and she was pale And empty stood our store, She left the latchkey on its nail, And saw me nevermore.

Perhaps she cast herself away Lest both of us should drown: Perhaps she feared to die, as they Who die in Camden Town.

What came of her? The bitter nights Destroy the rose and lily, And souls are lost among the lights Of painted Piccadilly.

What came of her? The river flows So deep and wide and stilly, And waits to catch the fallen rose And clasp the broken lily.

I dream she dwells in London still And breathes the evening air, And often walk to Primrose Hill, And hope to meet her there.

Once more together we will live, For I will find her yet: I have so little to forgive; So much, I can't forget.

James Elroy Flecker [1884-1915]

LOVE AND DEATH

HELEN OF KIRCONNELL

I wish I were where Helen lies, Night and day on me she cries; O that I were where Helen lies, On fair Kirconnell lea!

Cursed be the heart that thought the thought, And cursed the hand that fired the shot, When in my arms burd Helen dropped, And died to succor me!

O think na ye my heart was sair, When my Love dropped and spak nae mair! There did she swoon wi' meikle care, On fair Kirconnell lea.

As I went down the water side, None but my foe to be my guide, None but my foe to be my guide, On fair Kirconnell lea;

I lighted down my sword to draw, I hacked him in pieces sma', I hacked him in pieces sma', For her sake that died for me.

O Helen fair, beyond compare! I'll mak a garland o' thy hair, Shall bind my heart for evermair, Until the day I dee!

O that I were where Helen lies Night and day on me she cries; Out of my bed she bids me rise, Says, Haste, and come to me!"

O Helen fair! O Helen chaste! If I were with thee, I'd be blest, Where thou lies low and taks thy rest, On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish my grave were growing green, A winding-sheet drawn owre my e'en, And I in Helen's arms lying, On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries; And I am weary of the skies, For her sake that died for me.

Unknown

WILLY DROWNED IN YARROW

"Willy's rare, and Willy's fair, And Willy's wondrous bonny; And Willy hecht to marry me, Gin e'er he married ony.

"Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid, This night I'll make it narrow; Fpr a' the livelang winter night I lie twined of my marrow.

"Oh came you by yon water-side? Pu'd you the rose or lily? Or came you by yon meadow green? Or saw you my sweet Willy?"

She sought him east, she sought him west, She sought him braid and narrow; Syne in the cleaving of a craig, She found him drowned in Yarrow.

Unknown

ANNAN WATER

"Annan Water's wading deep, And my Love Annie's wondrous bonny; And I am laith she should wet her feet, Because I love her best of ony."

He's loupen on his bonny gray, He rade the right gate and the ready; For all the storm he wadna stay, For seeking of his bonny lady.

And he has ridden o'er field and fell, Through moor, and moss, and many a mire; His spurs of steel were sair to bide, And from her four feet flew the fire.

"My bonny gray, now play your part! If ye be the steed that wins my dearie, With corn and hay ye'll be fed for aye, And never spur shall make you wearie."

The gray was a mare, and a right gude mare; But when she wan the Annan Water, She could not have ridden the ford that night Had a thousand merks been wadded at her.

"O boatman, boatman, put off your boat, Put off your boat for golden money!" But for all the gold in fair Scotland, He dared not take him through to Annie.

"Oh, I was sworn so late yestreen, Not by a single oath, but mony! I'll cross the drumly stream tonight, Or never could I face my honey."

The side was stey, and the bottom deep, From bank to brae the water pouring; The bonny gray mare she swat for fear, For she heard the water-kelpy roaring.

He spurred her forth into the flood, I wot she swam both strong and steady; But the stream was broad, and her strength did fail, And he never saw his bonny lady!

Unknown

THE LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW

My love he built me a bonnie bower, And clad it a' wi' lily flower; A brawer bower ye ne'er did see, Than my true-love he built for me.

There came a man, by middle day, He spied his sport, and went away; And brought the king that very night, Who brake my bower, and slew my knight.

He slew my knight, to me sae dear; He slew my knight, and poin'd his gear: My servants all for life did flee, And left me in extremitie.

I sewed his sheet, making my mane; I watched the corpse, mysel alane; I watched his body night and day; No living creature came that way.

I took his body on my back, And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat; I digged a grave, and laid him in, And happed him with the sod sae green.

But think na ye my heart was sair, When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair? O, think na ye my heart was wae, When I turned about, away to gae?

Nae living man I'll love again, Since that my lovely knight is slain; Wi' ae lock o' his yellow hair I'll chain my heart for evermair.

Unknown

ASPATIA'S SONG From "The Maid's Tragedy"

Lay a garland on my hearse Of the dismal yew; Maidens, willow branches bear; Say, I died true.

My love was false, but I was firm From my hour of birth. Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth!

John Fletcher [1579-1625]

A BALLAD From the "What-d'ye-call-it"

'Twas when the seas were roaring With hollow blasts of wind, A damsel lay deploring, All on a rock reclined. Wide o'er the foaming billows She cast a wistful look; Her head was crowned with willows, That trembled o'er the brook.

"Twelve months are gone and over, And nine long tedious days; Why didst thou, venturous lover, Why didst thou trust the seas? Cease, cease thou cruel ocean, And let my lover rest; Ah! what's thy troubled motion To that within my breast?

"The merchant robbed of pleasure, Sees tempests in despair; But what's the loss of treasure, To losing of my dear? Should you some coast be laid on, Where gold and diamonds grow, You'd find a richer maiden, But none that loves you so.

"How can they say that nature Has nothing made in vain; Why then, beneath the water, Should hideous rocks remain? No eyes the rocks discover That lurk beneath the deep, To wreck the wandering lover, And leave the maid to weep."

All melancholy lying, Thus wailed she for her dear; Repaid each blast with sighing, Each billow with a tear. When, o'er the white wave stooping, His floating corpse she spied, Then, like a lily drooping, She bowed her head, and died.

John Gay [1685-1732]

THE BRAES OF YARROW

Thy braes were bonnie, Yarrow stream, When first on them I met my lover: Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream, When now thy waves his body cover! Forever now, O Yarrow stream! Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; For never on thy banks shall I Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow.

He promised me a milk-white steed, To bear me to his father's bowers; He promised me a little page, To squire me to his father's towers; He promised me a wedding-ring, - The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow; Now he is wedded to his grave, Alas! his watery grave, in Yarrow.

Sweet were his words when last we met: My passion I as freely told him: Clasped in his arms, I little thought That I should never more behold him! Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost; It vanished with a shriek of sorrow; Thrice did the water-wraith ascend, And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow.

His mother from the window looked, With all the longing of a mother; His little sister weeping walked The greenwood path to meet her brother. They sought him east, they sought him west, They sought him all the forest thorough; They only saw the cloud of night, They only heard the roar of Yarrow!

No longer from thy window look, - Thou hast no son, thou tender mother! No longer walk, thou little maid; Alas! thou hast no more a brother. No longer seek him east or west, And search no more the forest thorough; For, wandering in the night so dark, He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow.

The tear shall never leave my cheek, No other youth shall be my marrow: I'll seek thy body in the stream, And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow. The tear did never leave her cheek, No other youth became her marrow; She found his body in the stream, And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.

John Logan [1748-1788]

THE CHURCHYARD ON THE SANDS

My love lies in the gates of foam, The last dear wreck of shore; The naked sea-marsh binds her home, The sand her chamber door.

The gray gull flaps the written stones, The ox-birds chase the tide; And near that narrow field of bones Great ships at anchor ride.

Black piers with crust of dripping green, One foreland, like a hand, O'er intervals of grass between Dim lonely dunes of sand.

A church of silent weathered looks, A breezy reddish tower, A yard whose mounded resting-nooks Are tinged with sorrel flower.

In peace the swallow's eggs are laid Along the belfry walls; The tempest does not reach her shade, The rain her silent halls.

But sails are sweet in summer sky, The lark throws down a lay; The long salt levels steam and dry, The cloud-heart melts away.

But patches of the sea-pink shine, The pied crows poise and come; The mallow hangs, the bind-weeds twine, Where her sweet lips are dumb.

The passion of the wave is mute; No sound or ocean shock; No music save the trilling flute That marks the curlew flock.

But yonder when the wind is keen, And rainy air is clear, The merchant city's spires are seen, The toil of men grows near.

Along the coast-way grind the wheels Of endless carts of coal; And on the sides of giant keels The shipyard hammers roll.

The world creeps here upon the shout, And stirs my heart to pain; The mist descends and blots it out, And I am strong again.

Strong and alone, my dove, with thee; And though mine eyes be wet, There's nothing in the world to me So dear as my regret.

I would not change my sorrow sweet For others' nuptial hours; I love the daisies at thy feet More than their orange flowers.

My hand alone shall tend thy tomb From leaf-bud to leaf-fall, And wreathe around each season's bloom Till autumn ruins all.

Let snowdrops early in the year Droop o'er her silent breast; And bid the later cowslip rear The amber of its crest.

Come hither, linnets tufted-red; Drift by, O wailing tern; Set pure vale lilies at her head, At her feet lady-fern.

Grow, samphire, at the tidal brink, Wave pansies of the shore, To whisper how alone I think Of her for evermore.

Bring blue sea-hollies thorny, keen, Long lavender in flower; Gray wormwood like a hoary queen, Stanch mullein like a tower.

O sea-wall, mounded long and low, Let iron bounds be thine; Nor let the salt wave overflow That breast I held divine.

Nor float its sea-weed to her hair, Nor dim her eyes with sands; No fluted cockle burrow where Sleep folds her patient hands.

Though thy crest feel the wild sea's breath, Though tide-weight tear thy root, Oh, guard the treasure-house, where death Has bound my Darling mute.

Though cold her pale lips to reward With love's own mysteries, Ah, rob no daisy from her swand, Rough gale of eastern seas!

Ah, render sere no silken bent That by her head-stone waves; Let noon and golden summer blent Pervade these ocean graves.

And, ah, dear heart, in thy still nest, Resign this earth of woes, Forget the ardors of the west, Neglect the morning glows.

Sleep and forget all things but one, Heard in each wave of sea, - How lonely all the years will run Until I rest by thee.

John Byrne Leicester Warren [1835-1895]

THE MINSTREL'S SONG From "Aella"

Oh sing unto my roundelay; Oh drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holiday; Like a running river be! My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow tree!

Black his hair as the winter night, White his throat as the summer snow, Red his cheek as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note; Quick in dance as thought can be; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout, Oh, he lies by the willow tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing In the briery dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing, To the night-mares as they go.

See! the white moon shines on high; Whiter is my true love's shroud; Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud.

Here, upon my true love's grave, Shall the barren, flowers be laid; Not one holy saint to save All the coldness of a maid.

With my hands I'll twist the briers Round his holy corpse to gre; Elfin fairy, light your fires, Here my body still shall be.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, Drain my heartes blood away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day.

Water-witches, crowned with reeds, Bear me to your deadly tide. I die! I come! my true love waits! Thus the damsel spake, and died.

Thomas Chatterton [1752-1770]

HIGHLAND MARY

Ye banks and braes and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade I clasped her to my bosom! The golden hours on angel's wings Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace Our parting was fu' tender; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder; But, O! fell Death's untimely frost, That nipped my flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kissed sae fondly! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly; And moldering now in silent dust That heart that lo'ed me dearly! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

TO MARY IN HEAVEN

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love! Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace, - Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twined amorous round the raptured scene; The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed, The birds sang love on every spray, - Till soon, too soon, the glowing west Proclaimed the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, And fondly broods with miser care! Time but the impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

LUCY

I Strange fits of passion have I known: And I will dare to tell, But in the lover's ear alone, What once to me befell.

When she I loved looked every day Fresh as a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way, Beneath an evening moon.

Upon the moon I fixed my eye, All over the wide lea; With quickening pace my horse drew nigh Those paths so dear to me.

And now we reached the orchard-plot; And, as we climbed the hill, The sinking moon to Lucy's cot Came near, and nearer still.

In one of those sweet dreams I slept, Kind Nature's gentlest boon! And all the while my eyes I kept On the descending moon.

My horse moved on; hoof after hoof He raised, and never stopped: When down behind the cottage roof, At once, the bright moon dropped.

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a lover's head! "O mercy!" to myself I cried, "If Lucy should be dead!"

II She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and oh, The difference to me!

III I traveled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor, England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream! Nor will I quit thy shore A second time; for still I seem To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel The joy of my desire; And she I cherished turned her wheel Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed, The bowers where Lucy played; And thine too is the last green field That Lucy's eyes surveyed.

IV Three years she grew in sun and shower; Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower On earth was never sown; This child I to myself will take; She shall be mine, and I will make A lady of my own.

"Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse: and with me The girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain.

"She shall be sportive as the fawn That wild with glee across the lawn Or up the mountain springs; And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm Of mute insensate things.

"The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend; Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mold the maiden's form By silent sympathy.

"The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.

"And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell."

Thus Nature spake - The work was done - How soon my Lucy's race was run! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm and quiet scene; The memory of what has been, And never more will be.

V A slumber did my spirit seal; I had no human fears: She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, or force; She neither hears nor sees; Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees.

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

PROUD MAISIE From "The Heart of Midlothian"

Proud Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early; Sweet Robin sits on the bush, Singing so rarely.

"Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me?" - "When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye."

Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say truly?" - "The gray-headed sexton That delves the grave duly.

"The glow-worm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady; The owl from the steeple sing Welcome, proud lady!"

Walter Scott [1771-1832]

SONG

Earl March looked on his dying child, And, smit with grief to view her - The youth, he cried, whom I exiled Shall be restored to woo her.

She's at the window many an hour His coming to discover; And he looked up to Ellen's bower And she looked on her lover -

But ah! so pale, he knew her not, Though her smile on him was dwelling! And I am then forgot - forgot? It broke the heart of Ellen.

In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs, Her cheek is cold as ashes; Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes To lift their silken lashes.

Thomas Campbell [1777-1844]

THE MAID'S LAMENT From "The Examination of Shakespeare"

I loved him not; and yet now he is gone I feel I am alone. I checked him while he spoke; yet could he speak, Alas! I would not check. For reasons not to love him once I sought, And wearied all my thought To vex myself and him: I now would give My love, could he but live Who lately lived for me, and when he found 'Twas vain, in holy ground He hid his face amid the shades of death. I waste for him my breath Who wasted his for me; but mine returns, And this lorn bosom burns With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, And waking me to weep Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years Wept he as bitter tears. Merciful God! Such was his latest prayer, These may she never share! Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold, Than daisies in the mold, Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate, His name and life's brief date. Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be, And, oh! pray too for me!

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

"SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND"

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers are round her, sighing: But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, Every note which he loved awaking; - Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, How the heart of the minstrel is breaking.

He had lived for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwined him; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, From her own loved island of sorrow.

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

"AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT"

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye; And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there, And tell me our love is remembered even in the sky.

Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such rapture to hear, When our voices commingling breathed like one on the ear; And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

ON A PICTURE BY POUSSIN REPRESENTING SHEPHERDS IN ARCADIA

Ah, happy youths, ah, happy maid, Snatch present pleasure while ye may; Laugh, dance, and sing in sunny glade, Your limbs are light, your hearts are gay; Ye little think there comes a day ('Twill come to you, it came to me) When love and life shall pass away: I, too, once dwelt in Arcady.

Or listless lie by yonder stream, And muse and watch the ripples play, Or note their noiseless flow, and deem That life thus gently glides away - That love is but a sunny ray To make our years go smiling by. I knew that stream, I too could dream, I, too, once dwelt in Arcady.

Sing, shepherds, sing; sweet lady, listen; Sing to the music of the rill, With happy tears her bright eyes glisten, For, as each pause the echoes fill, They waft her name from hill to hill - So listened my lost love to me, The voice she loved has long been still; I, too, once dwelt in Arcady.

John Addington Symonds [1840-1893]

THRENODY

There's a grass-grown road from the valley - A winding road and steep - That leads to the quiet hill-top, Where lies your love asleep. . . . While mine is lying, God knows where, A hundred fathoms deep.

I saw you kneel at a grave-side - How still a grave can be, Wrapped in the tender starlight, Far from the moaning sea! But through all dreams and starlight, The breakers call to me.

Oh, steep is your way to Silence - But steeper the ways I roam, For never a road can take me Beyond the wind and foam, And never a road can reach him Who lies so far from home.

Ruth Guthrie Harding [1882-

STRONG AS DEATH

O death, when thou shalt come to me From out thy dark, where she is now, Come not with graveyard smell on thee, Or withered roses on thy brow.

Come not, O Death, with hollow tone, And soundless step, and clammy hand - Lo, I am now no less alone Than in thy desolate, doubtful land;

But with that sweet arid subtle scent That ever clung about her (such As with all things she brushed was blent); And with her quick and tender touch.

With the dim gold that lit her hair, Crown thyself, Death; let fall thy tread So light that I may dream her there, And turn upon my dying bed.

And through my chilling veins shall flame My love, as though beneath her breath; And in her voice but call my name, And I will follow thee, O Death.

Henry Cuyler Bunner [1855-1896]

"I SHALL NOT CRY RETURN"

I shall not cry Return! Return! Nor weep my years away; But just as long as sunsets burn, And dawns make no delay, I shall be lonesome - I shall miss Your hand, your voice, your smile, your kiss.

Not often shall I speak your name, For what would strangers care That once a sudden tempest came And swept my gardens bare, And then you passed, and in your place Stood Silence with her lifted face.

Not always shall this parting be, For though I travel slow, I, too, may claim eternity And find the way you go; And so I do my task and wait The opening of the outer gate.

Ellen M. H. Gates [1835-1920]

"OH! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM"

Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom, On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; But on thy turf shall roses rear Their leaves, the earliest of the year; And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:

And oft by yon blue gushing stream Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, And feed deep thought with many a dream, And lingering pause and lightly tread; Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead!

Away! we know that tears are vain, That Death nor heeds nor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain? Or make one mourner weep the less? And thou, - who tell'st me to forget, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

TO MARY

If I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep for thee; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be: It never through my mind had passed The time would e'er be o'er, And I on thee should look my last, And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill smile again; And still the thought I will not brook, That I must look in vain. But when I speak - thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid; And now I feel, as well I may, Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, All cold and all serene, I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been. While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, Thou seemest still mine own; But there I lay thee in thy grave, - And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art, Thou hast forgotten me; And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart In thinking, too, of thee; Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light ne'er seen before, As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore!

Charles Wolfe [1791-1823]

MY HEART AND I

Enough! we're tired, my heart and I. We sit beside the headstone thus, And wish that name were carved for us. The moss reprints more tenderly The hard types of the mason's knife, As Heaven's sweet life renews earth's life With which we're tired, my heart and I.

You see we're tired, my heart and I. We dealt with books, we trusted men, And in our own blood drenched the pen, As if such colors could not fly. We walked too straight for fortune's end, We loved too true to keep a friend; At last we're tired, my heart and I.

How tired we feel, my heart and I We seem of no use in the world; Our fancies hang gray and uncurled About men's eyes indifferently; Our voice which thrilled you so, will let You sleep; our tears are only wet: What do we here, my heart and I?

So tired, so tired, my heart and I! It was not thus in that old time When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime To watch the sunset from the sky. "Dear love, you're looking tired," he said: I, smiling at him, shook my head. 'Tis now we're tired, my heart and I.

So tired, so tired, my heart and I! Though now none takes me on his arm To fold me close and kiss me warm Till each quick breath end in a sigh Of happy languor. Now, alone, We lean upon this graveyard stone, Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I.

Tired out we are, my heart and I. Suppose the world brought diadems To tempt us, crusted with loose gems Of powers and pleasures? Let it try. We scarcely care to look at even A pretty child, or God's blue heaven, We feel so tired, my heart and I.

Yet who complains? My heart and I? In this abundant earth no doubt Is little room for things worn out: Disdain them, break them, throw them by! And if before the days grew rough We once were loved, used, - well enough, I think, we've fared, my heart and I.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

ROSALIND'S SCROLL From "The Poet's Vow"

I left thee last, a child at heart, A woman scarce in years: I come to thee, a solemn corpse Which neither feels nor fears. I have no breath to use in sighs; They laid the dead-weights on mine eyes To seal them safe from tears.

Look on me with thine own calm look: I meet it calm as thou. No look of thine can change this smile, Or break thy sinful vow: I tell thee that my poor scorned heart Is of thine earth - thine earth, a part: It cannot vex thee now.

But out, alas! these words are writ By a living, loving one, Adown whose cheeks the proofs of life, The warm quick tears do run: Ah, let the unloving corpse control Thy scorn back from the loving soul Whose place of rest is won.

I have prayed for thee with bursting sob When passion's course was free; I have prayed for thee with silent lips In the anguish none could see; They whispered oft, "She sleepeth soft" - But I only prayed for thee.

Go to! I pray for thee no more: The corpse's tongue is still; Its folded fingers point to heaven, But point there stiff and chill: No farther wrong, no farther woe Hath license from the sin below Its tranquil heart to thrill.

I charge thee, by the living's prayer, And the dead's silentness, To wring from out thy soul a cry Which God shall hear and bless! Lest Heaven's own palm droop in my hand, And pale among the saints I stand, A saint companionless.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side On a bright May mornin' long ago, When first you were my bride. The corn was springin' fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high, And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary, The day is bright as then, The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath, warm on my cheek: And I still keep list'nin' for the words You never more will speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near - The church where we were wed, Mary; I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest - For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends; But, oh! they love the better still The few our Father sends. And you were all I had, Mary, My blessin' and my pride: There's nothin' left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone; There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow - I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break, When the hunger pain was gnawin' there, And you hid it for my sake; I bless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and sore - Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm biddin' you a long farewell, My Mary - kind and true! But I'll not forget you, darling, In the land I'm goin' to: They say there's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there, But I'll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods I'll sit, and shut my eyes, And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies; And I'll think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side, And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride.

Helen Selina Sheridan [1807-1867]

THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE

Word was brought to the Danish king (Hurry!) That the love of his heart lay suffering, And pined for the comfort his voice would bring; (O, ride as though you were flying!) Better he loves each golden curl On the brow of that Scandinavian girl Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl: And his rose of the isles is dying!

Thirty nobles saddled with speed; (Hurry!) Each one mounting a gallant steed Which he kept for battle and days of need; (O, ride as though you were flying!) Spurs were struck in the foaming flank; Worn-out chargers staggered and sank; Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst; But ride as they would, the king rode first, For his rose of the isles lay dying!

His nobles are beaten, one by one; (Hurry!) They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone; His little fair page now follows alone, For strength and for courage trying! The king looked back at that faithful child; Wan was the face that answering smiled; They passed the drawbridge with clattering din, Then he dropped; and only the king rode in Where his rose of the isles lay dying!

The king blew a blast on his bugle horn; (Silence!) No answer came; but faint and forlorn An echo returned on the cold gray morn, Like the breath of a spirit sighing. The castle portal stood grimly wide; None welcomed the king from that weary ride; For dead, in the light of the dawning day, The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, Who had yearned for his voice while dying!

The panting steed, with a drooping crest, Stood weary. The king returned from her chamber of rest, The thick sobs choking in his breast; And, that dumb companion eyeing, The tears gushed forth which he strove to check; He bowed his head on his charger's neck: "O steed, that every nerve didst strain, Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain To the halls where my love lay dying!"

Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton [1808-1870]

THE WATCHER

A rose for a young head, A ring for a bride, Joy for the homestead Clean and wide - Who's that waiting In the rain outside?

A heart for an old friend, A hand for the new: Love can to earth lend Heaven's hue - Who's that standing In the silver dew?

A smile for the parting, A tear as they go, God's sweethearting Ends just so - Who's that watching Where the black winds blow?

He who is waiting In the rain outside, He who is standing Where the dew drops wide, He who is watching In the wind must ride (Though the pale hands cling) With the rose And the ring And the bride, Must ride With the red of the rose, And the gold of the ring, And the lips and the hair of the bride.

James Stephens [1882-

THE THREE SISTERS

Gone are those three, those sisters rare With wonder-lips and eyes ashine. One was wise and one was fair, And one was mine.

Ye mourners, weave for the sleeping hair Of only two your ivy vine. For one was wise and one was fair, But one was mine.

Arthur Davison Ficke [1883-

BALLAD

He said: "The shadows darken down, The night is near at hand. Now who's the friend will follow me Into the sunless land?

"For I have vassals leal and true, And I have comrades kind, And wheresoe'er my soul shall speed, They will not stay behind."

He sought the brother young and blithe Who bore his spear and shield: "In the long chase you've followed me, And in the battle-field.

"Few vows you make; but true's your heart, And you with me will win." He said: "God speed you, brother mine, But I am next of kin."

He sought the friar, the gray old priest Who loved his father's board. The friar he turned him to the east And reverently adored.

He said: "A godless name you bear, A godless life you've led, And whoso wins along with you, His spirit shall have dread.

"Oh, hasten, get your guilty soul From every burden shriven; Yet you are bound for flame and dole, But I am bound for heaven."

He sought the lady bright and proud, Who sate at his right hand: "Make haste, O Love, to follow me Into the sunless land."

She said: "And pass you in your prime? Heaven give me days of cheer! And keep me from the sunless clime Many and many a year."

All heavily the sun sank down Among black clouds of fate. There came a woman fair and wan Unto the castle gate.

Through gazing vassals, idle serfs, So silently she sped! The winding staircase echoed not Unto her light, light tread.

His lady eyed her scornfully. She stood at his right hand; She said: "And I will follow you Into the sunless land.

"There is no expiation, none. A bitter load I bore: Now I shall love you nevermore, Never and nevermore.

"There is no touch or tone of yours Can make the old love wake." She said: "But I will follow you, Even for the old love's sake."

Oh, he has kissed her on the brow, He took her by the hand: Into the sunless land they went, Into the starless land.

May Kendall [1861-

"O THAT 'TWERE POSSIBLE" From "Maud"

O that 'twere possible After long grief and pain To find the arms of my true love Round me once again!

When I was wont to meet her In the silent moody places Of the land that gave me birth, We stood tranced in long embraces Mixed with kisses sweeter, sweeter Than anything on earth.

A shadow flits before me, Not thou, but like to thee. Ah, Christ, that it were possible For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be!

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

"HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD" From "The Princess"

Home they brought her warrior dead; She nor swooned, nor uttered cry. All her maidens, watching, said, "She must weep or she will die."

Then they praised him, soft and low, Called him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and noblest foe; Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stepped, Took the face-cloth from the face; Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee, - Like summer tempest came her tears, "Sweet my child, I live for thee."

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

EVELYN HOPE

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed; She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, Beginning to die too, in the glass. Little has yet been changed, I think: The shutters are shut, no light may pass Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.

Sixteen years old when she died! Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; It was not her time to love; beside, Her life had many a hope and aim, Duties enough and little cares, And now was quiet, now astir, Till God's hand beckoned unawares, - And the sweet white brow is all of her.

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope? What, your soul was pure and true, The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit, fire, and dew - And, just because I was thrice as old, And our paths in the world diverged so wide, Each was naught to each, must I be told? We were fellow mortals, naught beside?

No, indeed! for God above Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love: I claim you still, for my own love's sake! Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet, Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few: Much is to learn, much to forget Ere the time be come for taking you.

But the time will come, - at last it will, When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say) In the lower earth, in the years long still, That body and soul so pure and gay? Why your hair was amber, I shall divine, And your mouth of your own geranium's red, - And what you would do with me, in fine, In the new life come in the old one's stead.

I have lived (I shall say) so much since then, Given up myself so many times, Gained me the gains of various men, Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, Either I missed or itself missed me: And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! What is the issue? let us see!

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while! My heart seemed full as it could hold; There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. So, hush, - I will give you this leaf to keep: See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand! There, that is our secret: go to sleep! You will wake, and remember, and understand.

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

REMEMBRANCE

Cold in the earth - and the deep snow piled above thee, Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave! Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover Over the mountains, on that northern shore, Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?

Cold in the earth - and fifteen wild Decembers, From those brown hills, have melted into spring: Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers After such years of change and suffering!

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, While the world's tide is bearing me along; Other desires and other hopes beset me, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

No later light has lightened up my heaven, No second morn has ever shone for me; All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

But, when the days of golden dreams had perished, And even Despair was powerless to destroy; Then did I learn how existence could be cherished, Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.

Then did I check the tears of useless passion - Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine; Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten Down to that tomb already more than mine.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?

Emily Bronte [1818-1848]

SONG

The linnet in the rocky dells, The moor-lark in the air, The bee among the heather bells That hide my lady fair:

The wild deer browse above her breast; The wild birds raise their brood; And they, her smiles of love caressed, Have left her solitude.

I ween that, when the grave's dark wall Did first her form retain, They thought their hearts could ne'er recall The light of joy again.

They thought the tide of grief would flow Unchecked through future years; But where is all their anguish now, And where are all their tears?

Well, let them fight for honor's breath, Or pleasure's shade pursue: The dweller in the land of death Is changed and careless too.

And, if their eyes should watch and weep Till sorrow's source were dry, She would not, in her tranquil sleep, Return a single sigh.

Blow, west-wind, by the lonely mound, And murmur, summer streams! There is no need of other sound To soothe my lady's dreams.

Emily Bronte [1818-1848]

SONG OF THE OLD LOVE From "Supper at the Mill"

When sparrows build, and the leaves break forth, My old sorrow wakes and cries, For I know there is dawn in the far, far north, And a scarlet sun doth rise; Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads, And the icy founts run free, And the bergs begin to bow their heads, And plunge, and sail in the sea.

O my lost love, and my own, own love, And my love that loved me so! Is there never a chink in the world above Where they listen for words from below? Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore, I remember all that I said, And now thou wilt hear me no more - no more Till the sea gives up her dead.

Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail To the ice-fields and the snow; Thou wert sad, for thy love did naught avail, And the end I could not know; How could I tell I should love thee to-day, Whom that day I held not dear? How could I know I should love thee away When I did not love thee anear?

We shall walk no more through the sodden plain With the faded bents o'erspread, We shall stand no more by the seething main While the dark wrack drives o'erhead; We shall part no more in the wind and the rain, Where thy last farewell was said; But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again When the sea gives up her dead.

Jean Ingelow [1820-1897]

REQUIESCAT

Strew on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew! In quiet she reposes: Ah! would that I did too.

Her mirth the world required: She bathed it in smiles of glee. But her heart was tired, tired, And now they let her be.

Her life was turning, turning, In mazes of heat and sound. But for peace her soul was yearning, And now peace laps her round.

Her cabined, ample Spirit, It fluttered and failed for breath. To-night it doth inherit The vasty hall of Death.

Matthew Arnold [1822-1888]

TOO LATE "DOWGLAS, DOWGLAS, TENDIR AND TREU"

Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, In the old likeness that I knew, I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

Never a scornful word should grieve ye, I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do: Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

Oh, to call back the days that are not! My eyes were blinded, your words were few: Do you know the truth now, up in heaven, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?

I never was worthy of you, Douglas; Not half worthy the like of you: Now all men beside seem to me like shadows - I love you, Douglas, tender and true.

Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew; As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true!

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [1826-1887]

FOUR YEARS

At the Midsummer, when the hay was down, Said I mournful - Though my life be in its prime, Bare lie my meadows all shorn before their time, O'er my sere woodlands the leaves are turning brown; It is the hot Midsummer, when the hay is down.

At the Midsummer, when the hay was down, Stood she by the brooklet, young and very fair, With the first white bindweed twisted in her hair - Hair that drooped like birch-boughs, all in her simple gown - That eve in high Midsummer, when the hay was down.

At the Midsummer, when the hay was down, Crept she a willing bride close into my breast; Low-piled the thunder-clouds had sunk into the west, Red-eyed the sun out-glared like knight from leaguered town; It was the high Midsummer, and the sun was down.

It is Midsummer - all the hay is down, Close to her forehead press I dying eyes, Praying God shield her till we meet in Paradise, Bless her in love's name who was my joy and crown, And I go at Midsummer, when the hay is down.

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [1826-1887]

BARBARA