G!ass_75QMi£ Book J^^^5 laii't,,,,. 'v. ' \^^:M ifin»nililiiiiii ^^'^r/,,. './tec ^ ' 'y^/ '^ /l?Mgf>;' '>// «Ss THE GARDEN OF LOVE FLOWERS GATHERED FROM THE POETS BY MAY BYRON HODDER AND STOUGHTON NEW YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY ^'^^ZJ/ U: 1 o/> ^^ PREFATORY NOTE " I ^HE following poems are arranged in a certain sequence, so that as far as possible, they may assimilate themselves to the order of Nature in a garden throughout the year. They have been selected to this end, and are, through the exigen- cies of the subject, mainly examples of that "lyrical cry" by which personal human emotion is ex- pressed in rhythm and rhyme. Though many of them are long familiar to the lover of English literature, and none appear for the first time, I believe this to be the most representative collection of love-poems that has hitherto been compiled. The reader can hardly fail to notice with surprise the extraordinary variety of style, thought, and treatment which is to be met with, in dealing with the single subject of Love in its different phases. And this, although several aspects of Love have purposely or of necessity been omitted. For kind permission to make use here of many copyright poems, I have to acknowledge the courtesy of The Sptxtator, The Outlook, The Pall Mall Gazette, and The Evening Standard. Thanks are due to Messrs. Smith Elder for their permission to inchide Robert Browning's poem " Greenwood Love " from Ferishtah's Fancies ; to the Houghton Mifflin Company for the same courtesy with regard to "Toujours Amour" (E. C. Stedman), "Bedouin Love Song" (Bayard Taylor), "She Came and Went" (J. R. Lowell), and "A Song of Content" (J. J. Piatt) : to Messrs. Little, Brown & Co., for the use of "At Last " (Helen Hunt Jackson). Also to Mrs. Katharine Tynan- Hinkson, Miss A. E. Gillington, Mr. Maurice Clare, and other authors, for allowing me to include various poems of theirs. In two or three cases I have found it impossible to trace the authorship of certain lines, and, there- fore, to the unknown writers I must hereb}- offer apologies and thanks. M. B. VI CONTENTS SPRING PAGE I. Dawn in the Garden 19 (First Thoughts of Love] II. Spring Buds 31 {The Wooing) III. The Flower of all Flowers . . .45 {Portrait of the Beloved) IV. Shady Walks and Yew Hedges . . 65 {Melancholy and Wistful Love) V. A Guest at the Gate . . . .81 {Love Himself in Various Disguises) VI. The Children's Border . . . -93 (Love of Mother and Child) SUMMER VII. May-time in the Garden .... 109 {The Sweetness of Love) VIII. Old-Fashioned Blossoms . . . .121 {Old-world Love-songs) IX. A Green Pleasance i33 {Love of Friends) X. Night and the Nightingale . . . 145 (Serenades) XI. Butterflies i57 {Lighter Love Lyrics) vii AUTUMN PAGE XII. The Bower • • i77 {The Ardent Lover) XIII. Song Birds and Late Roses . . -193 {Little Lyrics of Happy Lovl ) XIV. Rosemary for Remembrance . . .209 {Love in Absence) XV. Rue and Thyme and other Bitter Herbs 221 {Love Reproachful and Cynical) XVI. Poppies . -39 {Dreams) XVII. Rain and Wind . ' 251 {The Doubts and Despairs of Love) XVIII. Ripened Fruits 265 {The Happy Husband) WINTER XIX. A Bonfire 275 (Love's Renunciation) XX. Faded Leaves and Withered Flowers. 289 {Ashes of Love) XXI. A Bench in a Sunny Corner . . .301 {Wedded Lovers Growing Old Together) XXII. Twilight and Autumn Violets . .311 {Farewells) XXIII. Evergreens ...•••• 329 {Love Strong as Death) XXIV. Lavender 345 {Sweet Memories) INDEX PART I.— SPRING I. Love-thoughts II. The New Life III. My Day. IV. Endymion V. If this be Love VI. Madrigal VII. First Love . VIII. Starting from Paumanok IX. Hidden Love X. The Primrose XI. The Messenger XII. Love Looks for Love . XIII. One Word is too Often Profaned . XIV. A CavaHer's Wooing . XV. Because XVI. Untimely Love XVII. Love . . . . XVIII. The " Je ne sais quoi " . XIX. The Perfection of Her . XX. A Nut-Brown Maid XXI. She was a Phantom of Delight XXII. My Sweet Sweeting ix Lord Houghton Dante Alighiert Lord Tennyson H. W. Longfellow George Lyttlcton Marston Moore Samncl Daniel Walt Whitman John Donne . Thomas Carew Lord Tennyson Robert Herrick PAGE • 23 . 24 • 25 . 26 . 27 . 28 . 29 • 29 • 30 • 33 • 33 • 35 P.B.Shelley . . 35 The Marqnis of Montrose . . 36 Edward Fitzgerald . 37 Author Unknown . 39 S. T. Coleridge . 40 William Whitehead 47 Dante Alighieri . 48 Miisica Transalpina 48 Wm. Wordsworth . 49 Sir J. Hawkins . 50 PAGE XXIII She Walks in Beauty ' Lord Byron . 51 XXIV. Her Face . Philip Rossetter 52 XXV. V^ho is the Maid ? . Thomas Moore 53 XXVI. The Only She . John Dowland 54 XXVII. Her Right Name . Matthew Prior 55 XXVIII. Description of such a One as he could Love Sir Thomas Wyatt . 56 XXIX. Annie Laurie . Lady John Scott . 57 XXX. So White, so Soft, so Sweet is She . Ben Jonson 58 XXXI. Whom I Love . William Browne . 59 XXXII. A Steadfast Mind . Thomas Carew 60 XXXIII. Praise of my Lady . William Morris 61 XXXIV. The Lover beseecheth I his Mistress . Sir Thomas Wyatt . 67 XXXV. Inclusions . E. B. Browning 68 XXXVI. Tenebrae . Thomas Campion . 69 XXXVII. From the Arabic P. B. Shelley . 70 XXXVIII. To Electra Robert Herrick 70 XXXIX. Auld Robin Gray Lady Anne Barnard 71 XL. Love Untold Joanna Baillie 73 XLI. At Last . Helen Hnnt Jackson 74 XLII. Sorrow Richard Crashaw . 76 XLIII. Come, Rest in this Bosom . Thomas- Moore 77 XLIV. Foreknowledge John Donne . 77 XLV. Too Late . Matthew Arnold . 78 XLVI. A Dying Fall . Thomas Campion . 79 XL VI I. The Banks o' Doon . Robert Burns . 79 XLVIII. True and False Love William Blake 80 XLIX. The Ungentle Guest Robert Herrick 83 L. The Wayfarer . Dante Alighicri 84 LI. What the Mighty Love has Done John Fletcher 85 LII Upon Cupid Robed Hcrrick PAGE 86 LIII. Hush, Hush ! . Thomas Moore 87 LIV Love will Find out Seventeaith Century the Way Poem . 87 LV. The Mariner . William Byrd 89 LVI. Love, like a Gypsy . Robert Herrick 90 LVII. Love's Treachery . Robert Greene 90 LVIII. Love the Conqueror . May Byron 91 LIX. The Shower of Blos- soms Robert Herrick 92 LX. At Bay . May Byron . 95 LXI. A Cradle Song . William Blake 97 LXII. The Goal . Maurice Clare 98 LXIII. The Mother's Lullaby Author Unknown 99 LXIV. Mothering Sunday . M. C. Gillin^ton 99 LXV. A Slumber Song William Blake . lOI LXVI. The Wood Song May Byron 102 LXVII. Parental Recollec- tions Mary Lamb . 103 LXVIII. Two Against Fate . May Byron . 104 LXIX. Cawn Bawn Dheelish Maurice Clare . 107 PART IL— SUMMER LXX. In May Alice E. Gillington 113 LXXL Three Kisses . E. B. Browning 115 LXXH. Love Me if I Love . Barry Cornwall 115 Lxxin. Greenwood Love Robert Browning 116 LXXIV. The Posie . Robert Burns . 117 LXXV. Garden Fancies Robert Browning 119 LXXVL Since First I Saw Your Face . Thomas Ford . 123 LXXVH. Phillida's Love-call to her Cory don . xi Ignoto 124 AGE LXXVIII. An Odd Conceit . Nicholas Breton . 126 LXXIX. The Bailiff's Daugh- ter of Islington . Old Ballad . . 127 LXXX. The Singing Shep- herd . . . John Wootton . 129 LXXXI. Madrigal . . . J^ohn Wilhyc . 130 LXXXII. A Dialogue between Him and His Heart W. Davidson . 130 LXXXin. The Praise of Love . Tobias Hume . 132 LXXXIV. The Friendship- Flower . . . Lord Houghton . 135 LKXXV. The Meeting of the Waters . . . Thomas Moore . 136 LXXXVI. The Best of Friends . Author Unknown. 137 LXXXVn. I Saw in Louisiana . Walt Whitman . 137 LXXXVHL To a Friend . . Katherine Philips 138 LXXXIX. A Temple to Friend- ship . . . Thomas Moore . 139 XC, Friendship . . R. W. Emerson . 140 XCL Farewell! — butwhen- ever you Welcome the Hour . . Thomas Moore . 141 XCn. Of the Terrible Doubt of Appearances . JValt Whitman . 142 XCni. The Night Piece . Robert Herrick . 147 XCIV. Cleveland's Serenade Sir Walter Scott . 148 XCV. Now Sleeps the Crim- son Petal . , Lord Tennyson . 149 XCVL While She lies Sleep- ing . . . yohn Dowland . 149 XCVn. Bedouin Love Song . Bayard Taylor . 150 XCVHL Spanish Serenade . H. W. Longfellow 151 XCIX. An Elizabethan Sere- nade . . . Sir Philip Sidney 152 C. Were I a Drop of Dew Maurice Clare . 154 xii CI. Indian Serenade P.B.Shelley . 154 CII. The Clown's Song . Wm. Shakespeare . 159 cm. Song by a Person of Quality . Lord Peterborough . 160 CIV. Phillis is My only Joy ... Sir Charles Sedley . 161 CV. Love-Thoughts . Lord Houghton 162 CVI. The Promise . William Byrd 163 CVII. Last May a Braw Wooer . Robert Burns . 163 CVIII. The Dissembler Matthew Prior 165 CIX. V^hen Love is Kind. Thomas Moore 166 ex. A Hymn to Love Robert Herrick 167 CXI. Sympathy Reginald Heber 167 CXI I. The Stolen Heart . Sir John Suckling . 169 CXIII. Dear Fanny Thomas Moore 170 CXIV. The Deceiver . W. S. Landor 170 CXV. Phillida Flouts Me . Seventeenth Century Poem . 171 CXVI. Tarn Glen Robert Burns . 172 CXVII. The Despairing Lover William Walsh 173 CXVI 1 1. Thought from Catul- lus . Robert Lloyd . 175 CXIX. Cean Dubh Dheelish Sir Samuel Ferguson 179 cxx. To Celia . Ben Jonson 180 CXXI. There's a Woman like a Dew-drop . Robert Browning . 180 CXXII. Faith's Avowal John Dowland 181 CXXIII. Love's Philosophy . P. B. Shelley . 182 CXXIV. To Anthea Robert Herrick 183 cxxv. Maid of Athens Lord Byron . 184 CXXVI. Come, Come ! Thomas Campion . 185 cxx VI I. Love Inveterate J. Sylvester . 185 CXXVIII. O Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast . Robert Burns 186 CXXIX. A Man's Require ments . E. B. Browning 187 cxxx. How Many Times ? T. L. Beddoes . 188 CXXXI. Life in a Love Robert Browning 189 CXXXII. Ask Me no More . Lord Tennyson 190 CXXXI 1 1. A Red, Red Rose . Robert Burns . 191 PART in.— AUTUMN CXXXI V. A Birthday . Christina Rossetti . 197 cxxxv. The Time of Roses Thomas Hood . 198 CXXXVI. The Tryst Jean Ingelow . . 198 CXXXVII. Love's Bird . Katharine Tynan . 200 cxxx VIII. Finland Love Song Thomas Moore . 201 CXXXI X. Were I a Cloudlet . May Byron . 202 CXL. Only V^e Lord Houghton . 202 CXLI. To Althea, from Prison . Richard Lovelace . 203 CXLII. The Monopolist Thomas Moore . 204 CXLIII. This Heart 0' Mine Maurice Clare . 204 CXLIV. The Summit . P.B.Shelley . . 205 CXLV. She is Mine . Thomas Campion . 206 CXLVI. I'd Mourn the Hopes Thomas Moore . 206 CXLVII. The Stewardship . M. C. Gillington . 207 CXLVI 1 1. Alter Ego Author Unknown . 211 CXLIX. The Lonely Road . W. S. Landor . . 212 CL. In Three Days Robert Browning . 212 CLI. You and the Spring Wm. Shakespeare . 214 CLII. Wandering Willie . Robert Burns . . 214 CLIII. Memory . William Browne • 215 CLIV. The Anxious Lover Sir Philip Sidney . 216 CLV. Love in Absence . Katherine Tynan . 217 CLVI. Absence . Richard J ago . 218 CLVII. Separation W. S. Landor. . 218 CLVI 1 1 If . . . S. T. Coleridge . 218 PAGE CLIX. Remembrance Win. Shakespeare 219 CLX. The Pilgrimage . Sir Walter Raleigh 223 CLXI. The Triumph Thomas Campion 225 CLXII. The Mournful Moon Sir Philip Sidney 225 CLXIII Change upon Change E. B. Browning 226 CLXIV. Kind are Her Answers Thomas Campion 227 CLXV. Perjury Excused . Wni. Shakespeare 228 CLXVI. The Eternal Femi- nine Tobias Smollett 228 CLXVII. A Dirge . Sir Philip Sidney 229 CLXVI 1 1. Where did you Borrow that Last Sigh? . Sir Wm. Berkeley 231 CLXIX. Love Disposed of . T. L. Bed does . 231 CLXX. To Cloe . Thomas Moore 233 CLXXI. I was in Love Robert Jones . 233 CLXXII. What Care I ? George Wither 235 CLXXIII. When I Loved You Thomas Moore 236 CLXXI V. The Prediction Thomas Campion 237 CLXXV. Longing. Matthew Arnold 241 CLXXVI. The House of Love Marston Moore 242 CLXXVII. The Traveller's Dreams P. B. Shelley . 243 CLXXVI 11. The Turret . May Byron 243 CLXXIX. Dream-Love . Christina Rossetti 244 CLXXX. The One Dream W. S. Landor. • 247 CLXXXI. Reincarnation Maurice Clare 247 CLXXXII. In a Dream . M. C. Gillington 249 CLXXXI 1 1. Echo Christina Rossetti 249 CLXXXIV. The Lover Com- plaineth Sir Thomas Wyatt 253 CLXXXV. When the Lamp is Shattered . P. B. Shelley . 255 XV PAGE CLXXXVI. Levvti . S. T. Colcrid_^c . 256 CLXXXVII. Edward Gray Lord Tennyson . 259 CLXXXVIII. Two in the Cam- pagna . . Robert Browning . 261 CLXXXIX. Sometimes with One I Love . Walt Whitman .264 CXC. The Anniversary . John Donne . . 267 CXCI. The Happy Hus- band . S. T. Coleridge . 268 CXCII. The Exchange . Sir Philip Sidney . 269 CXCIII. Love and Nature . Lord Houghton . 269 CXCIV. You . Robert Browning . 270 cxcv. A Song of Content John James Piatt . 271 CXCVI. To His Wife, with a Ring Samuel Bishop . 271 CXCVII. Home . Dora Greenwell . 273 PART IV.— WINTER CXCVI n. Give all to Love . R. W. Emerson . 279 CXCIX. The King's Cup- bearer . May Byron . .281 CC. The Last Ride Together . . Robert Browning . 282 CCI. The Ever-fixed Mark. . . Wm. Shakespeare . 286 ecu. One Way of Love Robert Browning . 287 CCIII. Separation . . Matthew Arnold . 291 CCIV. When we Two Parted . . Lord Byron . .291 CCV. In a Year . . Robert Browning . 293 CCVI. When Passion's Trance is Over- past . . . P.B. Shelley . 296 xvi CCVII. In a Drear-Nighted December . . John Keats CCVIII. The Time Will 297 Come . May Byron . 298 CCIX A Parting Michael Drayton . 298 ccx. A Dead March M. C. Gillington • 299 CCXI Love's House . Katharine Tynan • 303 CCXII. Wrinkles W.S.Landor. • 303 CCXIII The Refuge . Maurice Clare • 304 CCXIV. Autumnal Beauty . John Donne . 305 CCXV. John Anderson, My Jo . . . Robert Burns . . 306 CCXVI To Biancha . Robert Herrick • 307 CCXVII. Unchanging Love Thomas Moore 307 CCXVI II. Immortal Youth . IVm. Shakespeare 308 CCXIX. Toujours Amour . E. C. Stedman 308 ccxx. The Measurement . E. B. Broivnino 310 CCXXI. Remain, ah ! not in Youth Alone IV. S. Landor . 310 CCXXII. Then Fare Thee well . Thomas Moore 313 CCXXIII. Exit Wm. Shakespeare 314 CCXXIV. The Lost Mistress . Robert Browning 315 CCXXV. Highland Mary Robert Burns . 316 CCXXVI. Love's Secret . William Blake 317 CCXXVII. Four Years . D. M. Mulock . 318 CCXXVIII. The Sailing of the Sword . William Morris 319 CCXXIX. A Valediction E. B. Browning 321 ccxxx. We Two Together Walt Whitman 322 ccxxxi. Farewell to Nancy . Robert Burns . 326 CCXXXII. Farewell ! If Ever Fondest Prayer . Lord Byron . 327 CCXXXIII. The Blessed Damo- zel . . . D. G. Rossetti . 331 xvii CCXXXIV. At the Mid Hour of Night . Thomas Moore 337 ccxxxv. Evelyn Hope Robert Browning . 337 CCXXXVI. A Spirit Present . D.M.Muloch. 340 CCXXXVII. Remembrance Emily Bronte . • 341 CCXXXVIII The Cross Roads . May Byron • 343 CCXXXIX. The Memory of Love Lord Houghton 347 CCXL. You Remain Author Unlinown 347 CCXLI. Sighs and Memo- ries . Dante Alighieri 348 CCXLII. Parted and Met . Lord Houghton 349 CCXLIII. Love's Young Dream Tlioiuas Moore 349 CCXLI V. My Kate E. B. Browning 350 CCXLV. One Day Christina Rossetti 352 CCXLVI. Rose Aylmer W. S. Lauder . 353 CCXLVII. She Came and Went J. R. Lowell . 354 CCXLVI 1 1. My Letters . E. B. Browning 355 CCXLIX. Golden Guendolen William Morris 355 CCL. Durisdeer Lady John Scott 356 CCLI. Once More . Lord Tennyson 357 CCLII. The Mother's Visits D. M. Mulock . 358 CCLIII. Memory Christina Rossetti 359 CCLIV. The Vista . Author Unknown 360 CCLV. Echoes and Me- mories P. B. Shelley . 360 I. Dawn in the Garden Firs/ Thoughts of Lm'e I T T E was not yet in love, but very near ... for ^ ^ he thanked God that He had made such beautiful beings to walk this earth. . . . O, there is nothing holier in this life of ours, than the first consciousness of love — the first fluttering of its silken wings — the first sound and breath of that wind which is so soon to sweep through the soul ! H. W. Longfellow, " Hyperion." I. Love-thoughts J- A LL fair things have soft approaches, ^^^ Quiet steps are still the sure ; It were hard to point aright At what instant morning light, Shy and solemn-paced, encroaches On the desolate obscure ; — Who can read the growth of flowers Syllable by syllable? Who has sight or ear to tell. Or by moments or by hours. At what rate the sappy tree Full of life, and life in spring, Every sleekest limb embosses With the buds its vigour glosses, — At what rate the buds with glee Burst, and show the tender wing Of the leaf that hardly dares Trust to inexperienced airs ? Who can measure out the pace Of the smiles on Nature's face ? 23 Thou loveliest of the thoughts of God, Creation's antitype and end ! Thou treadest so the vernal sod That slimmest grasses hardly bend;-- I feel thy presence sensible On my ideal supervene, Yet just the moment cannot tell That lies those two bright states between : — No memory has an arm to reach The morning-twilight of our thought, — The infant's use of sight and speech Is all unchallenged and unsought ; And yet thou askest, winning one, That I should now unriddler be, To tell thee when I first begun To love and honour Thee ! Lord Houghton. II. The New Life J' ^ J^ J^ ^ I FELT a spirit of love begin to stir Within my heart, long time unfelt till then ; And saw Love coming towards me fair and fain, (That I scarce knew him for his joyful cheer), Saying, "Be now indeed my worshipper !" And in his speech he laughed and laughed again. Then, while it was his pleasure to remain, I chanced to look the way he had drawn near. And saw the Ladies Joan and Beatrice Approach me, this the other following, 24 V ■Mm ^■^^■■'?to. in<^ One and a second marvel instantly. And even as now m}^ memory speaketh this, Love spake it then : " The first is christened Spring ; The second Love, she is so like to me," Dante Alighieri, trans. D. G. Rossetti. III. My Day Ji Ji> Jt, j. jt, j, r~\ LET the sohd ground ^^ Not fail beneath my feet Before my life has found What some have found so sweet ; Then let come what come may. What matter if I go mad, I shall have had my day. Let the sweet heavens endure, Nor close and darken above me, Before I am quite sure That there is one to love me ; Then let come what come may To a life that has been so sad, I shall have had my day. Lont Tennyson. Tlic Garden of Loi IV. Endymion ^ J- J- ^ ^ ^ T HE rising moon has hid the stars; Her level rays, like golden bars, Lie on the landscape green, With shadows brown between. And silver white the river gleams. As if Diana, in her dreams, Had dropt her silver bow Upon the meadows low. On such a tranquil night as this She woke Endymion with a kiss. When, sleeping in the grove. He dreamed not of her love. Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, Love gives itself, but is not bought ; Nor voice, nor sound betrays Its deep, impassioned gaze. It comes — the beautiful, the free, The crown of all humanity — In silence and alone To seek the elected one. It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep, And kisses the closed eyes Of him who slumbering lies. 26 O weary hearts ! O slumbering eyes ! O drooping souls, whose destinies Are fraught with fear and pain, Ye shall be loved again ! No one is so accursed by fate, No one so utterly desolate, But some heart, though unknown, Responds unto his own : Responds — as if, with unseen wings, An angel touched its quivering strings ; And whispers, in its song, " Where hast thou stayed so long ? " H. IV. Longfellow. V. If this be Love? J- J> J, j, ^1 THEN 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, 27 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. VI. Madrigal J' Jk J> Jt, ^ jk nPHE rooks are seeking in wood and waste -^ The rafter-stuff for their robber castles ; The hazel boughs in a fever of haste Hang out their tassels. The clouds go by like a fleece of wool; The rills, at end of their frozen waiting Scamper and chuckle : the air is full Of courting and mating. But my heart, like a little lost child astray. It cries and bewails, with no one to mind it : Sweeter than spring ! When you come this way, Could you but find it ! Marston Moore. 28 VII. First Love J- J' ^ J^ J^ A H ! I remember well (and how can I ^ ^ But evermore remember well ?) when first Our flame began, when scarce we knew what was The flame we felt ; when as we sat and sighed And looked upon each other, and conceived Not what we ail'd — yet something we did ail ; And yet were well, and yet we were not well, And what was our disease we could not tell. Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look ; and thus In that first garden of our simpleness We spent our childhood. But when years began To reap the fruit of knowledge, ah, how then Would she with graver looks, with sweet stern brow Check my presumption and my forwardness ? Yet still would give me flowers, still would me show What she would have me, yet not have me know. Samuel Daniel. VIII. Starting from Paumanok ^ AT THAT do you seek so pensive and silent? ' • What do you need camerado ? Dear son, do you think it is love ? 29 Listen, dear son — listen, America, daughter or son. It is a painful thing to love a man or woman to excess, and yet it satisfies, it is great, But there is something else very great, it makes the whole coincide, It, magnificent, beyond materials, with continuous hands sweeps and provides for all. Walt IVhitman. IX. Hidden Love J^ J^ ^ J^ Ji T F, as I have, you also do ■'^ Virtue in woman see. And dare love that, and say so too, And forget the He and She — And if this love, though placed so, From profane men you hide, Which will no faith on this bestow Or, if they do, deride — Then you have done a braver thing Than all the worthies did ; And a braver thence will spring, Which is, to keep that hid. ^ohn Donne. 3c II. spring Buds The Wooi?zg II THAT stage of courtship, which makes the most exquisite moment of youth, the freshest blossom- time of passion — when each is sure of the other's love, but no formal declaration has been made, and all is mutual divination, exalting the most trivial word, the lightest gesture, with thrills delicate as wafted jasmine scent. George Eliot, "The Mill on the Floss." m ,^ft^5 K^ X. The Primrose '^ t^ A SK me why I send you here -^^ This firsUing of the infant year ; Ask me why I send to you This primrose all bepearl'd with dew ; I straight will whisper in your ears, The sweets of love are wash'd with tears ; — Ask me why this flower doth show So yellow, green, and sickly too ; Ask me why the stalk is weak. And bending, yet it doth not break ; I must tell you, these discover What doubts and fears are in a lover. Thomas Carew. XI. The Messenger Ji J^ ^ ^ Ji O SWALLOW, Swallow, flying, flying South, Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. 33 O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, And dark and true and tender is the North. O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. O were I thou that she might take me in. And lay me on her bosom, and her heart Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love. Delaying as the tender ash delays To clothe herself, when all the woods are green ? O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown : Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, But in the North long since my nest is made. O tell her, brief is life but love is long, And brief the sun of summer in the North, And brief the moon of beauty in the South. O Swallow, flying from the golden woods. Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee. Lord Tennyson. 34 XII. To Electra J' J- J' J- ^ Love looks for Love. LOVE, love begets ; then never be Unsoft to him who's smooth to thee : Tygers and beares, I've heard some say, For profer'd love, will love repay ; None are so harsh, but if they find Softnesse in others, will be kind : Affection will affection move, Then you must like, because I love. Robert Herrick. XIII. To e^ e^ ^ e^ .* ONK word is too often profaned F'or me to profane it, One feeling too falsely disdained For thee to disdain it ; One hope is too like despair For prudence to smother ; And pity from thee more dear Than that from another. I can give not what men call love, But wilt thou accept not The worship the heart lifts above. And the Heavens reject not, — The desire of the moth for the star, 35 Of the night for the morrow^ The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow ? Percy ByssJie Shelley. XIV. A Cavalier's Wooing J' ^ Jf 1\ /TY dear and only love, I pray iVX This noble world of thee Be governed by no other sway But purest monarchy ; But if confusion have a part, Which virtuous souls abhor, And hold a synod in thy heart, I'll never love thee more. As Alexander I will reign. And I will reign alone ; My thoughts shall evermore disdain A rival on my throne. He either fears his fate too much. Or his deserts are small, Who puts it not unto the touch. To win or lose it all. But if thou wilt be constant then And faithful of thy word, I'll make thee glorious by my pen, And famous by my sword ; 36 I'll serve thee in such noble wa37S, Was never heard before ; I'll deck and crown thee all with bays, And love thee evermore. The Marquis of Montrose. XV. Because J> J' J' J' ^ ^ SWEET NEA!— for your lovely sake I weave these rambling numbers, Because I've lain an hour awake, And can't compose my slumbers ; Because your beauty's gentle light Is round my pillow beaming, And flings, I know not why, to-night. Some witchery round my dreaming. Because we've passed some joyous days. And danced some merry dances; Because we love old Beaumont's plays, And old Froissart's romances ! Because whene'er I hear your words. Some pleasant feeling lingers ; Because I think your heart has chords That vibrate to your fingers 1 Because you've got those long, soft curls I've sworn should deck my goddess; Because you're not, like other girls, All bustle, blush, and bodice ! 37 Because your eyes are deep and blue, Your fingers long and rosy ; Because a little child and you Would make one's home so cosy Because your little tiny nose Turns up so pert and funny ; Because I know you choose your beaux More for their mirth than money ; Because I think you'd rather twirl A waltz, with me to guide you. Than talk small nonsense with an earl, And a coronet beside you ! Because you don't object to walk, And are not given to fainting-; Because you have not learnt to talk Of flowers and Poonah-painting ; Because I think you'd scarce refuse To sew one on a button ; Because I know you'd sometimes choose To dine on simple mutton ! Because I think I'm just so weak As, some of those fine morrows. To ask you if you'll let me speak. My story — and my sorrows ; Because the rest's a simple thing, A matter quickly over, A church — a priest — a sigh — a ring — And a chaise and four to Dover. Edward Fitzgerald. 38 XVI. Untimely Love J- ^ J> T AST Sunday at St. James's prayers, The prince and princess by, I, drest in all my whale-bone airs, Sat in a closet nigh. I bow'd my knees, I held my book, Read all the answers o'er ; But was perverted by a look. Which pierced me from the door. High thoughts of Heaven I came to use, With the devoutest care ; Which gay young Strephon made me lose, And all the raptures there. He stood to hand me to my chair. And bow'd with courtly grace ; But whisper'd love into my ear, Too warm for that grave place. " Love, love," said he, ** by all adored. My tender heart has won." But I grew peevish at the word, And bade he would be gone. He went quite out of sight, while I A kinder answer meant ; Nor did I for my sins that day By half so much repent. Author Unknown. 39- XVII. Love e^ J* e^ e^ e^ A LL thoughts, all passions, all delights, -^^ Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour. When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruined tower. The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve ; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve ! She leaned against the armed man ; The statue of the armed knight ; She stood and listened to my lay Amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope, my joy, my Genevieve ! She loves me best, whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve. I played a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story — An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary. 40 She listened with a flitting bhish, With downcast eyes and modest grace ; For well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her face. I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand ; And that for ten long years he wooed The Lady of the Land. I told her how he pined : and ah ! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own. She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face ! But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed the bold and lovely Knight, And that he crossed the mountain-woods. Nor rested day nor night ; That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade, — 41 There came and looked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright ; And that he knew it was a Fiend, This miserable Knight ! And that unknowing what he did. He leaped amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death The Lady of the Land— And how she wept and clasped his knee And how she tended him in vain — And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain — And that she nursed him in a cave ; And how his madness went away. When on the yellow forest-leaves A dying man he lay ! His dying words — but when I reached That tenderest strain of all the ditty. My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity ! All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve : The music and the doleful tale. The rich and balmy eve ; 42 And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, An undistinguishable throng, And gentle wishes long subdued. Subdued and cherished long ! She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love and virgin shame ; And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name. Her -bosom heaved — she stepped aside. As conscious of my look she stept — Then suddenly with timorous eye She fled to me and wept. She half enclosed me with her arms. She pressed me with a meek embrace ; And bending back her head, looked up And gazed upon my face. 'Twas partly love and partly fear, And partly 'twas a bashful art, That I might rather feel than see, The swelling of her heart. I calmed her fears, and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride ; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous Bride. S. T. Coleridge. 43 111. The Flower of all Flowers Portrait of the Beloved Ill npHUS there was not one discordant thing in her : -*- but a perfect harmony of figure, and face, and soul — in a word, of the whole being. And he who had a soul to comprehend hers, must of necessit}^ love her, and love no other woman for evermore. H. W. Longfellow, " Hyperion." XVIII. The "Je ne sals Quoi" J' ^ YES, I'm in love, I feel it now, And Celia has undone me ; And yet I'll swear I can't tell how The pleasing plague stole on me. 'Tis not her face which love creates. For there no graces revel ; 'Tis not her shape, for there the Fates Have rather been uncivil. 'Tis not her air, for sure in that There's nothing more than common ; And all her sense is only chat Like any other woman. Her voice, her touch, might give th' alarm — 'Twas both perhaps, or neither ; In short, 'twas that provoking charm Of Ceha altogether. William W/iitchead 47 XIX. The rerfection of Her J' ^ ^ Tn^OR certain he hath seen all perfectness ^ Who among other ladies hath seen mine : They that go with her humbly should com- bine To thank their God for such peculiar grace. So perfect is the beauty of her face That it begets in no wise any sign Of envy, but draws round her a clear line Of love, and blessed faith, and gentleness. Merely the sight of her makes all things bow : Not she herself alone is holier Than all ; but hers, through her, are raised above. From all her acts such lovely graces flow That truly one may never think of her Without a passion of exceeding love. Dante Alighicri, trans. D. G. Rossctli. XX. A Nut-Brown Maid J^ J^ Ji T)ROWN is my love, but graceful, -'-^ And each renowned whiteness. Matched with thy lovely brown, loseth its bright- ness. Fair is my love, but scornful : Yet have I seen despised Dainty white lilies, and sad flowers well prized. Musica Transalpina, 1597. 48 XXI. She was a Phantom of DeHorht Jf> fc>' OHP: was a Phantom of delight "^ When first she gleamed upon my sight ; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament ; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; Like Twilight's too, her dusky hair ; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn ; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin-liberty ; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet ; A Creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food ; For transient sorrows, simple wiles. Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine ; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A Traveller between life and death ; The reason firm, the temperate will. Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; TJic (raiiJai of Love. aq\ q A perfect Woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command ; And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light. WordswoftJi. XXII. My Sweet Sweeting J^ J^ J^ \ H, my sweet sweeting ! ^^ My little pretty sweeting. My sweeting will I love wherever I go, She is so proper and so pure, Full steadfast, stable, and demure. There is none such, you may be sure, As my sweet sweeting. In all this world, as thinketh me, Is none so pleasant to my eye, That I am glad so oft to see As my sweet sweeting. When I behold my sweeting sweet. Her face, her hands, her mignon feet, They seem to me there is none so sweet As my sweet sweeting. Sir J. Hawkins. 50 XXIII. She Walks in Beauty J' J> J. OHE walks in beauty, like the night ^^ Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes : Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress. Or softly lightens o'er her face, Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent ! Lord Byron. 51 XXIV. Her Face J> J> Jt' Jt' AND would you see 1113' mistress' face ? ■'' ^ It is a flowery garden place, Where knots of beauties have such grace That all is work and nowhere space. It is a sweet, delicious morn, Where day is breeding, never born ; It is a meadow, 3'ct unshorn, Which thousand flowers do adorn. It is the heavens' bright reflex, Weak eyes to dazzle and to vex : It is th' Idea of her sex, Envy of whom doth world perplex. It is a face of Death that smiles. Pleasing, though it kills the whiles : Where Death and Love in pretty w'iles, Each other mutually beguiles. It is fair beauty's freshest youth. It is the feigned Elisium's truth : The spring, that wintered hearts renew'th ; And this is that my soul pursueth. Philip Rossettcr. 52 XXV. Who is the Maid ? J^ ,^ ^ I. WHO is the maid my spirit seeks, Through cold reproof and slander's blight ? Has she Love's roses on her cheeks ? Is Jicrs an eye of this world's light ? No, wan and sunk with midnight prayer Are the pale looks of her I love ; Or if, at times, a light be there, Its beam is kindled from above. II. I chose not her, my soul's elect. From those who seek their Maker's shrine In gems and garlands proudly deck'd, As if themselves were things divine ! No — Heaven but faintly warms the breast That beats beneath a broider'd veil ; And she who conies in glittering vest To mourn her frailty, still is frail. III. Not so the faded form I prize And love, because its bloom is gone ; The glory in those sainted eyes Is all the grace Jicr brow puts on. And ne'er was Beauty's dawn so bright, So touching as that form's decay, Which, like the altar's trembling light. In holy lustre wastes away ! Thomas Moore, 53 XXVI. The Only She J^ J^ J^ ^ " O AY, Love ! if ever thou didst iind ^^ A woman with a constant mind ? " " None but one ! " "And what should that rare mirror be? Some goddess or some Queen is she ? " She ! She ! She ! and only She ! She, only Queen of Love and Beauty ! " But could thy fiery poisoned dart, At no time, touch her spotless heart. Nor come near ? " " She is not subject to Love's bow. Her eye commands, her heart saith * No ! No ! no ! no ! and only No ! One No ! another still doth follow. " How might I that fair wonder know, That mocks desire with endless ' No ! ' ? " " See the Moon, That ever in one change doth grow ; Yet still the same, and She is so ! " So ! so ! so ! and only so ! From heaven, her virtues she doth borrow. " To her, then, yield thy shafts and bow. That can command affections so ! " 54 " Love is free, So are her thoughts that vanquish thee ! There is no Queen of Love but She ! " She ! She ! She ! and only She ! She, only Queen of Love and Beauty ! John Dowland. XXVII. Her Right Name ^ j, ^ A S Nancy at her toilet sat, -^^^ Admiring this and blaming that ; " Tell me," she said ; '' but tell me true ; The nymph who could your heart subdue, What sort of charms does she possess ? " " Absolve me, Fair One : I'll confess With pleasure," I replied. " Her hair, In ringlets rather dark than fair, Does down her ivory bosom roll. And, hiding half, adorns the whole. In her high forehead's fair half-round Love sits in open triumph crown'd : He in the dimple of her chin, In private state, by friends is seen. Her eyes are neither black, nor grey ; Nor fierce, nor feeble is their ray ; Their dubious lustre seems to show Something that speaks nor Yes, nor No. Her lips no living bard, I weet, 55 May say, how red, how round, how sweet, Old Homer only could indite Their vagrant grace and soft delight : They stand recorded in his book, When Helen smiled, and Hebe spoke " The gipsy, turning to her glass, Too plainly show'd she knew the face : "And which am I most like," she said, " Your Chloe, or your nut-brown maid ? ' Mattheiv Prior. XXVIII. Description of such a One as he could Love ^ J> ^ ,^ J> J' A FACE that should content me wondrous well -^"^ Should not be fair, but lovely to behold : With gladsome cheer, all grief for to expel : With sober looks so would I that it should Speak without words, such words as none can tell : The tress also should be of crisped gold. With wit and these might chance I might be tied, And knit again the knot that should not slide. Sir Thomas Wxatl. 56 XXIX. Annie Laurie J' J- ^ '^ MAXWELLTON braes are bonnie, Where early fa's the dew, And it's there that Annie Laurie Gi'ed me her promise true ; Gi'ed me her promise true, Which ne'er forgot will be, And for bonnie Annie Laurie, I'd lay me down and dee. Her brow is Uke the snaw- drift, Her neck is like the swan, Her face it is the fairest That e'er the sun shone on. That e'er the sun shone on. And dark blue is her e'e ; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me down and dee. Like dew on the gowan lying, Is the fa' o' her fairy feet ; And like winds in summer sighing, Her voice is low and sweet. Her voice is low and sweet, And she's a' the world to me ; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me down and dee. Lady John Scott. 57 XXX. So White, so Soft, so Sweet, is She OEE the chariot at hand here of Love, ^^ Wherein my Lady rideth ! Each that draws is a swan or a dove, And well the car Love guideth. As she»goes, all hearts do duty Unto her beauty ; And enamoured do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side. Through swords, through seas, whither she would glide. Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that Love's world compriseth ! Do but look on her hair, it is bright As Love's star when it riseth ! Do but mark, her forehead's smoother Than words that soothe her ; And from her arched brows such a grace Sheds itself through the face. As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good of the elements' strife. Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touched it ? Have you marked but the fall of the snow Before the soil hath smutched it ? 58 Have you felt the wool of the beaver, Or swan's down ever ? Or have smelt o' the bud of the brier, Or the nard in the fire ? Or have tasted the bag of the bee ? O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she ! Ben Jonson. XXXI. Whom I Love J' J^ ^ QHALL I tell you whom I love ? "^ Hearken then awhile to me ; And if such a woman move As I now shall versify, Be assured 'tis she, or none. That I love, and love alone. Nature did her so much right As she scorns the help of art. In as many virtues dight i\.s e'er yet embraced a heart : So much good, so truly tried. Some for less were deified. Wit she hath, without desire To make known how much she hath : And her anger flames no higher Than may fitly sweeten wrath. Full of pity as may be, Though perhaps not so to me. 59 Reason masters every sense : And her virtues grace her birth : Lovely as all excellence ; Modest in her most of mirth : Likelihood enough to prove Only worth could kindle love. Such she is : and if you know Such a one as I have sung, Be she brown, or fair, or — so That she be but somewhile young : Be assured 'tis she, or none, That I love, and love alone. Will ia in Broivnc. XXXII. A Steadfast Mind J> J. . T T E that loves a rosy cheek, -^ -*■ Or a coral lip admires. Or from star-like eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires ; As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away. But a smooth and steadfast mind. Gentle thoughts and calm desires, Hearts with equal love combined, Kindle never-dying fires ; Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. Thomas Carew. 6q XXXIII. Praise of My Lady J' ^ J^ MY lady seems of ivory Forehead, straight nose, and cheeks that be Hollow'd a Httle mournfulh\ Beaia mca Domina ! Her forehead, overshadow'd much By bows of hair, has a wave such As God was good to make for me. Beaia mea Domina ! Not greatly long my lady's hair, Nor yet with yellow colour fair. But thick and crisped wonderfully : Bcata mea Domina ! Heavy to make the pale face sad. And dark, but dead as though it had Been forged by God most wonderfully — Beaia mea Domina ! — Of some strange metal, thread by thread, To stand out by my lady's head, Not moving much to tangle me. Beaia mea Domina/ Beneath her brows the lids fall slow. The lashes a clear shadow throw Where I would wish my lips to be. Beaia mea Domina/ 6i Her great eyes standing far apart, Draw up some memory from her heart, And gaze out very mournfully : Beata mca Domiiia I So beautiful and kind they are. But most times looking out afar, Waiting for something, not for me. Bcaia mea Domina ! I wonder if the lashes long Are those that do her bright eyes wrong, For always half tears seem to be — Bcaia mea Domina ! — Lurking below the underlid. Darkening the place where they lie hid — If they should rise and flow for me ! Beata mea Domina ! Her full lips being made to kiss, Curl'd up and pensive each one is ; This makes me faint to stand and see. Beata mea Domina ! Her lips are not contented now, Because the hours pass so slow Towards a sweet time : (pray for me), — Beata mea Domina I — 62 So passionate and swift to iiiiove, To pluck at any flying love, That I grow faint to stand and see, Beata mea Domina ! Yea ! there beneath them is her chin, So fine and round, it were a sin To feel no weaker when I see — Beaia mea Domina ! — God's dealings ; for with so much care And troublous, faint lines wrought in there, He finishes her face for me. Beata mea Domina / Of her long neck what shall I say ? What things about her body's sway, Like a knight's pennon or slim tree — Beaia mea Domina ! — Set gently waving in the wind ; Or her long hands that I may find On some day sweet to move o'er me ? Beata mea Domina / God pity me though, if I miss'd The telling, how along her wrist The veins creep, dying languidly — Beata mea Domina ! — 63 Inside her tender palm and thin. Now give me pardon, dear, wherein My voice is weak and vexes thee. Beat a mea Domina ! All men that see her any time, I charge you straightly in this rhyme, What, and wherever you may be, — Beata mea Domina! — To kneel before her ; as for me, I choke and grow quite faint to see My lady moving graciously. Bcata mea Domina ! William Morris. 64 IV. Shady Walks and Yew Hedges Melancholy and Wistful Love 6s IV TN her salutation alone was there any beatitude ■*- for me . . . When, for the first time, this beati- tude was denied me, I became possessed with such grief that, parting myself from others, I went into a lonely place to bathe the ground with most bitter tears . . . and having said also, " O Love, aid thou thy servant," I went suddenly asleep like a beaten sobbing child. Dante AUghieri, trans. D. G. Rossetii, " The New Life." 66 /^^-^K'^ XXXIV. The Lover beseecheth his Mistress not to forget his Steadfast Faith and True Intent ^ J* J* J' J- FORGET not yet the tried intent, Of such a truth as I have meant ; My great travail so gladly spent, Forget not yet ! Forget not yet when first began The weary life, you know since when The suit, the service, none tell can; Forget not yet ! Forget not yet the great assays. The cruel wrong, the scornful ways. The painful patience in delays, Forget not yet ! Forget not ! oh ! forget not this, How long ago hath been, and is The mind that never meant amiss. Forget not yet ! 6; Forget not then thine own approved, The which so long hath thee so loved, Whose steadfast faith yet never moved, Forget not yet ! Sir Thomas Wyatt. XXXV. Inclusions Jt' ^ ^ ^ J' /^H, wilt thou have my hand, Dear, to lie along ^-^ in thine? As a little stone in a running stream, it seems to lie and pine. Now drop the poor pale hand, Dear, unfit to plight with thine. Oh, wilt thou have my cheek, Dear, drawn closer to thine own ? My cheek is white, my cheek is worn, by many a tear run down. Now leave a little space, Dear, lest it should wet thine own. Oh, must thou have my soul. Dear, commingled with thy soul ? — Red grows the cheek, and warm the hand ; the part is in the whole : Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate, when soul is joined to soul. £. Barrett Browning. 68 XXXVI. Tenebrae «^ ^ e^' «^ ^^ T^OLLOW thy fair sun, .unhappy shadow, -^ Though thou be black as night, And she made all of light, Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow ! Follow her whose light thy light depriveth ; Though here thou livest disgraced, And she in heaven is placed, Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth. Follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth. That so have scorched thee, As thou still black must be, Till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth. Follow her, while yet her glory shineth : There comes a luckless night, That will dim all her light ; And this, the black unhappy shade divineth. Follow still, since so thy fates ordained ; The sun must have his shade. Till both at once do fade ; The sun still proved, the shadow still disdained. Thomas Campion. 69 XXXVII. From the Arabic: an Imitation 1\ /TY faint spirit was sitting in the light ^^■*' Of thy looks, my love ; It panted for thee like the hind at noon For the brooks, my love. The barb whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight Bore thee far from me ; My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon, Did companion thee. Ah ! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed. Or the death they bear. The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove With the wings of care ; In the battle, in the darkness, in the need. Shall mine cling to thee. Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love, It may bring to thee. P. B. Shelley. XXXVIII. To Electra ^ ^ ^ ^ T DARE not ask a kisse, -*- I dare not beg a smile, Lest having that, or this, I might grow proud the while. 70 No, no, the utmost share Of my desire shall be, Only to kiss that air That lately kissed thee. R. Herrick. XXXIX. Auld Robin Gray J' J> ^ T 1 T^HEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye * * at hame, And a' the warld to rest are gane, The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e. While my gudeman lies sound by me. Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride ; And saving a croun he had naething else beside : To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea; And the croun and the pund were baith for me. He hadna been awa' a week but only twa, When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa' ; My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea — And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me. 71 My father could na work, and my mother couldna spin : I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win ; Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and \vi' tears in his e'e Said, ''Jeanie, for their sakes, O, marry me!" My heart it said nay ; I look'd for Jamie back ; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack ; His ship it was a wrack — why dinna Jamie dee ? Or why do I live to cry, " Wae's me ! " ? My father urgit sair : my mother didna speak ; But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break ; They gi'ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea ; Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me. I hadna been a wife a week but only four, When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door, I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he— Till he said, " I'm come hame to marry thee." sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say ; We took but ae kiss, and I bade him gang away: 1 wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee ; And why was I born to say, " Wae's me ! " ? 72 I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin ; I daiirna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be, For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me. Lady Anne Barnard. XL. Love Untold Jk ^ ^ ^ ^ THEY who may tell love's wistful tale Of half its cares are lightened ; Their bark is tacking to the gale, The severed cloud is brightened. Love like the silent stream is found. Beneath the willows lurking, The deeper that it hath no sound To tell its ceaseless working. Submit, my heart ; thy lot is cast, I feel its inward token ; I feel this misery will not last. Yet last till thou art broken. Joanna Bail lie. The Garden of Love. y^ XLI. At Last J- J' J- J> J> Ji> OTHE years I lost before I knew you, Love! O, the hills I climbed and came not to you, Love ! Ah ! v^^ho shall render unto us to make Us glad, The things which for and of each other's sake We might have had ? If you and I had sat and played together, Love, Two speechless babes in the summer weather. Love, By one sweet brook which, though it dried up long Ago, Still makes for me to-day a sweeter song Than all I know — If hand-in-hand through the mysterious gateway, Love, Of womanhood, we had first looked and straightway, Love, Had whispered to each other softly, ere It yet Was dawn, what now in noonday heat and fear We both forget — 74 If all of this had given its completeness, Love, To every hour, would it be added sweetness, Love ? Could I know sooner whether it were well Or ill With thee ? One wish could I more sweetly tell. More swift fulfil ? Ah ! vainly thus I sit and dream and ponder, Love, Losing the precious present while I wonder, Love, About the days in which you grew and came To be So beautiful, and did not know the name Or sight of me. But all lost things are in the angels' keeping. Love ; No past is dead for us, but only sleeping, Love ; The years of Heaven will all earth's little pain Make good, Together there we can begin again, In babyhood. Helen Hunt Jackson. 75 XLII. Sorrow J> J' Ji J> J> J- nPHE dew no more will weep, ■^ The primrose's pale cheek to deck : The dew no more will sleep, Nuzzled in the lily's neck: Much rather would it tremble here, And leave them both to be thy tear. Not the soft gold which Steals from the amber-weeping tree, Makes Sorrow half so rich. As the drops distilled from thee : Sorrow's best jewels be in these Caskets, of which Heaven keeps the keys. When Sorrow would be seen In her bright majesty. For she is a Queen ! Then she is dressed by none but thee : Then, and only then, she wears Her richest pearls ;— I mean thy tears. Not in the evening's eyes When they red with weeping are From the sun that dies, Sits Sorrow with a face so fair : Nowhere but here doth meet. Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet. Richard Crashaiv. 76 XLIII. Come, Rest in this Bosom ^ J> COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here ; Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. Oh ! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame ? I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss. And thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this — Through the furnace unshrinking, thy steps to pursue. And shield thee, and save thee — or perish there too ! Thomas Moore. XLIV. Foreknowledge J^ J^ J^ Ji> T ITTLE think'st thou, poor flower -■ — ' Whom I have watched six or seven days, And seen thy birth, and seen what every hour Gave to thy growth, thee to this height to raise, And now dost laugh and triumph on this bough, 77 Little think'st thou That it will freeze anon, and that I shall To-morrow find thee fall'n, or not at all. Little think'st thou, poor heart, That labourest yet to nestle thee, And think'st by hovering here to get a part In a forbidden or forbidding tree, And hop'st her stiffness by long siege to bow : Little think'st thou That thou, to-morrow, ere the sun doth wake, Must with this sun and me a journey take. Jolin Donne. XLV. Too Late ^ ^ .^ jit ^ T7 ACH on his own strict line we move, -■--^ And some find death ere they find love. So far apart their lives are thrown From the twin soul that halves their own. And sometimes, by still harder fate, The lovers meet, but meet too late. — Thy heart is mine ! — True, true ! ah, true ! Then, love, thy hand ! — Ah, no! adieu! Matthew Arnold. 78 XLVI. A Dying Fall J' J. J. j. "POLLOW your saint, follow with accents sweet! ^ Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet ! There, wrapped in cloud of sorrow, pity move, And tell the ravishcr of my soul I perish for her love : But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain, Then burst with sighing in her siglit and ne'er return again ! All that I sung still to her praise did tend ; Still she was first ; still she my songs did end : Yet she my love and music both doth fly, The music that her echo is and beauty's sympathy. Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight ! It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight. Thomas Campion. XLVII. The Banks o' Doon ^ ^ ^ AZE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, ^ How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; How can ye chant ye little birds. And I sae weary fu' o' care ! Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn ; Thou minds me o' departed joys, Departed — never to return ! 79 Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine ; And ilka bird sang o' its luve, And fondly sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; And my fause luver stole my rose, But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. Robert Burns. XLVIII. True and False Love ^ ^ T OVE seeketh not itself to please, -*-^ Nor for itself hath any care But for another gives its ease. And builds a heaven in hell's despair. Love seeketh only self to please, To bind another to its delight, Joys in another's loss of ease, And builds a hell in heaven's despite. William Blake. ao V. A Guest at the Gate Love Himself in various Disguises. 8i V '^pHE Boy, -*- Than whom no mortal so magnificent ! This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy ! This senior- junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid ; Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms, The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans, Liege of all loiterers and malcontents. William ShakcsPeare, " Love's Labour's LosL" 82 ]>^'%: XLIX. The Cheat of Cupid, or The Un- gentle Guest ^ ^ J^ J^ j^ J, /^NE silent night of late, ^-^ When every creature rested, Came one unto my gate, And knocking, me molested. Who's that, said I, beats there, And troubles thus the sleepy? Cast off, said he, all fear. And let not locks thus keep ye. For I a boy am, who By moonless nights have swerved ; And all with show'rs wet through, And e'en with cold half starved. I, pitiful, arose, And soon a taper lighted ; And did myself disclose Unto the lad benighted. 83 I saw he had a bow, And wings too, which did shiver ; And looking down below, I spy'd he had a quiver. I to my chimney's shine Brought him, as Love professes, And chafd his hands with mine. And dried his drooping tresses. But when he felt him warm'd, Let's try this bow of ours, And string, if they be harm'd, Said he, with these late show'rs. r^orthwith his bow he bent. And wedded string and arrow, And struck me, that it went Quite through my heart and marrow. Then laughing loud, he fiew Away, and thus said Hying, Adieu, mine host, adieu, I'll leave thy heart a-dying. Robert Hcrrick L. The Wayfarer ^ J' J' J> A DAY agone, as I rode sullenly Upon a certain path that liked me not, I met Love midwav while the air was hot, 84 Clothed lightly as a wayfarer might be. A-iid for the cheer he showed, he seemed to mc As one who hath lost lordship he had got ; iVdvancing tow'rds me full of sorrowful thought, Bowing his forehead so that none should see. Theri as I went, he called me by my name, Saying : ** I journey since the morn was dim Thence where I made thy heart to be : which now I needs must bear unto another dame." Wlierewith so much passed into mc of him That he was gone, and I discerned not how. Dante Alighicri, trans. I). G. Rossclti. LI. What the Mighty Love has done ^ T T EAR, ye ladies that despise, -'- -■- What the mighty Love has done : Fear examples, and be wise : Fair Calisto was a nun ; Leda, sailing on the stream To deceive the hopes of man, Love accounting but a dream, Doted on a silver swan ; Danae, in a brazen tower. Where no love was, loved a shower. Hear, ye ladies that are coy. What the mighty Love can do ; Fear the fierceness of the boy : 85 The chaste moon he makes to woo ; Vesta, kindling holy fires, Circled round about with spies, Never dreaming loose desires, Doting at the altar dies ; I lion, in a short hour, higher He can build, and once more fire. Joint Fletcher. LI I. Upon Cupid J^ ^ J^ J- T OVE, like a beggar, came to me ^ — ' With hose and doublet torn, His shirt bedangling from his knee. With hat and shoes out-worn. He ask'd an alms ; I gave him bread. And meat too, for his need ; Of which, when he had fully fed, He wis-.hed me all good speed. f\way he went ; but as he turn'd, In faith I know not how, He toucht me so, as that I burn, And am tormented now. Love's silent flames, and fires obscure. Then crept into my heart ; And though I saw no bow, I'm sure His finger was the dart. Robert Herri ck. 86 LI 1 1. Hash, Hush! J^ ,j^ ^ ^ ^ " TTUSH, hush !"— how well -^ ^ That sweet word sounds, When Love, the little sentinel, Walks his night-rounds ; Then, if a foot but dare One rose-leaf crush, Myriads of voices in the air Whisper, "Hush, hush!" " Hark, hark, 'tis he ! " The night-elves cry. And hush their fairy harmony. While he steals by ; But if his silv'ry feet One dew-drop brush, Voices are heard in chorus sweet, Whisp'ring, "Hush, hush!" Thomas Moore. LIV. Love will find out the Way ^ j, /^VER the mountains ^-^ And over the waves, Under the fountains And under the graves ; Under floods that are deepest, 87 Which Neptune obey ; Over rocks that are steepest, Love will find out the way. Where there is no place For the glow-worm to lie ; Where there is no space For receipt of a fly ; Where the midge dares not venture, Lest herself fast she lay ; If Love come, he will enter And soon find out his way You may esteem him A child for his might ; Or you may deem him A coward for his flight ; But if she whom Love doth honour Be concealed from the day, Set a thousand guards upon her, Love will find out the way. Some think to lose him By having him confin'd. And some do suppose him. Poor thing, to be blind ; But if ne'er so close you wall him, Do the best that you may; Blind Love, if so ye call him, Will find out his way. 88 You may train the eagle To stoop to your fist ; Or you may inveigle The Phoenix of the East ; The lioness, you may move her To give o'er her prey ; But you'll ne'er stop a lover — He will find out his way. Early Seventeenth Century Poem. LV. The Mariner ^ J- J' J- J> UPON a summer's day Love went to swim, And cast himself into a sea of tears. The clouds call'd in their light, and heav'n wax'd dim, vVnd sighs did raise a tempest, causing fears. The naked boy could not so wield his arms But that the waves were masters of his might, And threat'n'd him to work far greater harms If he devised not to 'scape by flight. Then for a boat his quiver stood in stead His bow unbent did serve him for a mast, Whereby to sail, his cloth of vail he spread, His shafts for oars on either board he cast. From shipwreck safe this wag got thus to shore, And sware to bathe in lovers' tears no more. William Byrd. 89 lA'l. Lovr, like ii (iy()sy ^t i* ^^ I ()VI<:. liUc a .livpsy, lately canio, "* And (lid iiu" imicli iiniH")rtiinc 'l\) see my hand, that by the same \\c niii^hl lorcUll my l\u(imc. lie saw my palm; and tlieii, said he, I tell lliee, by this scDie here, That thou, within lew months, shalt be The youthtul Piinee D'Amoni here. I smil'd, and bade him (>nee more prove. Anil by some eross-line show it, That I could ne'er be Prince ol" Love, ThouLjh here tlie piiiiceb' poet. Ixoht/I Hen ilk. 1AM I. Love's I'rcMchcr)' ^4 ^< ji j^ /^I'lMI) abrixul was laled in the mold. His wint^s well' wet with rani^ini; in the lain : Harbour he soui^ht, to me he took his tlij^ht, Vo dry his plumes : 1 heatd the boy comjtlain ; I oped the ilooi'. and i^ranted his desiri\ I 1 Dsi" mysilt', and made the wat^; a i'u\'. Lookiu!^ more narrow by the tue"s ilame, I spieil his ipiiver hauLiiu!^ bv his back ; Houbtini; thi> hoy mi^ht m\ mistortune tiame, go I would li:ivc ^onc for fear of further wrack ; Hul wlial I (Irad, did me, poor wretch, betide, l\)v forth he (hew an arrow fioui his side. lie pierced llie iiuick, and I bc-o;aii to start, A pleasinj4 wound, but thai it was too hi^h ; His shaft j^rocured a sharp, yet suj^ared smart : Away he Hew, for why? his win^s were dry; But left the arrow sticking in my l)reast, That sore I grieved I welcomed such a guest. Rohcrl (^.iccnc. LVIIl. Love the ('oiupicror J' J' J' HV\\\\, you ladies lapl in silk, Deck'd with all that's bought for money, Red as roses, while as milk. Soft as wool and sweet as honey ! Though you fence yotustlvcs about With palisades right stout. In citadel most strong— O, yet, ere long Sir Love shall surely find you out ! Say, what help shall then avail, When a rosy splendour scorches All your vestments, from the trail Ot his red triumphal torches? When your guarded rampails fall, Your turrets }iroud and tall Crumble to little ash 91 Before the crash Of his victorious bugle call ? Then defy you Love no more, Sound a parley, speak him tender, Call a truce with him, before Ye must hopelessly surrender ! Hearken, ladies, and be wise, For joy ye know not, Hes, Hoarding its golden gleam For the hour supreme When Love the Conqueror claims his prize ! May Byron. LIX. The Shower of Blossoms ^ j T OVE in a show'r of blossoms came •*-— ' Down, and half drown'd me with the same ; The blooms that fell were white and red ; But with such sweets commingled, As whether this I cannot tell My sight was pleas'd more, or my smell ; But true it was, as I roll'd there. Without a thought of hurt or fear. Love turn'd himself into a bee. And with his javelin wounded me : From which mishap this use I make. Where most sweets are, there lies a snake: Kisses and favours are sweet things ; But those have thorns, and these have stings. Robert Herrick. 92 VI. The Children's Border Love of Mother and Child 93 VI 'T^HE joys of parents are secret, and so are tlieir -*- griefs and fears : they cannot utter the one, nor they will not utter the other. ... It is a strange thing to note the excess of this passion (of love) and how it braves the nature and value of things ... as if man, made for the contemplation of heaven and of all noble objects, should do nothing but kneel before a little idol. Francis Bacon, " Essays." 94 'M LX. At Bay ^ ^ ^ 1\ /j" Y child is mine. ^^ ^ Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh is he, Rocked on my breast and nurtured at my knee. Fed with sweet thoughts ere ever he drew breath, Wrested in battle through the gates of death. With passionate patience is my treasure hoarded, And all my pain with priceless joy rewarded. My child is mine. Nay, but a thousand thousand powers of ill Dispute him with me : lurking wolf-like still In every covert of the ambushed years. Disease and danger dog him : foes and fears Bestride his path, with menace fierce and stormy. Help me, O God ! these are too mighty for me ! 95 My child is mine. But pomp and glitter of the garish world May wean him hence ; while, tenderly unfurled Like a spring leaf, his delicate, spotless days Open in blinding sunlight. And the blaze Of blue and blossom, scents and songs at riot. May woo him from my wardenship of quiet. My child is mine. Yet all his grey forefathers of the past Challenge the dear possession : they o'ercast His soul's clear purity with dregs and lees Of vile unknown ancestral impulses : And viewless hands, from shadowy regions groping, With dim negation frustrate all my hoping. My child is mine. By what black fate, what ultimate doom accurs'd, Shall be that radiant certainty revers'd ? Though hell should thrust its fiery gulfs between, Though all the heaven of heavens should intervene, Bound with a bond not God Himself will sever. The babe I bore is mine for ever and ever — My child is mine. May Byron. 96 LXI. A Cradle Song O LEEP, sleep, beauty bright, *^ Dreaming in the joys of night ! Sleep, sleep ; in thy sleep Little sorrows sit and weep. Sweet babe, in thy face Soft desires I can trace. Secret joys and secret smiles. Little pretty infant wiles. As thy softest limbs I feel, Smiles as of the morning steal O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast, When thy little heart doth rest. Oh, the cunning wiles that creep In thy little heart asleep ! When thy little heart doth wake. Then the dreadful light doth break. William Blake. The Garden of Love. .- LXII. The Goal «^ ^ Jfe «^ e^ OHE knocked at the Paradise-gate, ^ She tided at the golden pin, '' Who is this that cometh so late, And thinks to be let in?" " Ah ! keep me not here without, Open quickly ! " she cried, ''For there are those that need me, need me, Waiting just inside." Weary she was and worn. Her knees and her shoulders bent With the leaden burden of years forlorn, All in vanity spent. But she leapt like a yearling doe Across the threshold of light — She flew to the arms that drew her, drew her. As a homing dove takes flight. One was clasping her wrist, And one was grasping her gown : To one that cried to be kissed Tenderly stooped she down. As a bird outspreadeth its wings. She gathered them closely in — " Now is the time, O children, children, Wlien life shall at last begin !" Maurice Clare. 98 LXIII. The Mother's Lullaby ^ ^ 1\ /TY little sweete darling, my comfort and joy, ^^ Singe lully by, lully, In beauty excelling the princes of Troye, Singe lully by, lully. Now sucke, child, and sleepe, child, thy mother's sweete boy. The gods blesse and keepe thee from cruel annoy, Thy father, sweete infant, from mother is gone, And she in the woodes heere, with thee left alone. To thee, little infant, why do I make mone, Singe lully by, lully, Sith thou canst not help mee to sighe nor to grone, Singe lully by, lully, Sweete baby, lully by, sweet baby, lully, lully. Author Unknown. LXIV. Mothering Sunday ^ e^ ^ Mid-Lent Sicttday " He who goes a-mothering finds violets in the lane." Old Proveib. A MIST of leaves, a maze of light, about the ^^^ gates of Spring : The sweet winds summon exiles home from wintry wandering ; 99 And down the olden \v:iy they haste, wliereof their feet are tain, And he who i^oes a-niotheriiii^ linds violets in the lane. Now nnderneath the hlne-j^ray sky the snnny paths •ffovv hot. The blue-i^ray buds unfurl to bloom in each familiar spot — The white Inuls and the blue-<^ray buds, whose soft lips gently part, In rapture such as one may know who hitles on Mother's heart. 'i'lie blackbird in the ^reeniuLi; elm brinu^s a new song to-day, The lark ujilifis his ecstasy above tlie meailows gay ; The door stands wide, the wall llower scent lloats in across the sill. And there upon the lintel-stoiie is INIother waiting still ! Throw open wide Thy doors, O Lotd, for souls to enter in ! 'I'he days of exile overpas*, the home-davs shall begin ; Dear hands and li[is diaw nigh cnice more to welci^me and {o bless, And all the lovely olden hours renew their loveli- ness : lOO Blue violets round (he Tree of Life, blue violets at the brim Of all the livino water-sprin^^s where never light grows dim — Where tears are dried, and dead hopes raised, and lost years found again, And hearts may go a-mothering for evermore, Amen ! M. C. Gillington. LXV. A Slumber Song ^ ^ ^ ^ O WKKT dreams, form a shade *^ O'er my lovely infant's head ! Sweet dreams of pleasant streams By happy silent moony beams. Sweet sleep, with soft down Weave thy brows an infant crown ! Sweet sleep, angel mild. Hover o'er my happy child ! Sweet smiles, in the night, Hover over my deligiit ! Sweet smiles, mother's smiles. All the live-long night beguile. William Blake. 101 LXVI. The Wood Song ^ ,^ ^ «^ A LWAYS there is a tiny song -^^ That trickles down the trees Small dropping notes — not loud nor long, Like other melodies, But soft reluctant sounds, half-heard, That utterance of some unknown bird. And I have hunted in and out, And searched, all times and tides, And lurked the woodland ways about — That simple singer hides. Nor stirs a feather : nought shall scare Him from his secret sojourn there. And there is one in every wood, Who sings there day by day : It almost might be understood, The thing he strives to say. As though some child were at one's gate. Sweet, plaintive, half-articulate. Whereby I know, in leafy tents Awhile invisible, A flight of Holy Innocents On this green earth do dwell. That bird-babe with those notes divine, He may be yours — he may be mine. 102 Hark! where the topmost branches rear, It drips like April rain, The little voice that nevermore You thought to hear again — Until you catch the trick of tone, And know the singer for your own. Yet speak not, lest you break the charm- Stand silent in the dew, And reach not out your empty arm To clasp him unto you. Patience ! . . . Perhaps, if you keep still, He will come down. I think he will. May Byron. LXVII. Parental Recollections Jt ^ A CHILD'S a plaything for an hour ; ^ Its pretty tricks we try For that or for a longer space ; Then tire, and lay it by. But I knew one that to itself All seasons could control ; That would have mocked the sense of pain Out of a grieved soul. Thou straggler into loving arms. Young climber-up of knees. When I forget thy thousand ways. Then life and all shall cease. Mary Lamb. 103 LXVIII. Two Against Fate J^ J> ^ ("When a child is Iwrii anionj^ the Thracians, all its kindred sit about it in a circle, and weep I'or the woes it will have to underj^o, now that it has come into the world, making mention of every ill that falls to the lot of man." — Herodotus, "Terpsichore," 4.) THEY all came r head, oiind thy cradle, little brown Bringing their shrill forebodings of disaster ; Bent crone and barren beldame, how they sped, Each with the dreariest tale her tongue could master ! But thou and I Cared not : the}^ would be silent by and by. The heroes of thy kindred, little brown head, Bearing a burden deep of lamentation, Wept as they spoke : the maidens newly-wed, Trembling, declared thy dark predestination : But I and thou Lay hushed, close, close together, even as now Ah me ! but when they had left us, little brown head. The Ills that they had summoned lingered after ; On every side I heard the stealthy tread, The wailing voices and the mocking laughter, — I saw them creep And lay malignant looks upon thy sleep. 104 For Care stooped low above thee, little brown head, And Pain caressed thee on the hands and feet, And Fear's black shadow filled the dusk with dread, And Famine breathed on thee — my sweet, my sweet ! And Grief, who knelt Against thy side — her very tears I felt. And false Love smiling faintly, little brown head. And broken Hope that turns the world to gall. And Sickness, and Despair — I saw them spread Their malison o'er thee that art my all ; Impotent, still, I lay and listened : they must have their will. Last of all, Death — not fearful, little brown head, But like a hooded mother, soft and dim. Drew near with rustling garments, and did shed Clear drops of blessing o'er thine every limb — Death, at whose sight Those other phantoms dwindled and took flight. Alas, for thee and me, my little brown head ! Have I then lured thee into snares of sorrow ? Was it for this, for this, the long days led My weary steps to that divinest morrow, That golden hour, When the sealed bud broke to the perfect flower ? 105 How may I foil those Evils, little brown head, How may I blunt the weapons they are shaping To wound thee sore ? Mine eyes uncomforted Can see no crevice for our joy's escaping. What ! shall we two Ouail and surrender, then, as others do ? No ! let us fight and face them, little brown head. Through desperate battle waxing ever bolder. Selling our life-blood dear. Yea, I being dead. Should I forego the conflict ? At thy shoulder, Yet will I wield A broken sword in the unequal field. Thus upon Fate we trample, little brown head ; Her promises and threats, alike unstable, Shall rift and shift before us : in her stead Stands Love unconquered and unconquerable, Clad all in fire, Opening the doorways of the heart's desire. So to the end. . . . What foe shall make or mar That plenitude of peace, when, warfare ended, Wild thyme and clover and the evening star Keep watch above us, in one dreaming blended ? When I and thou Lie hushed, close, close together, even as now. May Byron. 1 06 LXIX. Cawn Bawn Dheelish J> J* J' The Dear Fair Head T IKE a nestling yet callow in its soft downy -L^ yellow, Like the bud on the sallow by the shallow moor-stream With its gold locks entwining, is "my child's head reclining, And I see its gold shining still gleam through my dream. And at night-time awaking, your pillow forsaking, Your soft refuge making, dear head, on my breast ; When the first ray gives warning of dew-dropping morning. Your fair head, mavourneen, still nestles to rest. The wind whistles colder — come, hide on my shoulder, And never seem older, my sweetheart, for me ! The blows Fate may deal us, but the closer shall seal us, I and you, Cawn Bawn Dheelish, acushla ma- chree ! Maurice Clare. 107 7 r VII. May-time in the Garden The Sweetness of Love 109 VII T^OR like as herbs and trees bring forth fruit ^ and flourish in May, in likewise every lusty heart, that is in any manner a lover, springeth and flourisheth in lusty deeds. . . . And, in likewise, lovers call again to their mind old gentleness and old service, and many kind deeds that were forgotten by negligence. Sir Thomas Malory, '^ Mortc d Arthur." r >r -^•"^' .^:f ^•T'^e --£>' ^^m'i^.:0 '^,1 y/ I SiLiimm'?.! aniclliysl I eoiild not wvav Iich\ pkiinci lo my sii;lil, Than llial lii s( kiss. Tlic second passed in liei/^ld The liisl, and soii^hl Ihe lorehe.id, and hall-nhsscd, ILdC l.ilhn.!', on the hair. O hevond meed ! That was Ihe (,:hiisni ol h»ve, which love's own crown, Willi sanclilyini^ sweelncss, did precede. The Ihird npon my lips was folded down. In perfecl pmpic slale ; since when, indi'cd, I have been piond and said, " My love, my own." /','. /)'. lii im'nini*. I. XXII. Lov(> Me if I Live ^ 40 4, t/'^ tj~ «/'* 1 OVI-; me if I live ! * ^ Love me if I die ! Whal lo me is life or death, So that thou ait nij^h .-' Once I loved Hue rich. Now I love I hei' poor ; Ah ! whal is Ihcrc 1 could not, 1^'or thy .sake, endure t Kiss mc f(M- my love ! Pay nu> (ov my pain ! Come, and niuiiuur in mv oar I low (liou lov'sl aijain ! Juinv (.'('/ //u"l'od silk-wallod siloneo rt>und abou( ! (Jueon i( (hoii on pin plo 1, a( waloh and ward Conehed beneath (ho oolumns, ija/.o, Ihy slave, love's i;nard ! So, for ns no world ? Lei (hroni^s press thee to me ! lip and down ainiil moii, lioarl by Iu\u ( (are we ! Welccnno svpialiil vosdiro. harsh voice, halolul (aco ! God is sinil, souls 1 and (hoii : wilh souls shonld s*.>nls have plaoo, l\obcii Bioicning. ii6 Lxxiv. riu« rosic .< ,4 ,4 / A mVI': will vcnlmv in ^- Wlurc il (lamiiu wfil he seen () liivc will \i-iiliiic in WIic'H' wisdom ;iiiK c li.is l)vv\\ ; l)iil I will down yoii livcr rovit AiiU)ii|4 llic wood sac- |^i c-cn — And :i' lo pii' a posii' 'I'o my ain dcai May. Tiic- prinn'ost- I will pn', 'i'lu' (iisllinf^ o' llic y^;ii', And 1 will pn" llic pink, 'i'lic (inhlcni o' my dear, I'di ^.lu•'s lln' pink o' womankind, And l)looms willioiil a pcci And a' (o hi; a posic To my ain dear May. I'll pn' llic l)nipe, my lovely one. Spot t toi" Ihee to make. Phil. Here are threads, my true one, line as silk, To knit thee, to knit thee, A pair oi stockin J> J> J^ T OVE not me for comely grace, ■^-^ For my pleasing eye or face, Nor for any outward part : No, nor for a constant heart ! For these may fail or turn to ill : So thou and I shall sever. Keep therefore a true woman's eye. And love me still, but know not why ! So hast thou the same reason still To dote upon me ever. John Wilbyc. LXXXI I. A Dialogue between Him and His Heart ^ J^ J^ J^ J- J' A T her fair hands how have I grace entreated, -^"^ With prayers oft repeated ! Yet still my love is thwarted : Heart, let her go, for she'll not be converted — 130 Say, shall she go ? O no, no, no, no, no : She is most fair, though she be marble-hearted. How often have my sighs declared mine anguish. Wherein I daily languish ! Yet doth she still procure it : Heart, let her go, for I cannot endure it. Say, shall she go ? O no, no, no, no, no : She gave the wound, and she alone must cure it. But shall I still a true affection owe her, Which prayers, sighs, tears, do show her, And shall she still disdain me ? Heart, let her go, if they no grace can gain me. Say, shall she go ? O no, no, no, no, no : She made me hers, and hers she will retain me. But if the love that hath, and still doth burn me. No love at length return me. Out of my thoughts I'll set her. Heart, let her go ; oli, heart, I pray thee, let her. Say, shall she go ? O no, no, no, no, no : Fixed in the heart, how can the heart forget her ? IV. Davidson. 131 LXXXIII. The Praise of Love J> ^ "pAIN would I change that note -*- To which fond love hath charm'd mc, Long, long to sing by rote, Fancying that that harm'd me ; Yet when this thought doth come, " Love is the perfect sum Of all delight," I have no other choice Either for pen or voice To sing or write. O Love, they wrong thee much That say thy sweet is bitter. When thy rich fruit is such As nothing can be sweeter. Fair house of joy and bliss Where truest pleasure is, I do adore thee ; I know thee what thou art, I serve thee with my heart, And fall before thee. Tobias Hume. 132 IX. A Green Pleasance Love of Friends 133 IX npHERE are wonders in true affection. It is a -^ body of enigmas, mysteries, and riddles ; wherein two so become one as they both become two. I love my friend before myself, and yet, methinks, I do not love him enough. Some few months hence, my multiplied affection will make me believe I have not loved him at all. Sir Thomas Browne, " Religio Medici." 134 LXXXIV. The Friendship-Flower J> ji> VX/'HEN first the Friendship-flower is planted Within the garden of your soul, Little of care or thought is wanted To guard its beauty fresh and whole ; But when the full impassioned age Has well revealed the magic bloom, A wise and holy tutelage Alone avoids the open tomb. It is not absence you should dread, For Absence is the very air In which, if sound at root, the head Shall wave most wonderful and fair r With sympathies of joy and sorrow Fed, as with morn and even dews. Ideal colouring it may borrow Richer than ever earthly hues. Lord Houghtonl 135 LXXXV. The Meeting of the Waters J. nPHERE is not in the wide world a valley so -*- sweet, As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet ; Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, Ere the bloom from that valley shall fade from my heart. Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill. Oh ! no — it was something more exquisite still. 'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear. And who felt how the best charms of Nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love. Sweet vale of Ovoca ! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best, 136 Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace. Thomas Moore. LXXXVI. The Best of Friends J^ ,^ "\ T O truer friend than woman man discovers, -'■ ^ So that they have not been, nor can be lovers. Aiiihor Unknown. LXXXVI I. I saw in Louisiana a Live- Oak Growing ^ ^ J^ J^ Ji^ T SAW in Louisiana a live-oak growing, ^ All alone stood it and the moss hung down from the branches, Without any companion it grew there uttering joyous leaves of dark green, And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made me think of myself. But I wonder'd how it could utter joyous leaves standing alone there without its friend near, for I know I could not. And I broke off a twig with a certain number of leaves upon it, and twined around it a little moss, 137 And brought it away, and I have placed it in sight in my room, It is not needed to remind me as of my own dear friends, (For I beheve lately I think of little else than of them,) Yet it remains to me a curious token, it makes me think of manly love ; For all that, and though the live-oak glistens there in Louisiana solitary in a wide flat space. Uttering joyous leaves all its life without a friend, a lover near, I know very well I could not. Walt Whitman. LXXXVIII. To a Friend ^ ^ e^ Befo7'e taking a Join-ney T HAVE examined and do find, ^ Of all that favour me There's none I grieve to leave behind But only, only thee. To part with thee, I needs must die. Could parting scp'rate thee and I. Our changed and mingled souls are grown To such acquaintance now. That if each would resume their own, Alas, we know not how. We have each other so engrost That each is in the union lost. And thus we can no absence know, Nor shall we be confined ; Our active souls will daily go To learn each other's mind. Nay, should we never meet to sense, Our souls would hold intelligence. Thy larger soul in me shall lie. And all thy thoughts reveal ; Then back again witli mine shall fly, And thence to me shall steal. Thus still to one another tend. Such is the sacred name of Friend. Katherine Phillips. LXXXIX. A Temple to Friendship Jt' " A TEMPLE to Friendship," said Laura, cn- ■^ ^ chanted, "I'll build in this garden, — the thought is divine !" Her temple was built, and she now only wanted An image of Friendship to place on the shrine. She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent ; But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant. 139 "O never," slic cried, "could I think of enslirinin^ An image wliose looks are so joyless and dim : - l>nt yon little god, upon roses reclining, We'll make, if ycni please, sir, a Friendship of him." So the bargain was struck : with the little god laden She joyfully Hew to her shrine in the grove : " I'^arewell," said the sculptor, "you're not the first maiden Who came hut for Friendship, and took away Love." Thomas Moore, XC. Friendship J^ J^ J^ c)^ ^ A RUDDY drop of manly blood ■^^^ The surging sea outweighs, The world uncertain comes and goes, The lover rooted stays. I fancied he was lied, — And, after many a year. Glowed unexhausted kindliness Like daily sunrise there. My careful heart was free again, O friend, my bosom said. Through thee alone the sky is arched, Through thee the rose is red ; All things through thee take nobler form, 140 And look beyond the earth, The mill-round of our fate appears A sun-path in thy worth. Me too thy nobleness has taught To master my despair ; The fountains of my hidden life Are throu<^fh thy friendshij-) fair. A*. IV. Emerson. XCI. Farewell! — but whenever you wel- come the Hour J^ J^ J> J> J> TT^AREWELL ! — but whenever you welcome the ^ hour That awakens the niLiht-son-;^^^^' H XCIII. The Night Piece J> J> Jt, To Julia ER e3^cs the glow-worm lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee ; And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow. Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. No Will-o'-tlv-Wisp mis-light thee, Nor snake, or slow-worm bite thee ; But on, on thy way. Not making a stay. Since ghost there's none to affriglit thee. Let not the dark thee cumber ; What though the moon do slumber ? The stars of the night Will lend thee their light, Like tapers clear, without number. Then, Julia, let me woo thee. Thus, thus to come unto me ; And when I shall meet Thy silv'ry feet, My soul I'll pour into thee. Robert Herrick. The Garden of Love. ^47 XCIV. Cleveland's Serenade Jf' S- J^ From " The Pirate " L' OVE wakes and weeps While Beauty sleeps ! O for music's softest numbers, To prompt a theme For Beauty's dream, Soft as the pillow of her slumbers ! Through groves of palm Sigh gales of balm, Fireflies on the air are wheeling ; While through the gloom Comes soft perfume. The distant beds of flowers revealing. O wake and live ! No dreams can give A shadowed bliss the real excelling ; No longer sleep, From lattice peep. And list the tale that love is telling ; Sir Walter Scott. 148 XCV. Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal J^ "V T OW sleeps the crimson petal, now the white ; ■*■ ^ Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk ; Nor winks the gold fish in the porphyry font : The firefly wakens : waken thou with 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. Lord Tennyson. XCVI. While She lies Sleeping ,^ ^ "X 1 ^EEP you no more, sad fountains, ^ * What need you flow so fast ? Look how the snowy mountains Heaven's sun doth gently waste. But my sun's heavenly eyes View not your weeping. That now lie sleeping Softly, now softly lie sleeping ! 149 Sleep is a reconciling, A rest that peace begets; Doth not the sun rise smiling, When fair at e'en he sets ? Rest you, then, rest, sad eyes ! Melt not in weeping. While she lies sleeping Softly, now softly lies sleeping ! John Dowlaiid. XCVII. Bedouin Love Song ^ ^ ^ T7ROM the Desert I come to thee -*- On a stallion shod with fire ; And the winds are left behind In the speed of my desire. Under thy window I stand. And the midnight hears my cry : I love thee, I love but thee, With a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold/ Look from thy windov^' and see My passion and my pain ; I lie on the sands below, And I faint in thy disdain. Let the night-winds touch thy brow 150 With the heat of my burning sigh, And melt thee to hear the vow Of a love that shall not die Till ilic sun f^rows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold ! My steps are nightly driven, By the fever in my breast, To hear from thy lattice breathed The word that shall give me rest. Open the door of thy heart, And open thy chamber door. And my kisses shall teach thy lips The love that shall fade no more Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old And the lea7>es of the Judgment Book unfold. Bayard Taylor.^ XCVTII. Spanish Serenade J^ J^ ^ OTARS of the summer night "^^ Far in yon azure deeps, Hide, hide your golden light ! She sleeps ! My lady sleeps ! Sleeps ! Moon of the summer night ! Far down yon western steeps Sink, sink in silver Hght ! She sleeps ! My lady sleeps ! Sleeps ! Wind of the summer night ! Where yonder woodbine creeps, Fold, fold thy pinions light ! She sleeps ! My lady sleeps ! Sleeps ! Dreams of the summer night ! Tell her, her lover keeps Watch ! while in slumbers light She sleeps ! My lady sleeps ! Sleeps ! H. W. Longfellow. XCIX. An Elizabethan Serenade j* T 1 ^HO is it that this dark night * * Underneath my window plaineth ? It is one who from thy sight Being, ah, exiled, disdaineth Every other vulgar light. 152 Why, alas, and arc you he ? Be not yet those fancies changed ? Dear, when you ftnd change in me, Though from me you be estranged. Let my change to ruin be. Well, in absence this will die ; Leave to see, and leave to wonder. Absence sure will help, if I Can learn how my self to sunder From what in my heart doth lie. But time v^'ill these thoughts remove : Time doth work what no men knoweth. Time doth as the subject prove ; With time still the affection groweth In the faithful turtle-dove. What if you new beauties see, Will they not stir new affection ? I will think they pictures be (Image-like, of saints' perfection) Poorly counterfeiting thee. But your reason's purest light Bids you leave such minds to nourish. Dear, do reason no such spite ; Never doth thy beauty flourish More than in my reason's sight. Sir Philip Sidney 153 C. Were I a Drop of Dew J- J- J> WERE I a drop of dew This hour, And you Some fair and fragrant flow'r, — O swiftly there I'd fall, And all The night Sleep in your petals soft and white. Then when the morning blue Should break, And you From out your dream should wake. Without a sign or word, Unheard, Unseen, I'd fade amid your leaves of green ! Maurice Clare. CI. Indian Serenade ^ ^ ^ ^ J^ T ARISE from dreams of thee ■*- In the iirst sweet sleep of night. When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright : I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in ni}' feet Has led me — who knows how ? — To thy chamber-window, Sweet ! 154 The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream — The Champak odours fail Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart ; — As I must die on thine, Oh, beloved as thou art ! O lift me from the grass ! I die, I faint, I fail ! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! My heart beats loud and fast ; — Oh ! press it close to thine again, Where it will break at last. P. B. Shelley, J55 XI Butterflies Lighter Love L.yj-ics 157 XI Clot c II. T WOULD this music would come : I am ^ advised to give lier music, . . . they say, it will penetrate. {Enter Musicians.) Come on ; tune. If you can penetrate her with your fingers, so ; we'll try with voices too : if none will do, let her remain : but I'll ne'er give over. First, a very excellent good-conceited thing : after, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich words to it, — and then let her consider. William Shakespeare, " Cymbeline." v..:"" ■ ' CII. The Clown's Song /"^ ]\1ISTRESS mine, where are you roaming? ^-^ O stay and hear ; your true love's coming, That can sing both high and low : Trip no further, pretty sweeting ; Journeys end in lovers' meeting, Every wise man's son doth know. What is love ? 'Tis not hereafter ; Present mirth hath present laughter ; What's to come is still unsure ; In delay there lies no plenty ; Then come kiss me, swect-and-twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure. William Shakespeare. 159 cm. Song by a Person of Quality J' T SAID to my heart, between sleeping and ^ waking, Thou wild thing, that always art leaping or aching, What black, brown, or fair, in what clime, in what nation, By turns has not taught thee a pit-a-pat-ation ? Thus accused, the wild thing gave this sober reply : See the heart without motion, though Cclia pass by! Not the beauty she has, or the wit that she borrows, Gives the eye any joys, or the heart any sorrows. When our Sappho appears, she whose wit's so refined, I am forced to applaud with the rest of mankind j, Whatever she says is with spirit and fire ; Every word I attend ; but I only admire. Prudentia as vainly would put in her claim. Ever gazing on Heaven, tho' man is her aim : 'Tis love, not devotion, that turns up her eyes ; Those stars of the world are too good for the skies. 1 60 But Chloe so lively, so easy, so fair, Her wit so genteel, without art, without care ; When she comes in my way, the emotion, the pain, The leapings, the achings, return all again. O wonderful creature ! a woman of reason ! Never grave out of pride, never gay out of season ! When so easy to guess who this angel should be, Would one think Mrs. Howard ne'er dreamt it was she ? Lord Peterborough. CIV. Phillis is My only Joy ^ ,3t ^ "P)HILLIS is my only joy, •^ Faithless as the winds or seas, Sometimes cunning, sometimes coy. Yet she never fails to please ; If with a frown I am cast down, Phillis smiling And beguiling. Makes me happier than before. Though alas ! too late I find Nothing can her fancy fix. Yet the moment she is kind I forgive her for her tricks ; i6i Which though I see, I can't get free, — She deceiving, I beheving, — What need lovers wish for more ? Sir diaries Scdley. CV. Love-Thoughts J' ^ J' T WOULD be cahn,— I would be free •^ From thoughts and images of Thee ; But Nature and thy will conspire To bar me from my fair desire. The trees are moving with thy grace, The water will reflect thy face ; The very flowers are plotting deep, And in thy breath their odours steep. The breezes, when mine eyes I close. With sighs, just like mine own, impose ; The nightingale then takes her part. And plays thy voice against my heart. If Thou then in one golden chain Canst bind the world, I strive in vain ; Perchance my wisest scheme would be To join this great conspiracy. Lord Houghton. 162 CVI. The Promise ^ J- ^ J- ^ /"BROWNED with flowers, I saw fair Amarillis ^-^ By Thirsis sit, hard by a fount of crystal, And with her hand more white than snow or Hhes On sand she wrote, " My faith shall be immortal," And suddenly a storm of wind and weather Blew all her faith and sand away together. William Bvrd. CVI I. Last May a Braw Wooer J' J- T AST May a braw wooer cam down the lang J-- glen. And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; I said there was naething I hated like men. The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me, believe me, The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me. He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black een. And vowed for my love he was dying ; I said he might die when he liked for Jean : The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying, The Lord forgie me for lying. A weel-stocked mailen — himsel' for the laird — And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers : I never loot on that I kenned it, or car'd, 163 But thought that I might hae waiir ofters, waur offers, But thought I might hae waur offers. But what wad ye think ? In a fortnight or less — The deil tak his taste to gae near her ! He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess, Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her, could bear her, Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. But a' the neist week as I fretted wi' care, I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, And wha but my fine fickle lover was there ! I glowered as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, I glowered as I'd seen a warlock. But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink. Lest neebors might say I was saucy ; My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, And vow'd I was his dear lassie. I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, Gin she had recovered her hearin, And how her new shoon fit her auld shackl't feet. But Heavens ! how he fell a swearin', a swearin', But Heavens ! how he fell a swearin'. 164 He begged, for Gudesake, I wad be his wife, Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow ; So, e'en to preserve the poor body in life, I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, I think I maun wed him to-morrow. Robert Burns. CVIII. The Dissembler J^ J^ J^ ^ 'T'^HE merchant, to secure his treasure, Conveys it in a borrow'd name : Euphelia serves to grace my measure; But Chloe is my real flame. My softest verse, my darling lyre Upon Euphelia's toilet lay ; When Chloe noted her desire. That I should sing, that I should play. My lyre I tune, my voice I raise; But with my numbers mix my sighs : And while I sing Euphelia's praise, I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes. Fair Chloe blush'd : Euphelia frown'd : I sung and gazed : I play'd and trembled : And Venus to the Loves around Remark'd, how ill we all dissembled. Matthew Prior. 165 CIX. When Love is Kind .^ .^ .^ 111 7 HEN Love is kind, * ^ Cheerful and free, Love's sure to find Welcome from me. Hut when Love brings Heartache or pang, Tears, and such things — Love may go hang ! If Love can sigh For one alone, Well pleased am I To be that one. But should I see Love giv'n to rove To two or three, Then — goodbye, Love ! Love must, in short. Keep fond and true, Through good report. And evil too. Else, liere I swear, Young Love may go, For aught I care — To Jericho ! TJioinas Moore. 166 ex. A Hymn to Love J- ^ Jt' T WILL confess, -^ With cheerfulness, Love is a thing so hkes me, Thut, let her lay On me all day, I'll kiss the hand that strikes nic. I will not, I, Now blubb'ring cry : It, ah ! too late repents me, That I did fall To love at all, Since love so much contents me. No, no, I'll he In fetters free ; While others they sit wringing Their hands for pain, I'll entertain The wounds of love with singing. Robert Hcrrick. CXI. Sympathy J' J' J' ^ ^ A KNIGHT and a lady once met in a grove, ■^^^ While each was in quest of a fugitive love ; A river ran mournfully murmuring by, And they wept in its waters for sympathy. 167 " O, never was knight such a sorrow that bore ! " " O, never was maid so deserted before ! " " From life and its woes let us instantly fly, And jump in together for company !" They search'd for an eddy that suited the deed, But here was a bramble, and there was a weed ; "How tiresome it is !" said the fair with a sigh; So they sat down to rest them in company. They gazed at each other, the maid and the knight ; How fair was her form, and how goodly his height ! "One mournful embrace," sobbed the youth, "ere we die !" So kissing and crying kept company. " O, had I but loved such an angel as you ! " "O, had but my swain been a quarter as true !" " To miss such perfection how blinded was I ! " Sure now they were excellent company ! At length spoke the lass, 'twixt a smile and a tear, " The weather is cold for a watery bier ; When summer returns we may easily die, Till then let us sorrow in company." Reginald Hcber. i68 CXII. The Stolen Heart ^ J> , T PRYTHEE send me back my heart, •^ Since I cannot have thine ; For if from yours you will not part, Why then shouldst thou have mine ? Yet now I think on't, let it lie ; To find it were in vain, For thou'st a thief in either eye Would steal it back again. Why should two hearts in one breast lie, And yet not lodge together ? O love ! where is thy sympathy, If thus our breasts you sever? But love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out ; For when I think I'm best resolved, I then am most in doubt. Then farewell love, and farewell woe, I will no longer pine ; For I'll believe I have her heart As much as she hath mine. Sir John Suckling. The Garcieit of Love. i6q CXIII. Dear Fanny Ji J^ Jt, j, "OHE has beauty, but still you must keep your ^^ heart cool : She has wit, but you mustn't be caught so " : Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool, And 'tis not the first time I have thought so, Dear Fanny, 'Tis not the first time I have thought so. " She is lovely ; then love her, nor let the bliss fly; 'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing season"; Thus Love has advised me, and who will deny That Love reasons much better than Reason, Dear Fanny ? Love reasons much better than Reason. Thomas Moore. CXIV. The Deceiver J^ ^ ^ J' YOU smiled, you spoke, and I believed. By every word and smile deceived. Another man would hope no more— Nor hope what I had hoped before : But let not this last wish be vain. Deceive— deceive me once again ! Walter Savage Landor. 170 CXV. Phillida Flouts me ^ ^ /^H, what a plague is love ! ^-^ I cannot bear it, She will inconstant prove, I greatly fear it ; It so torments my mind, That my heart faileth, She wavers with the wind, As a ship saileth ; Please her the best I may, She looks another way ; Alack and well a-day ! Phillida flouts me. I often heard her say That she loved posies ; In the last month of May I gave her roses, CowsHps and gillyflow'rs And the sweet lily, I got to deck the bow'rs Of my dear Philly ; She did them all disdain, And threw them back again ; Therefore, 'tis flat and plain Phillida flouts me. Which way soe'er I go, She still torments me ; 171 And whatsoe'er I do, Nothing contents me : I fade, and pine away With grief and sorrow ; I fall quite to decay, Like any shadow ; Since 'twill no better be, I'll bear it patiently ; Yet all the world may see Phillida flouts me. Seventeenth Century Song. CXVI. Tarn Glen J^ Jt ^ J^ ^ A /r Y heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie ! ''■■'■ Some counsel unto me come len', To anger them a' is a pity, But what will I do wi' Tam Glen ? I'm thinking wi' sic a braw fellow, In poortith I might mak a fen' ; What care I in riches to wallow, If I maunna marr}' Tam Glen ? There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller, " Guid-day to you," — brute ! he comes ben : He brags and he braws o' his siller, But when will he dance like Tam Glen ? My minnie does constantly deave me. And bids me beware o' young men ; 172 They flatter, she says, to deceive me. But wha can think sae o' Tarn Glen ? My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, He'll gie me gude hunder marks ten : But, if it's ordained I maun take him, O wha will I get but Tam Glen ? Yestreen at the valentine's dealing, My heart to my mou' gied a sten ; For thrice I drew ane without failing. And thrice it was written — Tam Glen. The last Halloween I was waukin My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; His likeness cam up the house staukin, And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen ! Come, counsel, dear Tittie ! don't tarry — I'll gie ye my bonnie black hen, Gif ye will advise me to marry The lad I lo'e dearly — Tam Glen. Robert Burns. CXVII. The Despairing Lover J^ jt DISTRACTED with care, For Phillis the fair, Since nothing can move her. Poor Damon, her lover. Resolves in despair 173 No longer to languish, Nor bear so much anguish ; But, mad with his love, To a precipice goes, "Where a leap from above Will soon finish his woes. When, in rage, he came there. Beholding how steep The sides did appear. And the bottom how deep ; His torments projecting, And sadly reflecting That a lover forsaken A new love may get ; But a neck when once broken. Can never be set : And that he could die Whenever he would ; But that he could live But as long as he could ; How grievous soever The torment might grow, He scorn'd to endeavour To finish it so. But bold, unconcern'd. At the thoughts of the pain, He calmly return'd William Walsh. 74 CXVIII. Thought from Catullus .* J> /"^HLOE, that dear bewitching prude, ^^ Still calls me saucy, pert, and rude. And sometimes almost strikes me ; And yet I swear, I can't tell how. Spite of the knitting of her brow, I'm very sure she likes me. Ask you me why I fancy thus ? Why, I have call'd her jilt, and puss. And thought myself above her ; And yet I feel it to my cost. That when I rail against her most, I'm very sure I love her. Roberi Lloyd. 175 XII. The Bower The Ardent Lover, ^ri XII nPHERE remains still in some small measure, ^ beyond the merely formative and sustaining power, another, which we painters call passion : I don't know what the philosophers call it : we know it makes people red or white, and therefore it must be something itself, and perhaps it is the most truly " poetic " or " making " force of all, creating a world of its own out of a glance, or a sigh. ... It seems to me the feelings of the purest and most mightily passioned human souls are likely to be the truest. ^ohn Ruskin, " Ethics of the Dust." CXIX. Cean Dubh Deelish ^ J^ J' J^ "pUT your head, darling, darling, darling, -*- Your darling black head my heart above ; Oh, mouth of honey, with the thyme for fragrance, Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love ? Oh, many and many a young girl for me is pining Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free, For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows ; But I'd leave a hundred, pure love, for thee ! Then put your head, darling, darling, darling, Your darling black head my heart above ; Oh, mouth of honey, with the thyme for fragrance, Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love ? Sir Samuel Ferguson (adapted from the Irish). {Proii. Cawn dhu cleelisli — /.c'.," Dear black head.") 179 CXX. To Celia ^ ^ ^ J- Jt' ,^ T^RINK to me only with thine eyes, ^^ And I will pledge with mine ; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine ; But might I of Jove's nectar sip, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee, As giving it a hope that there It could not withered be : But thou thereon didst only breathe : And sent'st it back to me ; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee ! Ben Jonson. CXXI. There's a Woman like a Dew-drop ' I ^HERE'S a woman like a dew-drop, she's so -•- purer than the purest ; And her noble heart's the noblest, yes, and her sure faith's the surest : And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustre 1 80 Hid i' the harebell, wliile her tresses, sunnier than the wild-grape cluster, Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck's rose-misted marble : Then her voice's music . . . call it the well's bubbling, the bird's warble ! And this woman says, '* My days were sunless and my nights were moonless, " Parched the pleasant April herbage, and the lark's heart's outbreak tuneless, " If you loved me not ! " And I who — ah, for words of flame ! adore her ! Who am made to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her — I may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me. And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as hers she makes me ! Robert Browning. CXXII. Faith's Avowal J> Jk Ji J^ T~\EAR, if 3^ou change, I'll never choose again ; -*-^ Sweet, if you shrink, I'll never think of love; Fair, if you fail, I'll judge all beauty vain ; Wise, if too weak, more wits I'll never prove. Dear, sweet, fair, wise, — change, shrink, nor be not weak ; And, on my faith, my faith shall never break. i8i Earth with her flowers shall sooner heaven adorn ; Heaven her bright stars through earth's dim globe shall move, Fire heat shall lose, and frosts of flames be born ; Air, made to shine, as black as hell shall prove : Earth, heaven, fire, air, the world transformed shall view, Ere I prove false to faith, or strange to you. John Dowland. CXXIII. Love's Philosophy J> J^ Jk ' I ^HE fountains mingle with the river -■- And the rivers with the ocean. The winds of Heaven mix for ever With a sweet emotion ; Nothing in the world is single ; All things by a law divine In one another's being mingle, — Why not I with thine ? — See, the mountains kiss high Heaven And the waves clasp one another ; No sister-flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother ; And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea : What is all this sweet work worth, If thou kiss not me ? P. B. Shelley. 182 CXXIV. To Aiithca ,< ..* .!^ Jt> S T>rT) nic lo live, and I will live ^ Thy Proteslaiil to be ; Or hid iiu- love, ;in(l I will j^ive A loviiiij' luMil lo lliee. A heart as soli, a heail as kind, A heart as sound and free, As ill tile whole world thou canst lind, That heart I'll |^ive to thee. Bid thai heart slay, and it will stay To honoiu' Ihy decree ; Oi" bid il lan<^uish ([uik' away, And't shall do so foi- Ihee. Hid me to weep, and I will weep. While I have eyes lo see ; And having none, yet I will keep A heart to weep foi- thee. Thou art my life, my love, my heart, The very eyes of me ; And hast command of every part, To live and die for tiiee. Rohc'ii Ifcirick. 183 CXXV. Maid of Athens J. S J^ ^ A /TAID of Athens, ere we part, ''■■*• Give, oh give me back my heart ! Or, since that has left my breast, Keep it now, and take the rest Hear my vow before I go, 7^oc moil, sas agapo.^ By those tresses unconfined. Woo'd by each ^gean wind ; By those hds whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; By those wild eyes like the roe, Zoi' moil, sas agapo. By that lip I long to taste. By that zone-encircled waist. By all the token-flowers that tell What words can never speak so well ; By love's alternate joy and woe, Zoc moil, sas agapo. Maid of Athens ! I am gone : Think of me, sweet ! when alone. Though I fly to Istambol, Athens holds my heart and soul : Can I cease to love thee ? No ! Zoc nioii, sas agapo. Lord Byron. ' jNIv lite, I love you. 184 CXXVI. Come, O Come ! ^ ^ ^ /^^OMP:, O come, my life's delight, ^-^ Let me not in lan<4iior pine ! Love loves no delay ; thy sight. The more enjoyed, the more divine : O come, and take from me The pain of being deprived of thee ! Thou all sweetness dost enclose, Like a little world of bliss. Beauty guards thy looks : the rose In them pure and eternal is. Come, then, and make thy flight As swift to me, as heavenly Hght. Thomas Campion. CXXVI I. Love Inveterate^ ^ ,^ jt TT 7ERE I as base as is the lowly plain, ' ^ And you, my love, as high as heaven above. Yet should the thoughts of me, your humble swain, Ascend to heaven in honour of my love. Were I as high as heaven above the plain, And you, my love, as humble and as low As are the deepest bottoms of the main, Wheresoe'cr you were, with you my love should Were you the earth, dear love, and I the skies. My love should shine on you like to the sun, 185 And look upon you with ten thousand eyes, Till heaven waxed blind, and till the world were done. Wheresoe'er I am, below, or else above you, Wheresoe'er you are, my heart shall truly love 3^ou. J. Sylvester. CXXVIII. O Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast J^ J^ J^ J^ J^ ^ J^ r^ WERT thou in the cauld blast ^^ On yonder lea, on yonder lea, My plaidie to the angry airt, I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : Or did misfortune's bitter storms Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, Thy bield should be my bosom. To share it a', to share it a'. Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desert were a paradise. If thou wert there, if thou wert there ; Or were I monarch o' the globe, Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign. The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. Robert Burns. 1 86 CXXIX. A Man's Requirements J- ^ T OVK me, Sweet, with all thou art, -■ — ' Feeling, thinking, seeing : Love me in the lightest part. Love me in full being. Love me with thine open youth In its frank surrender ; With the vowing of thy mouth. With its silence tender. Love me with thine azure eyes, Made for earnest granting ; Taking colour from the skies, — Can Heaven's truth be wanting? Love me with their lids, that fall Snow-like at first meeting ; Love me with thine heart, that all Neighbours then sec beating. Love me with thine hand stretched out Freely, open-minded : Love me with thy loitering foot, — Hearing one behind it. Love me with thy voice that turns Sudden faint above me ; Love me with thy blush that burns When I murmur. Love mc ! 187 Love me with thy thinking soul, Break it to love sighing ; Love me with thy thoughts that roll On through living — dying. Love me in thy gorgeous airs, When the world has crown'd thee,; Love me kneeling at thy prayers With the angels round thee. Love me pure, as musers do, Up the woodlands shady ; Love me gaily, fast and true, As a winsome lady. Through all hopes that keep us brave, Further off or nigher, Love me for the house and grave, And for something higher. Thus, if thou wilt love me. Dear, Woman's love no fable, / will love thee — half a year. As a man is able. E. B. Brow)iing. CXXX. How Many Times ^ j!> J> T TOW many times do I love thee, dear? Tell me how many thoughts there be In the atmosphere Of a new-fall'n year, Whose white and sable hours appear The latest flake of Eternity : — So many times do I love thee, dear. How many times do I love again ? Tell me how many beads there are In a silver chain Of evening rain Unravelled from the tumbling main And threading the eye of a yellow star : — So many times do I love again. Thomas Lovell Beddocs. CXXX I. Life in a Love J* J> Jti J> T7 SCAPE me ? -'— ^ Never — Beloved ! While I am I, and you are you, So long as the world contains us both. Me the loving and you the loth, While the one eludes, must the other pursue. My life is a fault at last, I fear : It seems too much like a fate, indeed ! Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed. 189 Hill \vli;il if I fiiil of my purpose here ? II is l)u( (() ki-ep llic nerves ;i( sliuin, To (liy one's eyes and laii^li al a fall, And, baflled, ^et up (o lH 'riiat's newly sprung in jime : O, my hive's like the melodie, That's sweetly played in tune. As fair art thou, my boimie lass, So dcvp in hive am I : And 1 will hive thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry. Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. And the rocks melt wi' the sun : I will luve thee still, my dear. While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only luve ! And fare thee weel a-whiie ! And I will come again, my luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile. Robert Hums. 191 a J^^ XIII. Sono- I)ircls aiul Late Roses Little Lyrics oj Ilappy Jawc, 193 XIII ■\T 7E had now, therefore, tlic satisfaction of * ^ seeing them fly into each other's arms in a transport. " After all my misfortunes," cried my son George, " to be thus rewarded ! vSure this is more than I could ever have presumed to hope for. To he possessed of all that's good, and after such an interval of pain ! My warmest wishes could never rise so high ! " Oliver Goldsmith " The Vicar of Wakcfwldr ^^;ii CXXXIV. A Birthday J' J. J, J, A /TY heart is like a singing bird -*■ '^ J- Whose nest is in a watered shoot ; My heart is like an appletree Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit ; My heart is Hke a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea ; My heart is gladder than all these Because my love is come to me. Raise me a dais of silk and down ; Hang it with vair and purple dyes ; Carve it in doves, and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes ; Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves, and silver fleur-de-lys ; Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to me. Chrisiina G. Rossetti. The Garden 0} Love. '97 CXXXV. The Time of Roses J. , T T was not in the Winter ^ Our loving lot was cast ; It was the Time of Roses, — We pluck' d them as we pass'd ! *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 ! What else could peer thy glowing cheeky That tears began to stud? And when I ask'd the like of Love, You snatch' d a damask bud, And oped it to the dainty core. Still glowing to the last, — It was the Time of Roses, — We pluck'd them as we pass'd ! Thomas Hood. CXXXVI. The Tryst J' ^ .j* J^ T LEANED out 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— 198 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 glow, 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 glow-worms, 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." 199 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. Jean Ingelow. CXXXVII. Love's Bird »^ .^ ^ ^ AT THEN thrushes rest the weary head, ^ * And linnets lie in gold and green. When blackbirds on a downy bed Are silvered with a moony sheen. What voice awakes the emerald house ? What love incarnate flies on wings ? What passion shakes the trembling boughs ? It is the Bird of Love that sings. It is the Bird of Love that sings, Stabbing our silence like a sword, And Love himself that flies on wings, God and enchanter and no bird. Our moon of honey, our marriage moon, Rides in the heaven for our delight ; The silver world grows golden soon. Honey and gold spilled in the night. 200 The Bird of Love, the Bird of pain, He sings our marriage moon away ; ^ Fining the moon with golden rain, Betwixt the darkness and the day. Closer and closer, hold me close, For is it Love or Death he sings ? And is it Love or Death that goes Through the sweet night with rustling wings ? Katharine Tynan. CXXXVIII. Finland Love Song ^ J^ T SAW the moon rise clear ^ O'er hills and vales of snow. Nor told my fleet reindeer The track I wish'd to go. Yet quick he bounded forth ; For well my reindeer knew I've but one path on earth — The path which leads to you. The gloom that winter cast How soon the heart forgets, When Summer brings at last. Her sun that never sets ! So dawn'd my love for you ; So, fix'd through joy and pain, Than summer sun more true, 'Twill never set again. Thomas Moore. 201 CXXXIX. Were I a Cloudlet J> ^ ^1 jTERE I a cloudlet, flying, flying, * * And you a floweret, dying, dying, My heart's blood on your leaves I'd pour, And vanish away for evermore. Were you a cloudlet, flying, flying. And I a floweret, dying, dying. My last sweet breath to you I'd pour, And wither away for evermore. For love will give and ask no guerdon, And love will bear poor sorrow's burden, And higher than all clouds may soar. Love's glory abides for evermore. May Byron. CXL. Only We J^ J^ J^ J^ T^REAM no more that grief and pain ^-^ Could such hearts as ours enchain. Safe from loss and safe from gain. Free, as Love makes free. When false friends pass coldly by, Sigh, in earnest pity, sigh, Turning thine unclouded eye Up from them to me. 202 Hear not danger's trampling feet, Feel not sorrow's wintry sleet, Trust that life is just and meet. With mine arm round thee. Lip on lip, and eye to eye, Love to love, we hve, we die ; No more Thou, and no more I, • We, and only We! ^^^^/^^^^^^j,^,^ w CXLI. To Althea, from Prison J' - 'HKN love, with unconfmed wings. Hovers within my gates, , And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates ; When I lie tangled in her hair, And fetter'd to her eye— ' Tiie birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty. Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage ; Minds innocent and quiet take . That for an hermitage. If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free,— Angels alone that soar above Enjoy such liberty. • ' Richa-rd Lovelace. 203 CXLII. The Monopolist J> ^ J' Jt> TF I were yonder wave, my dear, -■- And thou the isle it clasps around, I would not let a foot come near My land of bliss, my fairy ground ! If I were yonder conch of gold. And thou the pearl within it placed, I would not let an eye behold The sacred gem my arms embraced ! If I were yonder orange-tree, And thou the blossom blooming there I would not yield a breath of thee, To scent the most imploring air ! Thomas Moore.^ CXLII I. This Heart o' Mine ^ ^ ALL my heart lies open to the dew ; '^ ^ Who but you, my dearest, who but you ? , Fall, O Dew, more sweet than honey and wine, And fill with living joy this heart o' mine ! All my heart lies open to the wind. Who but you, that are now cold, now kind ? Come, O Wind, with fragrant touch divine. And fill with living breath this heart o' mine ! All my heart lies open to the sun : .Who but you, my dear, my only one ? 204 Shine, O Sun, I pray thee, ever shine, And fill with living light this heart o' mine ! Maurice Clare. CXLIV. The Summit J^ ^ ^ J^ /^UR breath shall intermix, our bosoms bound, And our veins beat together ; and our lips. With other eloquence than words, eclipse The soul that burns between them ; and the wells Which boil under our being's inmost cells. The fountains of our deepest life, shall be Confused in passion's golden purity. As mountain-springs under the morning sun. We shall become the same, we shall be one Spirit within two frames, oh, wherefore two? One passion in twin hearts, which grows and grew Till, like two meteors of expanding flame, Those spheres instinct with it become the same. Touch, mingle, are transfigured ; ever still Burning, yet ever inconsumable ; In one another's substance finding food. Light flames too pure and light and unimbued To nourish their bright lives with baser prey, Which point to heaven and cannot pass away: One hope within two wills, one will beneath Two overshadowing minds, one life, one death. One heaven, one hell, one immortality. And one annihilation ! P. B. Shelley. 205 CXLV. She is Mine j. ^ f~\ WHAT unhoped for sweet supply ! ^-^ O what joys exceeding ! What an affecting charm feel I, From delight proceeding ! That which I long despaired to be, To her I am, and she to me. She that alone in cloudy grief Long to me appeared : She now alone with bright relief All those clouds hath cleared. Both are immortal and divine ! Since I am hers, and she is mine. TJiomas CcDiipion. CXLVI. I'd Mourn the Hopes ^ T'D mourn the hopes that leave me, •^ If thy smiles had left me too ; I'd weep when friends deceive me, If thou wert, like them, untrue. But while I've thee before me. With heart so warm and eyes so bright, No clouds can linger o'er me. That smile turns them all to light. O, 'tis not in fate to harm me. While fate leaves thy love to me ; 206 'Tis not in joy to charm me, Unless joy he shared with thee. One minute's dream about thee, Were worth a long, an endless year, Of waking bliss without thee. My own love, my only dear ! Thomas Moore. CXLVII. The Stewardship J^ Jt> J» THE silence of your ultimate thought is mine. Beyond the depth that any word can reach — The sacred stillness of the inmost shrine, That never yet was marred by mortal speech. And mine, the fires that on the altar burn. The altar of your spirit; where the dense Sweet odours deepen. Have you yet to learn Whose fingers flung that nard and frankincense ? And mine, the word that never yet was said, The mystic master-word, the key and clue To all you wisli or hope for, living or dead — The very meaning of the soul of you. These are all mine — and mine I swear they stand — Secret, unsoiled, in veils of love I fold them. Till God Himself shall claim them at my hand. And I shall yield them Him for Whom I hold them. M. C. Gillini^lon. 207 XIV. Rosemary for Remembrance Love in Adscftce 209 XIV Imogen. T DID not take my leave of him, but bad ■^ Most pretty things to say . . . How I would think of him, at certain hours, Such thoughts, and such : or I could . . . have charged him, At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight, To encounter me with orisons, for then I am in heaven for him. Williain Shakespeare, " Cymbelvie." i^ hf^ CXLVIir. Alter Ego «^ eiT* t^ "\ 1 /"E must not part, as others do, * * With sighs and tears as we were two ; Though with these outward forms we part, We keep each other in our heart. What search hath found a being, where I am not, if that thou be there ? True love hath wings, and can as soon Survey the world, as sun and moon ; And everywhere our triumphs keep O'er absence, which makes others weep ; By which alone a power is given To live on earth, as they in heaven. Author Unknown {Early Seventeenth Century). CXLIX. The Lonely Road ^ ^ e^ T T ERE, ever since you went abroad, -'--'■ If there be change, no change I see ; I only walk our wonted road, The road is only walkt by me. Yes ; I forgot ; a change there is ; Was it of that you bade me tell ? I catch at times, at times I miss The sight, the tone, I know so well. Only two months since you stood here ! Two shortest months ! then tell me why Voices are harsher than they were. And tears are longer ere they dry. W. S. Landor. CL. In Three Days J> J> J> ^ Jk SO, I shall see her in three days And just one night, but nights are short. Then two long hours, and that is morn. See how I come, unchanged, unworn ! Feel, where my life broke off from thine, How fresh the splinters keep and fine, — Only a touch and we combine ! Too long, this time of year, the days ! But nights, at least the nights are short. As night shows where her one moon is, 212 A hand's-breadth of pure light and bliss, So life's night gives my lady birth And my eyes hold her ! What is worth The rest of heaven, the rest of earth ? O loaded curls, release your store Of warmth and scent, as once before The tingling hair did, lights and darks Outbreaking into fairy sparks, When under curl and curl I pried After the warmth and scent inside. Thro' lights and darks how manifold — The dark inspired, the light controlled ! As early Art embrowns the gold. What great fear, should one say, "Three days " That change the world might change as well " Your fortune ; and if joy dela3^s, " Be happy that no worse befell ! " What small fear, if another says, " Three days and one short night beside " May throw no shadow on your ways ; " But years must teem with change untried, " With chance not easily defied, "With an end somewhere undescried." No fear ! — or if a fear be born This minute, it dies out in scorn. Fear ? I shall see her in three days And one night, now the nights are short, Then just two hours, and that is morn. Robert Browning. 213 CLI. You and the Spring ^ J- ^ TTROM you have I been absent in the spring, ■^ When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing, That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him. Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue Could make me any summer's story tell. Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew ; Nor did I wonder at the lily's white. Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose ; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away. As with your shadow I with these did play. William Shakespeare, CLI I. Wandering Willie J> J^ J^ ^ T T ERE awa, there awa, wandering Willie, -■- ^ Here awa, there awa, hand awa hame ; Come to my bosom, my ae only dearie, And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. Loud tho' the Winter blew can Id at our parting, 'Twas na the blast brought the tear in my e'e : Welcome now Simmer, and welcome my Willie, The Simmer to Nature, my Willie to me ! ,214 Rest, ye wild storms in the cave o' your slumbers — How your wild howling a lover alarms ! Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows, And waft my .dear laddie ance mair to my arms. But O, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, Flow still between us, thou wide-roaring main ! May I never see it, may I never trow it. But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain ! Robert Burns. CLIII. Memory Ji> J^ Jt- J' ^ O O shuts the marigold her leaves "^ At the departure of the sun ; So from the honeysuckle sheaves The bee goes when the day is done ; So sits the turtle when she is but one. And so all woe, as I since she is gone. To some few birds kind Nature hath Made all the summer as one day : Which once enjoyed, cold winter's wrath As night they sleeping pass away. Those happy creatures are, they know not yet The pain to be deprived, or to forget. I oft have heard men say there be Some that with confidence profess The helpful Art of Memory : 215 But could they teach forgetfuhiess, I'd learn, and try what further art could do To make me love her, and forget her too. Sad melancholy that persuades Men from themselves, to think they be Headless, or other body's shades. Hath long and bootless dwelt with me. For could I think she some idea were, I still might love, forget, and have her here. William Browne. CLIV. The Anxious Lover J^ Ji> J> T)E your words made, good Sir, of Indian ware, -■-^ That you allow me them by so small rate Or do you curted Spartans imitate ? Or do you mean my tender cars to spare. That to my questions you so total are ? When I demand of Phcenix-Stella's state, You say, forsooth, you left her well of late : God, think you that satisfies my care ? 1 would know whether she did sit or walk ; How clothed ; how waited on ; sighed she, or smiled ; Whereof, — with whom, — liow often did she talk ; With what pastimes Time's journey she beguiled ; If her lips deigned to sweeten my poor name : Say all ; and all well said, still say the same. Sir Philip Sidney. 216 CLV. Love in Absence J> J^ J> J> /'^OME while the sweet Spring stays, O come! ^-^ Come ere the nightingale be dumb ; While on her eggs his mate doth sit, And all the chestnut lamps are Ht. Come ere the baby leaves grow old. Crumpled and soft, these keep the fold Of tight enswathed buds, O come ! While yet the swallow is new to home. Come while our orchard like a bride, Blushes through white, and evening-tide Hangs all the pear-tree with such white Spun from the moon-rays for delight. Come while the yellow moon still shows, A moon of honey, a golden rose. And while all night in rapt content Our garden of Eden spills its scent. Come, ere the cuckoo's song is over. Come in the day of every lover. When every lover still wings for home ; Come, ere the nightingale be dumb. Katharine Tynan, J he Garden of Love. 217 CLVI. Absence J' ^ J' ^ J- 'IT riTH leaden foot Time creeps along * * While Delia is away ; With her, nor plaintive was the song, Nor tedious was the day. Ah ! envious power ! reverse my doom, Nor double thy career ; Strain every nerve, stretch every plume. And rest them when she's here. Richard J a go. CLVI I. Separation J^ Jt- ^ J' J> THERE is a mountain and a wood between us, Where the lone shepherd and late bird have seen us Morning and noon and eventide repass. Between us now the mountain and the wood Seem standing darker than last year they stood, And say we must not cross, alas ! alas ! W. S. Landor. CLVIII. If J. ^ ^ ^ J^ ^ T F I had but two little wings, -^ And were a little feathery bird. To you I'd fly, my dear ! But thoughts like these are idle things. And I stay here. 218 But in my sleep to you I fly ; I'm always with you in my sleep, The world is all one's own. But then one wakes, and where am I ? All, all alone. Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids ; So I love to wake ere break of day : For though my sleep be gone, Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids, And still dreams on. S. T. Coleridge. CLIX. Remembrance J> J> ^ ^ "Xl /'HEN to the sessions of sweet silent thought ^ ^ I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought. And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste ; Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow. For precious friends hid in death's dateless night. And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe, And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight : Then can I grieve at grievances forgone. And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan. Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end. William Shakespeare. 219 XV. Rue and Thyme and other Bitter Herbs Love Reproachful and Cynical 221 XV nPHE sun of love has set. We sit in the dark — ^ I mean you and Corydon, good Madam, or I and AmaryUis — uncomfortably, with nothing more to say to each other. ... Ah ! daggers, ropes, and poisons, has it come to this ? W. M. Thackeray, " Adventures of Phiiip." CLX. The Pilgrimage Jt> Jt A S you came from the holy land "^^ Of Walsinghame, Met you not with my true love By the way as you came ? How shall I know your true love, That have met many one, As I went to the holy land, That have come, that have gone ? She is neither white nor brown. But as the heavens fair ; There is none hath a form so divine In the earth or the air. Such a one did I meet, good sir. Such an angelic face. Who like a queen, like a nymph, did appear By her gait, by her grace. 223 She hath left me here all alone, All alone, as unknown, Who sometimes did me leave with herself And me loved as her own. What's the cause that she leaves you alone. And a new way doth take, Who loved you once as her own, And her joy did you make ? I have loved her all my youth. But now old, as you see : Love likes not the falling fruit From the withered tree. Know that Love is a careless child. And forgets promise past. He is blind, he is deaf when he list, And in faith never fast. His desire is a dureless content, And a trustless joy ; He is won with a world of despair, And is lost with a toy. But true love is a durable fire. In the mind ever burning. Never sick, never old, never dead, From itself never turning. Sir Walter Raleigh. 2£4 CLXI. The Triumph J- J' J> J- ^T THP^N thou must home to shades of under- * * ground, And there arrived, a new admired guest, The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round, White lope, blithe Helen, and the rest. To hear the stories of thy finished love From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move ; Then wilt thou speak of banqueting dehghts, Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make, Of tourneys and great challenges of knights, And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake : When thou hast told these honours done to thee, Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me. Thomas Campion. CLXI I. The Mournful Moon jt ^ ,^ TT TITH how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st ^ ^ the skies ! How silently, and with how wan a face ! What, may it be that even in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries ? Sure, if that long-with-Iove-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case, I read it in thy looks ; thy languisht grace, 225 To nic, that feci the hke, thy state descries. Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deeni'd there but want of wit ? Are beauties there as proud as here they be ? Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess ? Do they call virtue there, ungratefulness ? Sir Philip Sidney. CLXIII. Change upon Change J^ ^ T^IVE months ago, the stream did How, -*- The lilies bloomed along the edge ; And we were Hngering to and fro. Where none will track thee in this snow. Along the stream, beside the hedge. Ah, sweet, be free to love and go ! For if I do not hear thy foot, The frozen river is as mute, — The flowers have died down to the root ; And why, since these be changed since May, Shouldst ilioii change less than tliey / And slow, slow, as the winter snow, The tears have drifted to mine eyes : And my poor cheeks, five months ago Set blushing at thy praises so. Put paleness on for a disguise. Ah, sweet, be free to praise and go t 226 For if my face is turned to pale. It was thine oath that first did fail, — It was thy love proved false and frail ! And why, since these be changed enow, Should / change less than thou ? E. B. Broivning. CLXIV. Kind are her Answers ^ ^ KIND are her answers, But her performance keeps no day ; Breaks time, as dancers From their own music when they stray. All her free favours and smooth words Wing my hopes in vain. O did ever voice so sweet but only feign ? Can true love yield such delay. Converting joy to pain ? Lost is our freedom, When we submit to women so : Why do we need them. When in their best they work our woe ? There is no wisdom Can alter ends, by Fate prefixed. O why is the good of man with evil mixed ? Never were days yet called two But one night went betwixt. Thomas Campion. 127 CLXV. Perjury Excused ^ J' J> ^^ T~\ID not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye, ^^ 'Gainst whom the world cannot hold argu- ment, Persuade my heart to this false perjury ? Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment. A woman I forswore ; but I will prove. Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee : My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love ; Thy grace being gained cures all disgrace in me. Vows are but breath, and breath a vapour is : Then thou, fair sun, which on my earth dost shine, Exhalest this vapour- vow ; in thee it is : If broken then, it is no fault of mine : If by me broke, what fool is not so wise To lose an oath to win a paradise ? William Shakespeare. CLXVI. The Eternal Feminine ^ ^ ^O fix her — 'twere a task as vain To count the April drops of rain, To sow in Afric's barren soil. Or tempests hold within a toil. T' I know it, friend, she's light as air, False as the fowler's artful snare ; Inconstant as the passing wind, As winter's dreary frost unkind. 228 She's such a miser too in love, Its joys she'll neither share nor prove ; Though hundreds of gallants await From her victorious eyes their fate. Blushing at such inglorious reign, I sometimes strive to break her chain ; My reason summon to my aid, Rosolve no more to be betrayed. Ah ! friend, 'tis but a short-lived trance. Dispell' d by one enchanting glance ; She need but look, and I confess Those looks completely curse or bless. So soft, so elegant, so fair, Sure something more than human's there ; I must submit, for strife is vain, 'Twas destiny that forged the chain. Tobias Smollett. CLXVII. A Dirge J> J^ J' ^ J- T3 ING out your bells, let mourning shews be -■-^ spread ; For Love is dead : All Love is dead, infected With plague of deep disdain : Worth, as nought worth, rejected. And Faith fair scorn doth gain. 229 From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female frenzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us ! Weep, neighbours, weep ; do you not hear it \ said That Love is dead ? His death-bed, peacock's folly ; His winding-sheet is shame ; His will, false-seeming wholly ; His sole executor, blame. From so ungrateful fancy. From such a female frenzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us ! Let dirge be sung, and trentals rightly]]read, For Love is dead ; Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth His mistress' marble heart ; Which epitaph containeth, " Her eyes were once his dart." From so ungrateful fanc}^. From such a female frenzy. From them that use men thus. Good Lord, deliver us ! Alas ! I lie : rage hath this error bred ; Love is not dead ; Love is not dead, but sleepeth 230 In her unmatched mind, Where she his counsel keepeth, Till due deserts she iind. Therefore from so vile fancy, To call such wit a frenzy, Who Love can temper thus. Good Lord, deliver us ! Sir Philip Sidney. CLXVIII. Where did you Borrow that Last Sigh J> ,^ J' ^ ^ ^^ \ 1 rHERE did -you borrow that last sigh, ^ * And that relenting groan ? For those that sigh, and not for love, Usurp what's not their own. Love's arrows sooner armour pierce Than your soft snowy skin ; Your eyes can only teach us love. But cannot take it in. Sir William Berkeley. CLXIX. Love Disposed of ^ ^ ^ T T ERE goes Love ! Now cut him clear, ^ ^ A weight about his neck : If he linger longer here. Our ship will be a wreck. Overboard ! Overboard ! Down let him go ! 23 T Ill the deep he may sleep, Where the corals grow. He said he'd woo the gentle breeze, A bright tear in her eye : But she was false and hard to please, Or he has told a lie. Overboard ! Overboard ! Down in the sea He may find a truer mind Where the mermaids be. He sang us many a merry song While the breeze was kind : But he has been lamenting long The falseness of the wind. Overboard ! overboard ! Under the wave Let him sing where smooth shells ring In the ocean's cave ! He may struggle ; he may weep ; We'll be stern and cold ; His grief will find, within the deep, More tears than can be told. He has gone overboard ! We will float on ; We shall find a truer wind Now that he is gone. T. L. Beddoes. 232 CLXX. To Cloe J- J' J. J> J. Imitated from Martial T COULD resign that eye of blue, ■*■ Howe'er it burn, howe'er it thrill me : And though your lip be rich with dew, To lose it, Cloe, scarce would kill me. That snowy neck I ne'er should miss, However warm I've twined about it ; And though your bosom beat with bliss, I think my soul could live without it. In short, I've learned so v^^ell to fast, That, sooth, my love, I know not whether I might not bring myself at last, To — do without you altogether ! Thomas Moore. CLXXI. I v^as in Love J> J> J> J^ /^NCE did my thoughts both ebb and flow, ^-^ As passion did them move. Once did I hope, straight fear again, — And then I was in love. Once did I waking spend the night, And tell how many minutes move. Once did I wishing waste the day, — And then I was in love. 233 Once, by my carving true-love' s-knot, The weeping trees did prove That wounds and tears were both our lot, — And then I was in love. Once did I breathe another's breath. And in my mistress move, Once was I not mine own at all, — And then I was in love. Once wore I bracelets made of hair, And collars did approve. Once wore my clothes made out of wax, — And then I was in love. Once did I sonnet to my saint, My soul in numbers move, Once did I tell a thousand lies, — And then I was in love. Once in my ear did dangling hang A Httle turtle-dove. Once, in a word, I was a fool, — And then I was in love. Robert Jones. 234 CLXXII. What Care I? Ji Jk Jt> OHALL I, wasting in despair, ^^ Die because a woman's fair ? Or my cheeks make pale with care, 'Cause another's rosy are ? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowery meads in May, If she be not so to me. What care I how fair she be ? Shall my foolish heart be pined 'Cause I see a woman kind ; Or a well-disposed nature Joined with a lovely feature ? Be she meeker, kinder, than Turtle-dove or pelican, If she be not so to me. What care I how kind she be ? Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love ? Or her merit's value known. Make me quite forget mine own ? Be she with that goodness blest Which may gain her name of Best ; If she seem not such to me. What care I how good she be ? 235 'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die ? Tliose that bear a noble mind, Where they want, of riches find, Think what with them they would do Who without them dare to woo : And unless that mind I see, What care I tho' great she be ? Great or good, or kind or fair, will ne'er the more despair ; If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve ; If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go ; For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be ? George WifJiei. CLXXIII. When I Loved You ^ . TT fHEN I loved you, I can't but allow * * I had many an exquisite minute ; But the scorn that I feel for you now Hath even more luxury in it ! Thus, whether we're on or we've off, Some witchery seems to await you ; To love you is pleasant enough, But oh ! 'tis delicious to hate you ! Thomas Moore. 236 CLXXIV. The Prediction J' J- J- V^ILLY boy, 'tis full moon yet, thy night as day ^^ shines clearly ; Had thy youth but wit to fear, thou couldst not love so dearly. Shortly wilt thou mourn, when all thy pleasures are bereaved ; Little knows he how to love that never was deceived. This is thy first maiden flame, that triumphs yet unstained ; All is artless now you speak, not one word, yet, is feigned ; All is heaven tliat you behold, and all your thoughts are blessed ; But no spring can want his fall ; each Troilus hath his Cressid ! Thy well-ordered locks ere long shall rudely hang neglected ; And thy lively pleasant cheer read grief on earth dejected. Much then wilt thou blame thy Saint, that made thy heart so holy. And with sighs confess, in love, that too much faith is folly. 237 Yet be Just and constant still ! Love may beget a wonder ; Not unlike a summer's frost, or winter's fatal thunder. He that holds his sweetheart true, unto his day of dying, Lives, of all that ever breathed, most worthy the envying. Tlioiiias Campion. 238 XVI. Popples Dt'eams 239 XVI OURELY this is it we call happiness, and this *^ do I enjoy; with him I am happy in a dream, and as content to enjoy a happiness in a fancy, as others in a more apparent truth and reality. There is surely a nearer apprehension of anything that delights us, in our dreams than in our waked senses. Without this I were unhappy; for my awaked judg- ment discontents me, ever whispering unto me that I am from my friend ; but my friendly dreams in the night requite me, and make me think I am within his arms. I thank God for my happy dreams. Sir TJiomas Broivnc, " Rcligio Medici." ij' ^ jt , TT often comes into my head, ^ That we may dream when we are dead, But I am far from sure we do, O that it were so ! then my rest Would be indeed among the blest ; I should for ever dream of you. Walter Savage Landor. CLXXXI. Reincarnation ^ Jf J' J> T N lonely ways of dim forgotten lands, ^ Ah, do you not recall how once we went ? Did we not gaze, and hold each other's hands. In utter ecstasy of sheer content ? As for what we said — we said but nothing : The naked truth was ours, that needs no clothing. 247 strange flowers were near us — nameless to me now — And strange old cities — were they quick or dead ? — We met — we two — the when or why or how Matters no more. That golden hour is fled, But ineffaceable its glory lingers, As melodies survive their primal singers. And you — the moment eyes encountered e3^es, Yours were alight with memories and with dreams. You are mine, all mine : you know it. O, be wise. Ere over all our Past our Present streams, And snaps our secret chains of joy and wonder, And whelms, and whirls us, impotent, asunder. Listen ... In visions I will come to-night, And seek with you those old mysterious lands, And we shall see in the grey uncertain light, — Do you remember ? — where the temple stands. The desolate temple of some faith unknown, The sunset fading on its solemn stone. And we will never leave those lands again, But all that should have been for us, shall be : Reality foregone, dreams shall remain. And sweet oblivion cover you and me. Dare all, renounce all — come ! ... I do not doubt you — I who have waited centuries without you. Maurice Clare. 248 CLXXXII. In a Dream ^ ^ ^ '^ IN a dream, in the dusk, in the hush of night, When in sombre skies were no stars in sight, When the odorous garden shades were fill'd With subtle scents from the rose distill'd, The rose that Hfted its orbs of white Round my lattice to left and right,— A wonder came from the cloudy height. The fairest vision that hope might build In a dream. Too short was its stay, too swift its flight. But I cUng to it still in the truth's despite, With its splendid lie is my soul yet thrill'd. For it might have been so, if the fates had will'd, — You clasp'd me, you kiss'd me, O heart's delight !— In a dream. U, C. Gillingion. CLXXXIII. Echo ^ J' J' ^ '^ COME to me in the silence of the night ; Come in the speaking silence of a dream ; Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright As sunlight on a stream ; Come back in tears ; O memory, hope, love of finished years. 249 O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter-sweet, Whose wakening should have been in Paradise, Where souls brimful of love abide and meet ; Where thirsting longing eyes Watch the slow door That, opening, letting in, lets out no more. Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live My very life again though cold in death : Come back to me in dreams, that I may give Pulse for pulse, breath for breath : Speak low, lean low. As long ago, my love, how long ago ? Christina Rossetti. 2^0 XVII. Rain and Wind The Doubts and Despairs of Love 251 XVII T T puzzled mc to find him in so much pain as he ^ appeared to be, when he had it in his power so easily to remove the cause by declaring an honour- able passion. But whatever uneasiness he seemed to endure, it could easily be perceived that Olivia's anguish was still greater. . . . Her vivacity quite forsook her : and every opportunity of solitude was sought, and spent in tears. Oliver Goldsmiih, " The Vicar of Wakefield." CLXXXIV. The Lover Complai'neth of the Unkindness of His Love ^ J- MY lute, awake ! perform the last Labour that thou and I shall waste ; And end that I have now begun : And when this song is sung and past, My lute ! be still, for I have done. As to be heard where ear is none ; As lead to grave in marble stone, My song may pierce her heart as soon ; Should we then sing, or sigh, or moan ? No, no, my lute ! for I have done. The rock doth not so cruelly, Repulse the waves continually, As she my suit and affection : So that I am past remedy ; Whereby my lute and I have done, 253 Proud of the spoil that thou hast got Of simple hearts through Love's shot, By whom, unkind, thou hast them won ; Think not he hath his bow forgot, Although my lute and I have done. Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain. That makest but game of earnest pain ; Trovk' not alone under the sun Unquit to cause thy lovers plain. Although my lute and I have done. May chance thee lie withered and old In winter nights, that are so cold. Plaining in vain unto the moon ; Thy wishes then dare not to be told : Care then who list, for I have done. And then may chance thee to repent The time that thou hast lost and spent, To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon: Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, And wish and want, as I have done. Now cease, my lute ! this is the last Labour that thou and I shall waste ; And ended is that we begun : Now is thy song both sung and past ; My lute, be still, for I have done. Sir Thomas Wyalf. 254 CLXXXV. When the Lamp is Shattered ■\1 THEN the lamp is shattered, ^ * The light in the dust lies dead — When the cloud is scattered, The rainbow's glory is shed. When the lute is broken. Sweet tones are remembered not ; When the lips have spoken. Loved accents are soon forgot. As music and splendour Survive not the lamp and the lute, The heart's echoes render No song when the spirit is mute : — No song but sad dirges, Like the wind through a ruined cell, Or the mournful surges That ring the dead seamen's knell. When hearts have once mingled, Love first leaves the well-built nest ; The weak one is singled To endure what it once possest. O Love ! who bewailest The frailty of all things here, Why choose you the frailest For your cradle, your home, and your bier ? 255 Its passions will rock thee As the storms rock the ravens on high ; Bright reason will mock thee, Like the sun from a wintry sky. From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home Leave thee naked to laughter. When leaves fall and cold winds come. P. B. Shelley. CLXXXVI. Lewti ; or, The Circassian Love-Chaunt ,^ «^ .^ «^ «^ A T midnight by the stream I roved, ^^^ To forget the form I loved. Image of Lewti ! from my mind Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. The Moon was high, the moonlight gleam And the shadow of a star Heaved upon Tamaha's stream ; But the rock shone brighter far, The rock half-sheltered from my view By pendant boughs of tressy yew — So shines my Lewti's forehead fair, Gleaming through her sable hair. Image of Lewti ! from my mind Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 256 I saw a cloud of palest hue, Onward to the moon it passed ; Still brighter and more bright it grew, With floating colours not a few, Till it reached the moon at last: Then the cloud was wholly bright, With a rich and amber light ! And so with many a hope I seek. And with such joy I find my Lewti ; And even so my pale wan cheek Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty ! Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind, If Lewti never will be kind. The little cloud — it floats away. Away it goes ; away so soon ? Alas ! it has no power to stay : Its hues are dim, its hues are grey- Away it passes from the moon ! How mournfully it seems to fly. Ever fading more and more, To joyless regions of the sky — And now 'tis whiter than before 1 As white as my poor cheek will be, When, Lewti ! on my couch I lie, A dying man for love of thee. Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind- And yet, thou didst not look unkind. 257 I saw a vapour in the sky, Thin, and white, and very high ; I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud : Perhaps the breezes that can fly Now below and now above, Have snatched aloft the lawny shroud Of Lady fair — that died for love. For maids, as well as youths, have perished From fruitless love too fondly cherished. Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind — For Lewti never will be kind. Hush ! my heedless feet from under Slip the crumbling banks for ever : Like echoes to a distant thunder. They plunge into the gentle river. The river-swans have heard my tread, And startle from their reedy bed. O beauteous birds ! methinks ye measure Your movements to some heavenly tune ! beauteous birds ! 'tis such a pleasure To see you move beneath the moon, 1 would it were your true delight To sleep by day and wake all night. I know the place where Lewti lies, When silent night has closed her eyes : It is a breezy jasmine-bower, The nightingale sings o'er her head : Voice of the night ! had I the power 258 That leafy labyrinth to thread, And creep like thee with soundless tread I then might view her bosom white Heaving lovely to my sight, As these two swans together heave On the gentle swelling wave. Oh ! that she saw me in a dream, And dreamt that I had died for care ; All pale and wasted I would seem. Yet fair withal, as spirits are ! I'll die indeed, if I might see Her bosom heave, and heave for me ! Soothe, gentle image ! soothe my mind ! To-morrow Levvti may be kind. S. Taylor Coleridge. CLXXXVII. Edward Gray Jt j^ ^ C* WEET Emma Moreland of yonder town ^^ Met me walking in yonder way, "And have you lost your heart?" she said; "And are you married yet, Edward Gray?" Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me : Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : " Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more Can touch the heart of Edward Gray. 259 '' Ellen Adair she loved me well, Against her father's and mother's will : To-day I sat for an hour and wept, By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill, " Shy she was, and I thought her cold ; Thought her proud, and fled over the sea Filled I was with folly and spite, When Ellen Adair was dying for me. " Cruel, cruel the words I said ! Cruelly came they back to-da}^ : ' You're too slight and fickle,' I said, 'To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.' "There I put my face in the grass — Whisper'd, ' Listen to my despair : I repent me of all I did : Speak a little, Ellen Adair ! ' '' Then I took a pencil, and wrote On the mossy stone, as I lay, ^ Here lies the body of Ellen Adair ; And here the heart of Edward Gray ! ' *' Love may come, and love may go, And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree : But I will love no more, no more. Till Ellen Adair come back to me. ^'Bitterly wept I over the stone: Bitterly weeping I turn'd away: 260 There lies the body of Ellen Adair ! And there the heart of Edward Gray ! " Lord Tennyson. CLXXXVIII. Two in the Campagna ^ T WONDER do you feel to-day -*- As I have felt since, hand in hand, We sat down on the grass, to stray In spirit better through the land, This morn of Rome and May ? II. For me, I touched a thought, I know. Has tantalised me many times, (Like turns of thread the spiders throw Mocking across our path) for rhymes To catch at and let go. III. Help me to hold it ! first it left The yellowing fennel, run to seed There, branching from the brickwork's cleft, Some old tomb's ruin : yonder weed Took up the floating weft. IV. WHiere one small orange cup amassed Five beetles, — blind and green they grope 261 Among the honey-meal : and last, Everywhere on the grassy slope I traced it. Hold it fast ! V, The champaign with its endless fleece Of feathery grasses everywhere ! Silence and passion, joy and peace, An everlasting wash of air — Rome's ghost since her decease. VI, Such life there, through such lengths of hours, Such miracles performed in play, Such primal naked forms of flowers, Such letting nature have her way While heaven looks from its towers ! VII. How say you ? Let us, O my dove. Let us be unashamed of soul. As earth lies bare to heaven above ! How is it under our control To love or not to love ? VIII. I would that you were all to me. You that are just so much, no more. Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free ! 262 Where does the fault lie ? What the core O' the wound; since wound must be ? IX. I would I could adopt your will, See with your eyes, and set my heart Beating by yours, and drink my fill At your soul's springs, — your part my part In Hfe, for good and ill. X. No. I yearn upward, touch you close. Then stand away. I kiss your cheek. Catch your soul's warmth, — I pluck the rose And love it more than tongue can speak- Then the good minute goes. XI. Already how am I so far Out of that minute ? Must I go Still like the thistle-ball, no bar, Onward, whenever light winds blow. Fixed by no friendly star ? Just when I seemed about to learn ! Where is the thread now ? Off again ! The old trick ! Only I discern — Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn. Robert Browning. 263 CLXXXIX. Sometimes with One I Love OOMETIMES with one I love I fill myself with *^ rage for fear I effuse unreturn'd love, But now I think there is no unreturn'd love, the pay is certain one way or another ; (I loved a certain person ardently and my love was not returned. Yet out of that I have written these songs.) IValt Whitman. 26 \ XVIII. Ripened Fruits The Happy Husbcwd 265 XVIII '1 1 THAT we too often doubt, is the continuance ^ ^ of such a relation throughout the whole of human life. We think it right in the lover and mistress, not in the husband and wife. . . . Do you not feel that marriage — when it is marriage at all — is only the seal which marks the vowed transi- tion of temporary into untiring service, and of fitful into eternal love ? ^fohn Riiskin, " Sesame and Lilies." CXC. The xAnniversary ,^ ,^ ^ A LL kings and all their favourites — ^ ^ All glory of honours, beauties and wits, — (The Sun itself, which times them as they pass, Is elder by a year now than it was When thou and I first one another saw) : — All other things to their destruction draw ; Only our love hath no decay : This no to-morrow hath nor yesterday ; Running, it never runs from us away, But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day. John Donne. The Garden of Love. 267 CXCI. The Happy Husband e^ «^ e^ /^~\FT, oft, mcthinks, the while with Thee ^-^ I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear And dedicated name, I hear A promise and a mystery, A pledge of more than passing Hfe, Yea, in that very name of Wife ! A pulse of love that ne'er can sleep ! A feeling that upbraids the heart With happiness beyond desert. That gladness half requests to weep ! Nor bless I not the keener sense And unalarming turbulence. Of transient joys, that ask no sting From jealous fears, or coy denying ; But born beneath Love's brooding wing, And into tenderness soon dying, Wheel out their giddy moment, then Resign the soul to love again ; — A more precipitated vein Of notes that eddy in the flow Of smoothest song, they come, they go, And leave their sweeter understrain Its own sweet self — a love of Thee That seems, yet cannot greater be ! S. T. Coleridge. 268 CXCII. The Exchange ^ J- ^ ^ Y true love hath my heart, and I have his, iM M ^^ ^ By just exchange one to the other given. I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, There never was a better bargain driven : My true love hath my heart, and I have his. His heart in mc, keeps him and me in one, My heart in him, his thought and senses guide > He loves my heart, for once it was his own. I cherish his, because in me it bides ; My true love hath my heart, and I have his. Sir Philip Sidney. CXCII I. Love and Nature ^ J' WHEN long upon the scales of fate The issue of my passion hung. And on your eyes I laid in wait. And on your brow, and on your tongue. High-frowning Nature pleased me most, Strange pleasure was_ it to discern Sharp rocks and mountains peaked with frost, Through gorges thick with fir and fern. The flowerlcss walk, the vapoury shrouds, Could comfort me ; though best of all, I loved the daughter of the clouds,— The wild, capricious waterfall, — 260 But now that you and I repose On one affection's certain store, Serener charms take place of those, — Plenty and Peace, and little more. The hill that tends its mother-breast, To patient flocks and gentle kine, — The vale that spreads its royal vest Of golden corn and purple vine ; The streams that bubble out their mirth In humble nooks, or calmly flow, The crystal life-blood of our earth, Are now the dearest sights I know. CXCIV. You J> J. J. J> J- Ji> C^ OD be thanked, the meanest of his creatures ^ Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with, One to show a woman when he loves her. This I say of me, but think of you, Love ! This to you — yourself, my moon of poets ! Ah, but that's the world's side, there's the wonder, Thus they see you, praise you, think they know you ! There, in turn I stand with them and praise you — Out of my own self, I dare to phrase it. 270 But the best is when I ghde from out them, Cross a step or two of dubious twihght, Come out on the other i side, the novel Silent silver lights and darks undreamed of Where I hush and bless myself with silence. Oh, their Raphael of the dear Madonnas, Oh, their Dante of the dread Inferno, Wrote one song— and in my brain I sing it, Drew one angel— borne, see, on my bosom ! Robert Broivning. CXCV. A Song of Content .^ ^ ^ nPHE eagle nestles near the sun ; ^ The dove's low nest for me ! — The eagle s on the crag ; sweet one, The dove's in our green tree ! For hearts that beat like thine and mine Heaven blesses humble earth ; — The angels of our Heaven shall shine The angels of our Hearth ! John James Pi alt. CXCVI. To His Wife on the Sixteenth Anniversary of Her Wedding-day, with a Ring ^ J' J' J^ Ji "T~^HEE, Mary, with this ring I wed," -*- So sixteen years ago I said — 271 Behold another ring ! " for what ? " To wed thee o'er again — why not ? With the first ring I married youth, Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth ; Taste long admired, sense long rever'd. And all my Molly then appear'd. If she by merit since disclosed, Prove twice the woman I supposed, I plead that double merit now, To justify a double vow. Here then to-day, with faith as sure, With ardour as intense and pure. As when amidst the rites divine I took thy troth, and plighted mine. To thee, sweet girl, my second ring, A token and a pledge I bring; With this I wed, till death us part. Thy riper virtues to my heart ; Those virtues which, before untried, The wife has added to the bride — Those virtues whose progressive claim, Endearing wedlock's very name. My soul enjoys, my song approves, For conscience' sake as well as love's. For why ? They teach me hour by hour Honour's high thought, affection's power. Discretion's deed, sound judgment's sentence, And teach me all things — but repentance. Samuel Bishop. 272 CXCVII. Home J^ J^ J^ Jt, npWO birds within one nest ; ^ Two hearts within one breast ; Two spirits in one fair, Firm league of love and prayer, Together bound for aye, together blest. An ear that waits to catch A hand upon the latch ; A step that hastens its sweet rest to win, A world of care without, A world of strife shut out, A world of love shut in. Dora GrecnwelL 27S N -y / WIJXT^T^ 275 XIX '"T^HEREFORE, Sir Launcelot, I require thee, -^ and beseech thee heartily, for all the love that ever was between us, that thou never look upon mc more in the visage : and furthermore I command thee, on God's behalf, right straightly that thou forsake my company. . . . For as well as I have loved thee, Sir Launcelot, now my heart will not serve me to see thee." Sir Thomas Malory, " Morle d' Arthur." fwirndsir^ CXCVIII. Give All to Love J- ^ J- GIVE all to love ; Obey thy heart ; Friends, kindred, days, Estate, good-fame. Plans, credit, and the Muse, — Nothing refuse. 'Tis a brave master ; Let it have scope : Follow it utterly, Hope beyond hope : High and more high It dives into noon, With wing inspent. Untold intent ; But it is a god, Knows its own path And the outlets of the sky. 279 It was never for the mean ; It requireth courage stout, Souls above doubt, Valour unbending ; Such 'twill reward, — They shall return More than they were, And ever ascending. Leave all for love ; Yet, hear me, yet, One more word thy heart behoved. One pulse more of firm endeavour,- Keep thee to-day, To-morrow, forever. Free as an Arab Of thy beloved. Cling with life to the maid ; But when the surprise. First vague shadow of surmise Flits across her bosom young. Of a joy apart from thee. Free be she, fancy-free ; Nor thou detain her vesture's hem, Nor the palest rose she flung From her summer diadem. Though thou loved her as thyself, As a self of purer clay, Thougli her parting dims the day, 280 stealing grace from all alive ; Heartily know, When half-gods go, The gods arrive. R. W. Emerson. CXCIX. The King's Cupbearer Ji> , 'T^HE Oueen is young and the King is old, -^ For ;hairs of grey wed tresses of gold ; He, garrulous-foul ; she, maiden-cold. Than lilies of Eden fairer. Woven glances imight intertwine. Wordless missives of hers and mine, Looks that cross o'er the light o' the wine, — ■ But I am the King's cupbearer. Rose or amber, the brimming cup At the boisterous banquet I proffer up : The Queen but sips where the King doth sup, Her crown overweights its wearer. Once for a moment her fingers slim Touched with mine on the carven rim, Cool as dew in Ithe twilight dim — But I am the King's cupbearer. Thro' the shattered gateway the rabble brawls The guards lie slain by the blazing walls, There is fire and blood in the trampled halls — If he be slain they will spare her, 281 I might carry her far to a love-bright land . . But I drink to the dregs. Here, sword in hand, For his last defence, at his door I stand, — For I am the King's cupbearer. May Byron. CC. The Last Ride Together J^ Jt jt, T SAID — Then, dearest, since 'tis so, ■^ Since now at length my fate I know, Since nothing all my love avails, Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails, Since this was written and needs must be — My whole heart rises up to bless Your name in pride and thankfulness ! Take back the hope you gave, — I claim Only a memory of the same, And this beside, if you will not blame, Your leave for one more last ride with me. My mistress bent that brow of hers ; Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs When pity would be softening through, Fixed me a breathing-while or two With life or death in the balance : right ! The blood replenished me again ; My last thought was at least not vain : I and my mistress, side by side Shall be together, breathe and ride, 282 So, one day more am I deified. Who knows but the world may end to-night ? Hush ! if you saw some western cloud All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed By many benedictions — sun's And moon's and evening-star's at once — And so, you, looking and loving best, Conscious grew, your passion drew Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, Down on you, near and yet more near. Till flesh must fade for heaven was here ! — Thus leant she and lingered — joy and fear ! Thus lay she a moment on my breast. Then we began to ride. My soul Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll Freshening and fluttering in the wind. Past hopes already lay behind. What need to strive with a life awry ? Had I said that, had I done this. So might I gain, so might I miss. Might she have loved me ? just as well She might have hated, who can tell ! Where had I been now if the worst befell And here we are riding, she and I. Fail I alone, in words and deeds ? Why, all men strive and who succeeds ? We rode ; it seemed my spirit flew 283 Saw other regions, cities new, As the world rushed by on either side. I thought, — All labour, yet no less Bear up beneath their unsuccess. Look at the end of work, contrast The petty done, the undone vast, This present of theirs with the hopeful past ! I hoped she would love me ; here we ride. What hand and brain went ever paired ? What heart alike conceived and dared ? What act proved all its thought had been ? What will but felt the fleshly screen ? We ride and I see her bosom heave. There's many a crown for who can reach. Ten lines, a statesman's life in each ! The flag stuck on a heap of bones, A soldier's doing! what atones? They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. My riding is better, by their leave. What does it all mean, poet ? Well, Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell What we felt only; you expressed You hold things beautiful the best. And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. Tis something, nay 'tis much : but then, Have you yourself what's best for men ? Are you — poor, sick, old ere your time — Nearer one whit your own sublime 284 Than wc who never have turned a rhyme ? Sing, riding's a joy ! For me, I ride. And yoii, great sculptor — so, you gave A score of years to Art, her slave, And that's your Venus, whence we turn To yonder girl that fords the burn ! You acquiesce, and shall I repine ? What, man of music, you grown grey With notes and nothing else to say. Is this your sole praise from a friend, *' Greatly his opera's strains intend, "But in music we know how fashions end !" I gave my youth ; but we ride, in fine. Who knows what's fit for us ? Had fate Proposed bliss here should sublimate My being — had I signed the bond — Still one must lead some life beyond, Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. This foot once planted on the goal, This glory-garland round my soul, Could I descry such ? Try and test ! I sink back shuddering from the quest. Earth being so good, would heaven seem best ? Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride. And 5^et — she has not spoke so long ! What if heaven be that, fair and strong At life's best, with our eyes upturned 285 Whither life's flower is first discerned, We, fixed so, ever should so abide ? What if we still ride on, we two With life for ever old yet new, Changed not in kind but in degree, The instant made eternity, — And heaven just prove that I and she Ride, ride together, for ever ride ? Robert Browning. CCI. The Ever-fixed Mark J^ J^ ^ T ET me not to the marriage of true minds -*— ' Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds. Or bends with the remover to remove : O, no ! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken ; It is the star to every wandering bark. Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come ; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved, IV i Ilia ni SJiak esp ca re. 286 ecu. One Way of Love J- J' A LL June I bound the rose in sheaves. ■'- ^ Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves And strew them where Pauhne may pass. She will not turn aside ? Alas ! Let them lie. Suppose they die ? The chance was they might take her eye. How many a month I strove to suit These stubborn fingers to the lute ! To-day I venture all I know. She will not hear my music ? So ! Break the string ; fold music's wing : Suppose Pauline had bade me sing ! My whole life long I learned to love. This hour my utmost art I prove And speak my passion — heaven or hell ? She will not give me heaven ? 'Tis well ! Lose who may — I still can say, Those who win heaven, blest are they ! Robert Browning. 287 XX. Faded Leaves and Withered Flowers Ashes of Love. !89 XX "pOR, like as winter rasure doth always rase and ^ deface green summer : so fareth it by unstable love in a man, and in woman, for in many persons there is no stability. . . . Wherefore, I liken love nowadays unto summer and winter : for like as one is hot and the other cold, so fareth love nowadays. . . . This is no stability : but the old love was not so. Sir Thomas Malory, " Morte d'Arlhur." CCIII. Separation J' ^ STOP '.—not to me at this bitter departing, Speak of the sure consolations of Time ! Fresh be the wound, still renewed be its smarting. So but thy image endure in its prime. . . . Then, when we meet, and thy look strays toward me, Scanning my face and the changes wrought there, Who^ let me say, is this Stranger regards me, With the grey eyes and the lovely brown hair? Matthew Arnold. CCIV. When we Two Parted J^ Ji Ji W HEN we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted. To sever for years. The Garden of Love. 29 1 Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss ; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my brow — It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame ; I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame. They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear ; A shudder comes o'er me — Why wert thou so dear ? They know not I knew thee. Who knew thee too well : — Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell. In secret we met — In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee. After long years. How should I greet thee ? — With silence and tears. , Lord Byron. 292 CCV. In a Year J' J> ^ J' ^ NEVER any more While I live, Need I hope to see his face As before. Once his love grown chill, Mine may strive : Bitterly we re-embrace, Single still. II. Was it something said, Something done, Vexed him ? was it touch of hand. Turn of head ? Strange ! that very way Love begun : I as little understand Love's decay. III. When I sewed or drew, I recall How he looked as if I sung, — Sweetly too. If I spoke a word. First of all Up his cheek the colour sprung. Then he heard. 293 Sitting by my side, At my feet, So he breathed the air I breathed Satisfied ! I, too, at love's brim Touched the sweet : I would die if death bequeathed Sweet to him. V. " Speak, I love thee best ! " He exclaimed, " Let my love thy own foretell ! " I confessed : " Clasp my heart on thine " Now unblamed, " Since upon thy soul as well " Hangeth mine !" VI. Was it wrong to own, Being truth ? Why should all the giving prove His alone ? I had wealth and ease, Beauty, youth : Since my lover gave me love, I gave these. 294 VII. That was all I meant, — To be just, And the passion I had raised, To content. Since he chose to change Gold for dust, If I gave him what he praised Was it strange ? VIII. Would he loved me yet. On and on, While I found some way undreamed — Paid my debt ! Gave more life and more, Till, all gone, He should smile "She never seemed " Mine before. IX. "What, she felt the while, "Must I think? "Love's so different with us men." He should smile : " Dying for my sake — " White and pink ! " Can't we touch these bubbles then "But they break?" 295 X. Dear, the pang is brief, Do thy part, Have thy pleasure ! How perplexed Grows belief ! Well, this cold clay clod Was man's heart : Crumble it, and what comes next ? Is it God ? Robert Browning. CCVI. When Passion's Trance is Overpast T^^HEN passion's trance is overpast, '^ * If tenderness and truth could last. Or live, whilst all wild feelings keep Some mortal slumber, dark and deep, I should not weep, I should not weep ! It were enough to feel, to see, Thy soft eyes gazing tenderly, And dream the rest— and burn and be The secret food of fires unseen, Couldst thou but be as thou hast been. After the slumber of the year The woodland violets re-appear ; All things revive in field or grove. And sky and sea, but two, which move And form all others, — jife, and love. P, B. Shelley. • 296 CCVII. In a Drear-nighted December J' T N a drear-nighted December, -■■ Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green fehcity : The north cannot undo them. With a sleety whistle through them ; Nor frozen thawings glue them From budding at the prime. In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look ; But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting. Never, never petting About the frozen time. Ah ! would 'twere so with many A gentle girl and boy ! But were there ever any Writh'd not at passed joy ? To know the change and feel it. When there is none to heal it, Nor numbed sense to steal it. Was never said in rhyme. John Keats. 297 CCVIII. The Time will Come ^ J> 'T^HE time will come — some day, some day, not ■^ now — When you will kneel and weep without my gate In bitter anguish for each broken vow That fell as berries from the faded bough, But I shall answer you, It is too late. The time will come — not now, some day, some day — When you will clasp the threshold of my door. Entreating only a moment there to stay ; And I perchance a word or two may say — But not the words I said to you before. The time will come — some day, be it soon or late— When you shall stand, a shuddering soul un- shriven. And crave one sign of me, ere God's high gate May ope — and I shall scorn you where you wait — Endlessl)' loved — endlessly unforgiven ! May Byron. CCIX. A Parting J^ J^ J^ J^ J^ SINCE there's no help, come, let us kiss and part, Nay, I have done, you get no more of me ; And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart, And thus so cleanly I myself can free : 298 Shake hands, for ever cancel all our vows. And when we meet at any tmie again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now, at the last gasp of Love's latest breath. When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death. And Innocence is closing up his eyes. Now, if thou would' st, when all have given him over, — From death to life thou might'st him yet re- cover ! Michael Drayton. CCX. A Dead March J^ Jt J^ J^ T) E hushed, all voices and untimely laughter ! -*-^ Let no least word be lightly said In the awful presence of the Dead, That slowly, slowly, this way comes, — Arms piled on coffin, comrades marching after, Colours reversed, and muffled drums. Be bared, all heads ! feet, the procession follow. Throughout the stilled and sorrowing town ; Weep, woeful eyes, and be cast down ; Tread softly, till the bearers stop Under the cypress in the shadowy hollow. While last light fades o'er mountain-top. 299 Lay down your burden here, whose life hath journeyed Afar, and where ye may not wot ; Some Uttle while around this spot Be dirges sung and prayers low-said. Dead leaves disturbed, and clammy earth upturned, Then in his grave dead Love is laid. Fling them upon him — withered aspirations, And battered hopes and broken vows ; He was the last of all his house, Has left behind no kith nor kin — His bloodstained arms and faded decorations, His dinted helmet — throw them in ! And all the time the twilight skies are turning To sullen ash and leaden grey — Cast the sods o'er him, come away, In vain upon his name you call. Though you all night should cry with bitter yearning, He would not heed nor hear at all. Pass homewards now, in musing melancholy, To find the house enfilled with gloom, And no lights lit in any room. And stinging herald-drops of rain. Choke up your empty heart with anguish wholly, For Love will never rise again. M. C. Gillington, 300 XXI. A Bench in a Sunny Corner Wedded Lovers Growing old Together 301 XXI T^OR it is to be considered that this passion of ^ which we speak, though it begin with the young, yet forsakes not the old, or rather suffers no one who is truly its servant to grow old, but makes the aged participators of it, not less than the tender maiden, though in a different and nobler sort. R. W. Emerson, " Love.'' -mm- CCXI. Love's House J' OH, in Love's emerald house Of emerald chestnut boughs, The brown wife broods upon blue eggs and dear,. Nor finds the gold days long, Hearing her true Love's song Of love and wedding in the sweet o' the year. And in Love's golden house Of golden chestnut boughs, The brown bird to his sweet sings wild and clear ; Though little ones are gone. The true Love lingers on, For two old lovers in the fall o' the year. KatJiarinc Tynan. CCXI I. Wrinkles J> J' J' J' ^ WHEN Helen first saw i wrinkles in her face ('Twas when some fifty long had settled there And intermarried and brancht off aside), She threw herself upon her couch, and wept ; 303 On this side hung her head, and over that Listlessly she let fall the faithless brass That made the men as faithless. But when you Found them, or fancied them, and would not hear That they were only vestiges of smiles. Or the impression of some amorous hair Astray from cloistered curls and roseate band, Which had been lying there all night perhaps Upon a skin so soft. . . . No, no, you said, Sure, they arc coming, yes, are come, are here. . . Well, and what matters it . . . while you are too ! Walter Savage Landot. CCXIII. The Refuge J^ J^ J^ J^ "\17HEN that whereby you wrought your charms ^ * Hath faded, as it must : When Beauty's arsenal of arms Lies ruined in the dust, — When wrinkles show where smiles have been, And grey hairs follow gold, — Then, then, while all your suitors fiee, Come, Phyllida, O come to me, And dwell my soul's most sovereign queen, Even as you were of old ! For sparkling eyes and glowing lips Are but' your outward show : When these shall suffer Time's eclipse. Yourself remains below : 304 Yourself, more sweet than thousand springs, No winter can destroy : Then, then, when Hghter lovers flee, Come, Phyllida, O come to me, And crown me king of all the kings That ever looked on joy ! Maurice Clare. CCXIV. Autumnal Beauty J- J' ^ "\ T O spring, nor summer's beauty, hath such -'- ^ grace As I have seen in one autumnal face. If 'twere a shame to love, here 'twere no shame, Affections here take Reverence's name, Were her first years the golden age ; that's true But now she's gold oft tried, yet ever new. That was her torrid and inflaming time ; This is her habitable tropic clime. Fair eyes ! who asks more heat than comes from hence, He in a fever wishes pestilence. Call not these wrinkles graves; if graves they were, They were Love's graves, or else he is nowhere. Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sit, Vow'd to this trench, like an anachorit, Here dwells he ; though he sojourn everywhere In progress, yet his standing house is here ; Here where still evening is, not noon, nor night, 305 Where no voluptuousness, yet all delight. If we love things long nought, age is a thing Which we are fifty years in compassing ; If transitory things which soon decay, Age must be loveliest at the latest day. John Doiiiie. CCXV. John Anderson, My Jo ^ JOHN ANDKKSON, my jo, John, J When we were fust acquent, Your locks were like the raven. Your bonnie brow was brent ; Hut now your brow is held, John, Your locks are like the snavv ; But blessings on your frosty pow, Jolin Anderson, my jo, John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither ; And monie a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither : Now we maun totter down, John, Pjut hand in hand we'll go ; And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson", my jo. Robcii Burns. 306 CCXVI. To Biancha J' J- J' ^ WHEN age or chance has made me blind, So that the path I cannot find ; And when my falls and stumblings are More than the stones i' th' street by far; Go thou afore, and I shall well Follow thy perfumes by the smell ; Or be my guide, and I shall be Led by some light that flows from thee. Robert Herrick. CCXVI I. Unchanging Love J> J' J' B ELIEVE me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly to-day. Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away, Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art. Let thy loveliness fade as it will. And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart, Would entwine itself verdantly still. O, it is not while beauty and youth are thine own, And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known. To which time will but make thee more dear ; 307 No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close, As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets, The same look which she turn'd when he rose. Thomas Moore. CCXVIII. Immortal Youth J^ J^ J> 'T^O me, fair friend, you never can be old, -*■ For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold Have from the forest shook three summers' pride. Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd In process of the seasons have I seen, There April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd. Since when I saw you fresh, which yet are green. Ah ! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand. Steal from his figure and no pace perceived ; So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand. Hath motion and mine eye may be deceived : For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred ; Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead. William Shakespeare. CCXIX. Toujours Amour J* J' J(> pRITHEE tell me, Dimple-Chin, -*- At what age does Love begin ? Your blue eyes have scarcely seen Summers three, my fairy queen, 308 But a miracle of sweets, Soft approaches, sly retreats. Show the little archer there. Hidden in your pretty hair ; When didst learn a heart to win ? Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin ! "Oh!" the rosy Hps reply, "I can't tell 3^ou, if I try. 'Tis so long I can't remember : Ask some younger lass than I ! "^ Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face, Do ycur heart and head keep pace ? When does hoary Love expire, When do frosts put out the fire ? Can its embers burn below All that chill December snow ? Care you still soft hands to press,. Bonny heads to smooth and bless? When does Love give up the chase ? Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face! " Ah ! " the wise old lips reply, " Youth may pass, and strength may die, But of Love I can't foretoken : Ask some older sage than I ! " Edmund Clarence, Siedman, 309 CCXX. The Measurement «^ j* ^ T T OW do I love thee ? Let me count the ways ^ ^ I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints,— I love thee with the breath. Smiles, tears, of all my life ! — and if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. E. B. Browning. CCXXI. Remain, ah ! not in Youth Alone 73 EMAIN, ah ! not in youth alone, ^^ Tho' youth, where you are, long will stay ; But when my summer days are gone, And my autumnal haste away. "Can I be always by your side?" No ; but the hours you can, you must. Nor rise at Death's approaching stride. Nor go when dust is gone to dust. W. S. Landor. ♦ 310 XXII. Twilight and Autumn Violets Farewells XXII T T E did not dare to stay. But, throwing himself ■*- ■*■ into the carriage, lie cast one look towards the window of the Dark Ladie, and a moment afterwards had left her for ever. He had drunk the last drop of the bitter cup, and now lay the golden goblet gently down, knowing that he should behold it no more. No more ! O, how majestically mournful are those words ! They sound like the roar of the wind through a forest of pines ! H. W. Long^felloiv, ''Hyperion." -' ^^v#w; CCXXII. Then, Fare Thee Well J. ^ ' I ^HEN, fare thee well, my own dear love, -*- This world has now for us No greater grief, no pain above The pain of parting thus. Dear love ! The pain of parting thus. Had we but known, since first we met. Some few short hours of bliss. We might, in numb'ring them, forget The deep, deep pain of this. Dear love ! The deep, deep pain of this. But no, alas ! we've never seen One glimpse of pleasure's ray. But still there came some cloud between, And chased it all away. Dear love ! And chased it all away. The Garden of Love. ^j-j O Yet, ev'n could those sad moments last, Far dearer to my heart, Were hours of grief, together past. Than years of mirth apart, Dear love ! Than years of mirth apart. Farewell ! our hope was born in fears. And nursed 'mid vain regrets ; Like winter suns, it rose in tears, Like them in tears it sets, Dear love ! Like them in tears it sets. Thomas Moore. CCXXIII. Exit e^ e^ e^ e^ e^ ' I ^HAT time of year thou mayst in me behold -*- "When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold. Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang, In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away. Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by. 314 This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong To love that well which thou must leave ere long. William Shakespeare. CCXXIV. The Lost Mistress J^ J' ^ A LL'S over, then : does truth sound bitter -^^^ As one at first believes ? Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter About your cottage eaves ! And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, I noticed that, to-day ; One day more bursts them open fully, — You know the red turns grey. To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest ? May I take your hand in mine ? Mere friends are we, — well, friends the merest Keep much that I resign : For each glance of that eye so bright and black, Though I keep with heart's endeavour, — Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back, Though it stays in my soul for ever ! — Yet I will but say what mere friends say, Or only a thought stronger ; 315 I will hold your hand but as long as all may, Or so very little longer ! Robert Browning. CCXXV. Highland Mary 'X/'E 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 unfald her robes. And there the langest tarry ; For there I took the last Fareweel Of my sweet Highland Mary I How sweetly bloom'd the gay, green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade I clasp'd her to my bosom ! The golden Hours on angel wings Flew o'er me and my Dearie ; For dear to me as light and life, Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' monie a vow and lock'd embrace Our parting was fu' tender ; And pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder. But, O, fell Death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early ! 316 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 kiss'd sae fondly ! And clos'd for ay, the sparkling glance That dwalt on me sae kindly ! And mouldering now in silent dust That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary. Robed Burns. CCXXVI. Love's Secret J^ J^ J^ ]\J EVER seek to tell thy love, -'- ^ Love that never told can be ; For the gentle wind doth move Silently, invisibly. I told my love, I told my love, I told her all my heart ; Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears, Ah ! she did depart ! Soon after she was gone from me, A traveller came by. Silently, invisibly : He took her with a sigh. William Blake. 317 CCXXVII. Four Years .^ ^ ^ ^ A T the midsummer, when the hay was down, ^ ^ Said I, mournfully — My year is at its prime, Yet bare lie my meadows, shorn before their time, In my scorch'd woodlands the leaves are turning brown. It is the hot midsummer, and the hay is down. At the midsummer, when the hay was down. Stood she by the streamlet, young and very fair, With the first white bindweed twisted in her hair — Hair that drooped like birch-boughs, — all in her simple gown. For it was midsummer, — and 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 drifted to the west — Red-eyed, out glared the sun, like knight from leaguer'd town, Tliat eve in high midsummer, when the hay was down. It is midsummer — all the hay is down ; Close to her bosom press I dying eyes, 318 Praying, ''God shield thee till we meet in Paradise ! " Bless her in Love's name who was my brief life's crown, — And I go at midsummer, when the hay is down. Dinah M. Midock, CCXXVIII. The Sailing of the Sword J' ACROSS the empty garden-beds, When the Sword went out to sea, I scarcely saw my sisters' heads Bowed each beside a tree. I could not see the castle leads, When the Sword went out to sea, Alicia wore a scarlet gown, When the Sword went out to sea, But Ursula's was russet brown : For the mist we could not see The scarlet roofs of the good town, Whe7i the Sword went out to sea. Green holly in Alicia's hand. When the Sword went out to sea; With sere oak-leaves did Ursula stand ; O ! yet alas for me ! I did but bear a peel'd white wand. When the Sword went out to sea. O, russet brown and scarlet bright, W/ien I he Sword ivcni out to sea, My sisters wore ; I wore but white : Red, brown, and white, are three ; Three damozels ; each had a knight, When the Sword ivcnt out to sea. Sir Robert shouted loud, and said, When the Sword went out to sea, " Alicia, while I see thy head. What shall I bring for thee?" " O, my sweet lord, a ruby red : " The Sword went out to sea. Sir Miles said, while the sails hung down, Whe7i the S^vord went out to sea, '' Oh, Ursula ! while I see the town, What shall I bring for thee?" " Dear knight, bring back a falcon brown :" The Siivrd ivcnt out to sea. But my Roland, no word he said When the Sivord went out to sea, But only turn'd away his head, — A quick shriek came from me : " Come back, dear lord, to your white maid ! "■ TJie Sword went out to sea. The hot sun bit the garden-beds. When the Sword came back from sea; Beneath an apple-tree our heads Stretched out toward the sea ; 320 Grey glcam'd the thirsty castle leads, When the Sword came back from sea. Lord Robert brought a ruby red, When the Sivord came back from sea ; He kissed Alicia on the head : " I am come back to thee ; 'Tis time, sweet love, that we were wed, Now the Sivord is back from sea !" Sir Miles, he bore a falcon brown. When the Sivord came back from sea ; His arms went round tall Ursula's gown " What joy, O love, but thee ? Let us be wed in the good town, Noiv the Sword is back from sea ! " My heart grew sick, no more afraid. When the Sword came back from sea ; Upon the deck a tall white maid Sat on Lord Roland's knee ; His chin was press'd upon her head. When the Sword came back from sea ! William Morris. CCXXIX. A Valediction J' J. G OD be with thee, my beloved, — God be with thee ! Else alone thou goest forth. 321 Thy face unto the north, — Moor and pleasance, all around thee and beneath thee, Looking equal in the snow ! While I who try to reach thee, Vainly follow, vainly follow, With the farewell and the hollo. And cannot reach thee so. Alas ! I can but teach thee — God be with thee, my beloved, — God be with thee! Can I love thee, my beloved ? — can I love thee ? And is this like love, to stand With no help in my hand, When strong as death I fain would watch above thee ? My love-kiss can deny No tear that falls beneath it : Mine oath of love can swear thee From no ill that comes near thee, — And thou diest while thou breathe it, And / — I can but die ! May God love thee, my beloved, — may God love thee ! E. B. Browning. CCXXX. We Two Together Jk J> J^ OHINE ! shine! shine! ^^ Pour down your warmth, great sun ! While we bask, we two together. -^22 Two together ! Winds blow south or winds blow north, Day come white, or day come black. Home, or rivers and mountains from home, Singing all time, minding no time, While we two keep together. . . . . . Soothe ! soothe ! soothe ! Close on its wave soothes the wave behind. And again another behind embracing and lapping, every one close. But my love soothes not me, not me. Low hangs the moon, it is late. It is lagging— O I think it is heavy with love, with love. O madly the sea pushes upon the land, With love, with love. O night ! do I not see my love fluttering out among the breakers ? What is that little black thing I see there in the white ? Loud ! loud ! loud ! Loud I call to you, my love ! High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves, Surely you must know who is here, is here, You must know I am, my love. 323 ^ Low-hanging moon ! What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow ! O it is the shape, the shape of my mate ! O moon, do not keep her from me any longer. Land ! land ! land ! Whichever way I turn, O I think you could give me my mate back again if you only would. For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look. O rising stars ! Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of you. O throat ! O trembling throat ! Sound clearer through the atmosphere ! Pierce the woods, the earth. Somewhere listening to catch you must be the one I want. Shake out carols ! Solitary here, the night's carols ! Carols of lonesome love ! death's carols I Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon ! O under that moon where she droops almost down into the sea I O reckless despairing carols. 324 But soft ! sink low ! Soft ! let me just murmur, And do you wait a moment you husky-nois'd sea, For somewhere I believe I heard my mate re- sponding to me, So faint, I must -be still, be still to listen, But not altogether still, for then she might not come immediately to me. Hither my love ! Here I am ! here ! With this just-sustained note I announce myself to you. This gentle call is for you, my love, for you. Do not be decoy'd elsewhere, That is the whistle of the wind, it is not my voice, That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray. Those are the shadows of leaves. O darkness ! O in vain ! O I am very sick and sorrowful. O brown halo in the sky near the moon, drooping upon the sea ! O troubled reflection in the sea ! O throat ! O throbbing heart ! And I singing uselessly, uselessly all the night. 325 O past ! O happy life ! O songs of joy ! In the air, in the woods, over fields, Loved ! loved ! loved ! loved ! loved ! But my mate no more, no more with me ! We two toi^ether no more. Walt Whitman, CCXXXI. Farewell to Nancy J' Ji* J> AE fond kiss, and then we sever ; Ae fareweel, and then forever ! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee. Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee, Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him ? Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me ; Dark despair around benights mc. I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy. But to see her, was to love her ; Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never lov'd sae kindly. Had we never lov'd sae blindly, Never met — or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted ! Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest ! Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest I Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 326 Peace, Enjoyment, Love, and Pleasure ! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever : Ae fareweel, alas ! for ever ! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Robert Burns. CCXXXII. Farewell! If Ever Fondest Prayer ^ ^ ^ .^ e^ ,^ j* PAREWELL ! if ever fondest prayer ■^ For other's weal availed on high. Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky. 'Twerc vain to speak — to weep — to sigh : Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell. When wrung from Guilt's expiring eye, Are in that word — Farewell ! — Farewell ! These lips are mute, these eyes are dry ; But in my breast and in my brain. Awake the pangs that pass not by, The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, Though Grief and Passion there rebel : I only know we loved in vain — I only feel — Farewell ! — Farewell ! Lord Byron. 327 XXIII. Evergreens Love Stro?ig as Death 329 XXIII /^N that day which fulfilled the year since my ^-^ lady had been made of the citizens of eternal life, remembering me of her as I sat alone, I betook myself to draw the resemblance of an angel upon certain tablets. And while I did thus, chancing to turn my head, I perceived that some were standing beside me to whom I should have given courteous welcome. . . . Perceiving whom, I arose for saluta- tion, and said, ''Another was with me." Dante Alighieri, trans. D. G. Rossetii, " The New Life." ^^^m:-4^^--::m^ CCXXXIII. The Blessed Damozel 'T^HE blessed damozel leaned out -*- From the gold bar of Heaven ; Her eyes were deeper than the depth Of waters stilled at even ; She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven. Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, No wrought flowers did adorn, But a white rose of Mary's gift. For service meetly worn ; Her hair that lay along her back Was yellow like ripe corn. Her seemed she scarce had been a day One of God's choristers ; The wonder was not yet quite gone From that still look of hers ; Albeit to them she left, her day Had counted as ten years. 331 (To one, it is ten years of years. . . . Yet now, and in tliis place, Surely she leaned o'er me — her hair Fell all about my face. . . . Nothing : the autumn-fall of leaves. The whole year sets apace.) It was the rampart of God's house That she was standing on ; By God built over the sheer depth The which is Space begun ; So high, that looking downward thence She scarce could see the sun. It lies in Heaven, across the flood Of ether, as a bridge. Beneath, the tides of day and night With flame and darkness ridge The void, as low as where this earth Spins like a fretful midge. Around her, lovers, newly met 'Mid deathless love's acclaims, Spoke evermore among themselves Their heart -remembered names ; And the souls mounting up to God Went by her like thin flames. 332 And still she bowed herself and stooped Out of the circling charm ; Until her bosom must have made The bar she leaned on warm, And the lilies lay as if asleep Along her bended arm. From the fixed place of Heaven she saw Time like a pulse shake fierce Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove Within the gulf to pierce Its path ; and now she spoke as when The stars sang in their spheres. The sun was gone now ; the curled moon Was like a little feather Fluttering far down the gulf; and now She spoke through the still weather. Her voice was like the voice the stars Had when they sang together. (Ah sweet ! Even now, in that bird's song, Strove not her accents there, Fain to be hearkened ? When those bells Possessed the mid-day air, Strove not her steps to reach my side Down all the echoing stair ?) '* I wish that he were come to me, For he will come," she said. 333 "Have I not prayed in Heaven? — on earth, Lord, Lord, has he not pray'd ? Are not two prayers a perfect strength ? And shall I feel afraid ? "When round his head the aureole clings, And he is clothed in white, I'll take his hand and go with him To the deep wells of light ; As unto a stream we will step down, And bathe there in God's sight." " We two will stand beside that shrine, Occult, withheld, untrod. Whose lamps are stirred continually With prayer sent up to God ; And see our old prayers granted, melt Each like a little cloud. " We two will lie i' the shadow of That living mystic tree Within whose secret growth the Dove Is sometimes felt to be. While every leaf that His plumes touch Saith His Name audibly. " And I myself will teach to him, I myself, lying so. The songs I sing here ; which his voice Shall pause in, hushed and slow, 334 And find some knowledge at each pause, Or some new thing to know." (Alas ! we two, we two, thou say'st ! Yea, one wast thou with me That once of old. But shall God lift To endless unity The soul whose likeness with thy soul Was but its love for thee ?) " We two," she said, " will seek the groves Where the lady Mary is, With her five handmaidens, whose natnes Are five sweet symphonies, Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, Margaret and Rosalys. " Circlewise sit they, with bound locks And foreheads garlanded ; Into the fine cloth white Hke flame Weaving the golden thread, To fashion the birth-robes for them Who are just born, being dead. "He shall fear, haply, and be dumb Then will lay my cheek To his, and tell about our love, Not once abashed and weak : And the dear Mother will approve My pride, and let me speak. 335 " Herself shall bring us, hand in hand, To Him round whom all souls Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads Bowed with their aureoles : And angels meeting us shall sing To tlieir citlierns and citoles. " There will I ask of Christ the Lord Thus much for him and me : — Only to live as once on earth With Love, — only to be, As then awhile, for ever now Together, I and He.' She gazed, and listened, and then said. Less sad of speech than mild, — " All this is when he comes." She ceased, The light thrilled towards her, fill'd With angels in strong level flight. Her eyes prayed and she smil'd. (I saw her smile.) But soon their path Was vague in distant spheres : And then she cast her arms along The golden barriers, And laid her face between her hands, And wept. (I heard her tears.) D. G. Rossctti. 336 CCXXXIV. At the Mid Hour of Night \V the mid hour of nii^ht, when stars are weeping, I Hy 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 remember'd, even in the sky ! Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such pleasure to hear, When our voices, commingling, breathed, hke 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. CCXXXV. Evelyn Hope J' J' ^* BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead! Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her bookshelf, this her bed ; She plucked that piece of geranium-ilower. 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 thro' 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, lire and dew — And, just because I was thrice as old, And our paths in the world diverged so wide. Each was nought to each, must I be told ? We were fellow mortals, nought 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 : 33« 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 would you 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 ! 339 TherC; that is our secret : go to sleep ! You will wake, and remember, and understand. Robert Browning. CCXXXVl. A Spirit Tresent ^ J> ^ T V, coming from that unknown sphere -^ Where I believe thou art — The world unseen which girds our world So close, yet so apart, — Thy soul's soft call unto my soul Electrical could reach, And mortal and immortal blend In one familiar speech, — What wouldst thou say to me ? wouldst ask What since did me befall ? Or close this chasm of cruel years Between us — knowing all ? Wouldst love me — thy pure eyes seeing that God only saw beside ? Oh, love me ! 'Twas so hard to live, So easy to have died. If while this dizzy whirl of life A moment pausing stay'd, 1 face to face with thee could stand, I would not be afraid : Not though from heaven to heaven thy feet In glad ascent have trod, 34^ While mine took through earth's miry ways Their solitary road. We could not lose each other. World On world piled ever higher Would part Hke bank'd clouds, Hghtning-cleft, By our two souls' desire. Life ne'er divided us ; death tried, But could not; love's voice hne Call'd luring through the dark— then ceased. And I am wholly thine. Dinah M. Mulock. CCXXXVII. 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 mountain, 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 the spirit that remembers After such years of change and suffering ! 341 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. 342 CCXXXVIII. The Cross Roads ^ J, ' I ''HERE sits a woman in a lonely place, -*- Where All-Souls' twilight ever bends and broods : With hungry hope and fear upon her face, She gazes down those dreamy solitudes, There at the cross-roads, peering to and fro, Straining her glance athwart the shadows grey. Lest any little traveller she might know Haply come by that way. For long, so long, she has waited : now and then A tiny figure looms along the road. Shy, scarce-awakened from the world of men. Seeking uncertainly its new abode. And eagerly she stoops, she scans its eyes, Asking some look, some tender answering sign. And still she lets it go again, and sighs, "Not mine— O God — not mine !" But some day, surely, in a golden hour. The sweet familiar shape shall be descried. Delaying here and there for berry or flower. But drawing ever nearer to her side. No need of greeting between child and mother. When heart on heart is folded close and fast In that one clasp, each blended in the other. That pays for all the past ! May Byron. 343 XXIV. Lavender Sweet Memories 345 XXIV "\ T O man ever for^^ot the visitation of that power ''- ^ to his heart and brain, which created all things new . . . when a single tone of one voice could make the heart bound, and the most trivial circumstance associated with one form is put in the amber of memory. . . . For the figures, the motions, the words of the beloved object are not like other images, written in water, but, as Plutarch said, " enamelled in fire." R. W. Emerson, " Love." "5'' — - -r^ fifes' ^t ^ ,'^. ■.S-S S - -ti— - ■r' ' H '- ^.' '^ CCXXXIX. The Memory of Love ^ REMEMBER then, O Pilgrim ! and beware — Thou, with that Memory for a master-key, Wilt open Heaven, and be no alien there,— For, as thou honourest Love, so will Love honour thee. ^ rr ^, . Lord Houghton. CCXL. You Remain J' ^ ^ ^ AS a perfume doth remain In the fold where it hath lain, So the thought of you remaining Deeply folded in my brain. Will not leave me : all things leave me : You remain. Other thoughts may come and go, Other moments I may know. That shall waft me, in their going. As a breath blown to and fro, Fragrant memories : fragrant memories Come and go. 347 Only thoughts of you remain In my heart where they have lain, Perfumed thoughts of you remaining A hid sweetness in my brain. Others leave me: all things leave me: You remain. Author Unknown. CCXLI. Sighs and Memories e^ ^ nPHAT lady of all gentle memories -* Had lighted on my soul;— whose new abode Lies now, as it was well ordained of God, Among the poor in heart, where Mary is. Love, knowing that dear image to be his, Woke up within the sick heart sorrow-bow'd. Unto the sighs which are its weary load. Saying, " Go forth." And they went forth, I wis ; Forth went they from my breast that throbbed and ached ; With such a pang as oftentime will bathe Mine eyes with tears when I am left alone. And still those sighs which drew the heaviest breath Came whispering thus : " O noble intellect ! It is a year to-day that thou art gone. " Dante Alighierl {trans. D. G. Kossciti). 348 CCXLII. Parted and Met J- J^ Jt. T T E, who for Love has undergone -'' ^ The worst that can befall, Is happier thousand-fold than one Who never loved at all ; A grace within his soul has reigned, Which nothing else can bring — Thank God for all that I have gained, By that high suffering ! Lord Houghton. CCXLII I. Love's Young Dream ^ ^ /^H ! the days are gone, when Beauty bright ^^ My heart's chain wove ; When my dream of life from morn till night Was love, still love. New hope may bloom, And days may come, Of milder, calmer beam. But there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream : No, there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream. Though the bard to purer fame may soar. When wild youth's past ; Though he win the wise, who frown'd before, 349 To smile at last ; He'll never meet A joy so sweet, 111 all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear His soul-felt flame. And, at every close, she blush'd to hear The one loved name- No — that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot Which first love traced ; Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot On memory's waste. 'Twas odour fled As soon as shed ; 'Twas morning's winged dream ; 'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream : Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream. Thomas Moore. CCXLIV. My Kate ^ J^ J^ J^ Jt' SHE was not as pretty as women I know, And yet all your best, made of sunshine and snow. Drop to shade, melt to nought in the long-trodden ways, While she's still remembered on warm and cold days, —My Kate. 350 Her air had a meaning, her movements, a grace. You turned from the fairest to gaze on her face ; And when you had once seen her forehead and mouth, You saw as distinctly her soul and her truth. — My Kate. Such a blue inner light from her eyelids outbroke. You looked at her silence and fancied she spoke ; When she did, so peculiar yet soft was the tone, Though the loudest spoke also, you heard her alone, — My Kate. I doubt if she said to you much that could act As a thought or suggestion ; she did not attract In the sense of the brilliant or wise ; I infer 'Twas her thinking of others made you think of her, —My Kate. She never found fault with you, never implied You wrong by her right ; and yet men at her side Grew nobler, girls purer, as thro' the whole town The children were gladder that pulled at her j^own, —My Kate. None knelt at her feet confessed lovers in thrall ; They knelt more to God than they used— that was all; 351 If you praised her as charming, some asked what you meant, But the charm of her presence was felt where she went. —My Kate. The weak and the gentle, the ribald and rude, She took as she found them, and did them all good ; It always was so with her ; see what you have ! She has made the grass greener even here . , with her grave, —My Kate. My dear one ! when thou wast alive with the rest, I held thee the sweetest and loved thee the best ; And now thou art dead, shall I not take thy part, As thy smiles used to do for thyself, my sweet- heart, —My Kate ! E. B. Browning. CCXLV. One Day J^ Jt' J^ J^ J' T WILL tell you when they met : In the limpid days of Spring ; Elder boughs were budding yet, Oaken boughs looked wintry still. But primrose and veined violet In the mossful turf were set, 352 While meeting birds made haste to sing And build with right good will. I will tell you when they parted : When plenteous Autumn sheaves were brown Then they parted heavy-hearted ; The full rejoicing sun looked down As grand as in the days before ; Only they had lost a crown ; Only to them those days of yore Could come back nevermore. When shall they meet ? I cannot tell, Indeed, when they shall meet again. Except some day in Paradise : For this they wait, one waits in pain. Beyond the sea of death Love lies For ever, yesterday, to-day ; Angels shall ask them, ''Is it well?" And they shall answer " Yea." Christina Rossetii. CCXLVI. Rose Aylmer J^ J^ ^ J^ A H ! what avails the sceptred 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, 353 A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee. Walter Savage Landor. CCXLVII. She Came and Went J^ ^ /\ S a twig trembles, which a bird ^ ^ Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent, So is my memory thrilled and stirr'd ; — I only know she came and went. As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven. The blue dome's measureless content. So my soul held that moment's heaven ; — I only know she came and went. As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps The orchards full of bloom and scent. So clove her May my wintry sleeps ; — I only know she came and went. An angel stood and met my gaze, Through the low doorway of my tent ; The tent is struck, the vison stays ; — I only know she came and went. Oh, when the room grows slowly dim. And life's last oil is nearly spent, One gush of light these eyes will brim, Only to think she came and went. y. R. Lowell 354 CCXLVIII. My Letters J' J> J' J> 1\ /fY letters! all dead paper, mute and while, ^^ ^ And yet they seem alive and quivering Against my tremulous hands which loose the string And let them drop down on my knee to-night. This said, — he wished to have me in his sight Once, as a friend : this fixed a day in spring To come and touch my hand — a simple thing. Yet I wept for it ! this the paper's light — Said, Dear, / love thee ; and I sank and quailed As if God's future thundered on my past. This said, / am thine — and so its ink has paled With lying at my heart that beat too fast : And this — O Love, thy words have ill availed, If, what this said, I dared repeat at last ! E. B. Browning. CCXLIX. Golden Guendolen J> ^ ^ ' '^pWIXT the sunlight and the shade -'- Float up memories of my maid ; God, remember Guendolen ! Gold or gems she did not wear, But her yellow rippled hair. Like a veil, hid Guendolen ! 355 'Twixt the sunlight and the shade, My rough hands so strangely made, Folded Golden Guendolen ; Hands used to grip the sword-hilt hard, Framed her face, while on the sward, Tears fell down from Guendolen. Guendolen now speaks no word, Hands fold round about the sword, Now no more of Guendolen. Only 'twixt the light and shade Floating memories of my maid Make me pray for Guendolen. Williain Morris. CCL. Durisdeer ,^ ..^ »^ e^ e^ "V^T^E'LL meet nae mair at sunset when the * ^ weary day is dune, Nor wander hame thegither by the lee licht o' the mune ! I'll hear your step nae longer amang the dewy corn, For we'll meet nae mair, my bonniest, either al eve or morn. 35^^ The yellow broom is waving, abune the sunny brae, And the rowan berries dancing, where the sparkling waters play. Tho' a' is bright and bonnie, it's an eerie place to me. For we'll meet nae mair, my dearest, either by burn or tree. Far up into the wild hills, there's a kirkyard cold and still, Where the frosts lie ilka morning, and the mists hang low and chill. And there ye sleep in silence, while I wander here my lane, Till we meet ance mair in Heaven, never to part again ! Lady John Scott. CCLI. Once Again ^ J- J- OTHAT 'twere possible. After long grief and pam, To tind the arms of my true love Round me once again. When I was wont to meet her In the silent woody places By the home that gave me birth, 357 We stood tranced in long embraces Mixed with liisses sweeter, sweeter Than anything on earth. A shadow flits before me, Not thou, but Hke 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, Lord Tennyson. CCLII. The Mother's Visits J^ ^ J^ T ONG years ago she visited my chamber, -*— ^ Steps soft and low, a taper in her hand ; Her fond kiss she laid upon my eye-lids, Fair as an angel from the unknown land : Mother, mother, is it thou I see ? Mother, mother, watching over me. And yesternight I saw her cross my chamber, And soundless as liglit, a palm-branch in her hand ; 35« Her mild eyes she bent upon my anguish, Cahn as an augel from the blessed land ; Mother, mother, is it thou I see ? Mother, mother, art thou come for me ? Dinah M. Mulock. CCLIII. Memory J^ J^ Jt Ji Jt> I HAVE a room whereinto no one enters Save I myself alone : There sits a blessed memory on a throne. Where my life centres ; While winter comes and goes — oh, tedious comer : — And while its nip-wind blows ; W^hile bloom the bloodless lily and warm rose Of lavish summer. If any should force entrance he might see there One buried yet not dead, Before whose face I no more bow my head Or bend my knee there ; But often in my worn life's autumn weather I watch there with clear eyes, And think how it will be in Paradise When we're together. Christina Rossetti. 359 CCLIV. The Vista J- J^ J' J- J- T CAN recall so well how she would look — -*- How, at the very murmur of her dress On entering the door, the whole room took An air of gentleness. That was so long ago ; and yet his eyes Had always, afterwards, the look that waits And yearns, and waits again, nor can disguise Something it contemplates. May we imagine it ? the sob, the tears. The long sweet shuddering breath ; then, on her breast. The great, full, flooding sense of endless years Of heaven, and her, and rest. Author Unk)ioicii. CCLV. Echoes and Memories «^ ^ ^ 1\ /TUSIC, when soft voices die, ^^ ^ Vibrates in the memory — Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose-leaves, when the rose is dead. Are heaped for the beloved's bed ; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on. P. B. Shelley. UNWIN BROTHERS, LiailTED, PRINTERS, WOKING AND LONDON. -J ^ wm^M