Chapter II

When night's quiet sky is o'er thee,
When the pale stars dimly burn,
Dream that _one_ is watching for thee,
Who but lives for thy return!
Wheresoe'er thy steps are roving,
Night or day, by land or sea,
Think of her, whose life of loving
Is but one long thought of thee!

[Decoration]

[Footnote A: These lines were written to the author's husband,
then at sea, in 1833, and set to music by herself.]

_LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT._

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

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

'T is but a step down yonder lane,
The little Church stands near--
The Church where we were wed, Mary,--
I see the spire from here;
But the graveyard lies between, Mary,--
My step might break your rest,--
Where you, my darling, lie asleep
With your baby on your breast.

I 'm very lonely now, Mary,--
The poor make no new friends;--
But, oh! they love the better still
The few our Father sends.
And you were all I had, Mary,
My blessing and my pride;
There 's nothing left to care for now
Since my poor Mary died.

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

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

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

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

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

MICHAEL FIELD.

_WINDS TO-DAY ARE LARGE AND FREE._

Winds to-day are large and free,
Winds to-day are westerly;
From the land they seem to blow
Whence the sap begins to flow
And the dimpled light to spread,
From the country of the dead.

Ah, it is a wild, sweet land
Where the coming May is planned,
Where such influences throb
As our frosts can never rob
Of their triumph, when they bound
Through the tree and from the ground.

Great within me is my soul,
Great to journey to its goal,
To the country of the dead;
For the cornel-tips are red,
And a passion rich in strife
Drives me toward the home of life.

Oh, to keep the spring with them
Who have flushed the cornel-stem,
Who imagine at its source
All the year's delicious course,
Then express by wind and light
Something of their rapture's height!

[Decoration]

_LET US WREATHE THE MIGHTY CUP._

Let us wreathe the mighty cup,
Then with song we 'll lift it up,
And, before we drain the glow
Of the juice that foams below
Flowers and cool leaves round the brim,
Let us swell the praise of him
Who is tyrant of the heart,
Cupid with his flaming dart!

Pride before his face is bowed,
Strength and heedless beauty cowed;
Underneath his fatal wings
Bend discrowned the heads of kings;
Maidens blanch beneath his eye
And its laughing mastery;
Through each land his arrows sound,
By his fetters all are bound.

_WHERE WINDS ABOUND._

Where winds abound,
And fields are hilly,
Shy daffadilly
Looks down on the ground.

Rose cones of larch
Are just beginning;
Though oaks are spinning
No oak-leaves in March.

Spring 's at the core,
The boughs are sappy:
Good to be happy
So long, long before!

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

NORMAN GALE.

1862.

_A SONG._

First the fine, faint, dreamy motion
Of the tender blood
Circling in the veins of children--
This is Life, the bud.

Next the fresh, advancing beauty
Growing from the gloom,
Waking eyes and fuller bosom--
This is Life, the bloom.

Then the pain that follows after,
Grievous to be borne,
Pricking, steeped in subtle poison--
This is Love, the thorn.

_SONG._

Wait but a little while--
The bird will bring
A heart in tune for melodies
Unto the spring,
Till he who 's in the cedar there
Is moved to trill a song so rare,
And pipe her fair.

Wait but a little while--
The bud will break;
The inner rose will ope and glow
For summer's sake;
Fond bees will lodge within her breast
Till she herself is plucked and prest
Where I would rest.

Wait but a little while--
The maid will grow
Gracious with lips and hands to thee,
With breast of snow.
To-day Love 's mute, but time hath sown
A soul in her to match thine own,
Though yet ungrown.

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

EDMUND GOSSE.

1849.

_SONG FOR THE LUTE._

I bring a garland for your head
Of blossoms fresh and fair;
My own hands wound their white and red
To ring about your hair:
Here is a lily, here a rose,
A warm narcissus that scarce blows,
And fairer blossoms no man knows.

So crowned and chapleted with flowers,
I pray you be not proud;
For after brief and summer hours
Comes autumn with a shroud;--
Though fragrant as a flower you lie,
You and your garland, bye and bye,
Will fade and wither up and die.

[Decoration]

THOMAS HOOD.

1798-1845.

_BALLAD._

I.

It was not in the winter
Our loving lot was cast;
It was the time of roses,--
We plucked them as we passed;

II.

That churlish season never frowned
On early lovers yet:--
Oh, no--the world was newly crowned
With flowers when first we met!