Part 22
Though the bard to purer fame may soar, When wild youth's past; Though he win the wise, who frowned before, To smile at last; He'll never meet A joy so sweet, In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear His soul-felt flame, And, at every close, she blushed to hear The one loved name.
No, - that hallowed form is ne'er forgot Which first love traced; Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot On memory's waste. 'Twas odor 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 [1779-1852]
"NOT OURS THE VOWS"
Not ours the vows of such as plight Their troth in sunny weather, While leaves are green, and skies are bright, To walk on flowers together.
But we have loved as those who tread The thorny path of sorrow, With clouds above, and cause to dread Yet deeper gloom to-morrow.
That thorny path, those stormy skies, Have drawn our spirits nearer; And rendered us, by sorrow's ties, Each to the other dearer.
Love, born in hours of joy and mirth, With mirth and joy may perish; That to which darker hours gave birth Still more and more we cherish.
It looks beyond the clouds of time, And through death's shadowy portal; Made by adversity sublime, By faith and hope immortal.
Bernard Barton [1784-1849]
THE GRAVE OF LOVE
I dug, beneath the cypress shade, What well might seem an elfin's grave; And every pledge in earth I laid, That erst thy false affection gave.
I pressed them down the sod beneath; I placed one mossy stone above; And twined the rose's fading wreath Around the sepulcher of love.
Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead Ere yet the evening sun was set: But years shall see the cypress spread, Immutable as my regret.
Thomas Love Peacock [1785-1866]
"WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING"
So, we'll go no more a roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And Love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a roving By the light of the moon.
George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]
SONG
Sing the old song, amid the sounds dispersing That burden treasured in your hearts too long; Sing it, with voice low-breathed, but never name her: She will not hear you, in her turrets nursing High thoughts, too high to mate with mortal song - Bend o'er her, gentle Heaven, but do not claim her!
In twilight caves, and secret lonelinesses, She shades the bloom of her unearthly days; And the soft winds alone have power to woo her: Far off we catch the dark gleam of her tresses; And wild birds haunt the wood-walks where she strays, Intelligible music warbling to her.
That Spirit charged to follow and defend her, - He also, doubtless, suffers this love-pain; And she, perhaps, is sad, hearing his sighing: And yet that face is not so sad as tender; Like some sweet singer's, when her sweetest strain From the heaved heart is gradually dying!
Aubrey Thomas De Vere [1814-1902]
THE QUESTION
I dreamed that, as I wandered by the way, Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring; And gentle odors led my steps astray, Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream.
There grew pied wind-flowers and violets; Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets; Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets - Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth - Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.
And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine, Green cowbind and the moonlight-colored may, And cherry-blossoms, and white cups whose wine Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day; And wild roses, and ivy serpentine, With its dark buds and leaves wandering astray; And flowers, azure, black, and streaked with gold, Fairer than any wakened eyes behold.
And nearer to the river's trembling edge There grew broad flag-flowers, purple pranked with white, And starry river-buds among the sedge, And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge With moonlight beams of their own watery light; And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.
Methought that of these visionary flowers I made a nosegay, bound in such a way That the same hues which in their natural bowers Were mingled or opposed, the like array Kept these imprisoned children of the Hours Within my hand; - and then, elate and gay, I hastened to the spot whence I had come, That I might there present it - O! to whom?
Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]
THE WANDERER
Love comes back to his vacant dwelling, - The old, old Love that we knew of yore! We see him stand by the open door, With his great eyes sad, and his bosom swelling.
He makes as though in our arms repelling, He fain would lie as he lay before; - Love comes back to his vacant dwelling, - The old, old Love that we knew of yore!
Ah, who shall keep us from over-spelling That sweet forgotten, forbidden lore! E'en as we doubt in our hearts once more, With a rush of tears to our eyelids welling, Love comes back to his vacant dwelling.
Austin Dobson [1840-1921]
EGYPTIAN SERENADE
Sing again the song you sung When we were together young - When there were but you and I Underneath the summer sky.
Sing the song, and o'er and o'er Though I know that nevermore Will it seem the song you sung When we were together young.
George William Curtis [1824-1892]
THE WATER LADY
Alas, the moon should ever beam To show what man should never see! I saw a maiden on a stream, And fair was she!
I stayed awhile, to see her throw Her tresses back, that all beset The fair horizon of her brow With clouds of jet.
I stayed a little while to view Her cheek, that wore, in place of red, The bloom of water, tender blue, Daintily spread.
I stayed to watch, a little space, Her parted lips if she would sing; The waters closed above her face With many a ring.
And still I stayed a little more: Alas, she never comes again! I throw my flowers from the shore, And watch in vain.
I know my life will fade away, I know that I must vainly pine, For I am made of mortal clay, But she's divine!
Thomas Hood [1799-1845]
"TRIPPING DOWN THE FIELD-PATH"
Tripping down the field-path, Early in the morn, There I met my own love 'Midst the golden corn; Autumn winds were blowing, As in frolic chase, All her silken ringlets Backward from her face; Little time for speaking Had she, for the wind, Bonnet, scarf, or ribbon, Ever swept behind.
Still some sweet improvement In her beauty shone; Every graceful movement Won me, - one by one! As the breath of Venus Seemed the breeze of morn, Blowing thus between us, 'Midst the golden corn. Little time for wooing Had we, for the wind Still kept on undoing What we sought to bind.
Oh! that autumn morning In my heart it beams, Love's last look adorning With its dream of dreams: Still, like waters flowing In the ocean shell, Sounds of breezes blowing In my spirit dwell; Still I see the field-path; - Would that I could see Her whose graceful beauty Lost is now to me!
Charles Swain [1801-1874]
LOVE NOT
Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay! Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers - Things that are made to fade and fall away, When they have blossomed but a few short hours. Love not, love not!
Love not, love not! The thing you love may die - May perish from the gay and gladsome earth; The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, Beam on its grave as once upon its birth. Love not, love not!
Love not, love not! The thing you love may change, The rosy lip may cease to smile on you; The kindly beaming eye grow cold and strange; The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. Love not, love not!
Love not, love not! O warning vainly said In present years, as in the years gone by! Love flings a halo round the dear one's head, Faultless, immortal - till they change or die! Love not, love not!
Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton [1808-1877]
"A PLACE IN THY MEMORY"
A place in thy memory, Dearest! Is all that I claim: To pause and look back when thou hearest The sound of my name. Another may woo thee, nearer; Another may win and wear: I care not though he be dearer, If I am remembered there.
Remember me, not as a lover Whose hope was crossed, Whose bosom can never recover The light it hath lost! As the young bride remembers the mother She loves, though she never may see, As a sister remembers a brother, O Dearest, remember me!
Could I be thy true lover, Dearest! Couldst thou smile on me, I would be the fondest and nearest That ever loved thee: But a cloud on my pathway is glooming That never must burst upon thine; And heaven, that made thee all blooming, Ne'er made thee to wither on mine.
Remember me then! O remember My calm light love! Though bleak as the blasts of November My life may prove. That life will, though lonely, be sweet If its brightest enjoyment should be A smile and kind word when we meet, And a place in thy memory.
Gerald Griffin [1803-1840]
INCLUSIONS
Oh, 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 check 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.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]
MARIANA Mariana in the moated grange. - Measure For Measure
With blackest moss the flower-plots Were thickly crusted, one and all: The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the pear to the gable-wall. The broken sheds looked sad and strange: Unlifted was the clinking latch; Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"
Her tears fell with the dews at even; Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats, When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement-curtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats. She only said, "The night is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"
Upon the middle of the night, Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: The cock sung out an hour ere light: From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her: without hope of change, In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn, Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange. She only said, "The day is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"
About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blackened waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small, The clustered marish-mosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway, All silver-green with gnarled bark: For leagues no other tree did mark The level waste, the rounding gray. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"
And ever when the moon was low, And the shrill winds were up and away, In the white curtain, to and fro, She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low, And wild winds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow. She only said, "The night is dreary He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"
All day within the dreamy house, The doors upon their hinges creaked; The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse Behind the moldering wainscot shrieked, Or from the crevice peered about. Old faces glimmered through the doors, Old footsteps trod the upper floors, Old voices called her from without. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"
The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof The poplar made, did all confound Her sense; but most she loathed the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his western bower. Then, said she, "I am very dreary, He will not come," she said; She wept, "I am aweary, aweary, O God, that I were dead!"
Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]
"ASK ME NO MORE" From "The Princess"
Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape, With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; But O too fond, when have I answered thee? Ask me no more.
Ask me no more: what answer should I give? I love not hollow cheek or faded eye: Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die! Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live; Ask me no more.
Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are sealed; I strove against the stream and all in vain; Let the great river take me to the main. No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield; Ask me no more.
Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]
A WOMAN'S LAST WORD
Let's contend no more, Love, Strive nor weep: All be as before, Love, - Only sleep!
What so wild as words are? I and thou In debate, as birds are, Hawk on bough!
See the creature stalking While we speak! Hush and hide the talking, Cheek on cheek!
What so false as truth is, False to thee? Where the serpent's tooth is Shun the tree -
Where the apple reddens Never pry - Lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I!
Be a god and hold me With a charm! Be a man and fold me With thine arm!
Teach me, only teach, Love! As I ought I will speak thy speech, Love, Think thy thought -
Meet, if thou require it, Both demands, Laying flesh and spirit In thy hands.
That shall be to-morrow Not to-night: I must bury sorrow Out of sight:
- Must a little weep, Love. (Foolish me!) And so fall asleep, Love Loved by thee.
Robert Browning [1812-1889]
THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER
I 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, 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, Saw other regions, cities new, As the world rushed by on either side. I thought, - All labor, 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 place 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 Than we who never have turned a rhyme? Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride.
And you, 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 gray 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 yet - she has not spoke so long! What if heaven be that, fair and strong At life's best, with our eyes upturned Whither life's flower is first discerned, We, fixed so, ever should so abide? What if we still ride on, we two, With life forever 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, forever ride?
Robert Browning [1812-1889]
YOUTH AND ART
It once might have been, once only: We lodged in a street together, You, a sparrow on the housetop lonely, I, a lone she-bird of his feather.
Your trade was with sticks and clay, You thumbed, thrust, patted, and polished, Then laughed, "They will see some day Smith made, and Gibson demolished."
My business was song, song, song; I chirped, cheeped, trilled, and twittered, "Kate Brown's on the boards ere long, And Grisi's existence embittered!"
I earned no more by a warble Than you by a sketch in plaster; You wanted a piece of marble, I needed a music-master.
We studied hard in our styles, Chipped each at a crust like Hindoos, For air, looked out on the tiles, For fun, watched each other's windows.
You lounged, like a boy of the South, Cap and blouse - nay, a bit of beard too; Or you got it, rubbing your mouth With fingers the clay adhered to.
And I - soon managed to find Weak points in the flower-fence facing, Was forced to put up a blind, And be safe in my corset-lacing.
No harm! It was not my fault If you never turned your eye's tail up, As I shook upon E in alt., Or ran the chromatic scale up:
For spring bade the sparrows pair, And the boys and girls gave guesses, And stalls in our street looked rare With bulrush and water-cresses.
Why did not you pinch a flower In a pellet of clay and fling it? Why did not I put a power Of thanks in a look, or sing it?
I did look; sharp as a lynx (And yet the memory rankles), When models arrived, some minx Tripped up-stairs, she and her ankles.
But I think I gave you as good! "That foreign fellow, - who can know How she pays, in a playful mood, For his tuning her that piano?"
Could you say so, and never say, "Suppose we join hands and fortunes, And I fetch her from over the way, Her, piano, and long tunes and short tunes"?
No, no: you would not be rash, Nor I rasher and something over: You've to settle yet Gibson's hash, And Grisi yet lives in clover.
But you meet the Prince at the Board, I'm queen myself at bals-pare, I've married a rich old lord, And you're dubbed knight and an R. A.
Each life unfulfilled, you see; It hangs still, patchy and scrappy: We have not sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted, despaired, - been happy.
And nobody calls you a dunce, And people suppose me clever: This could but have happened once, And we missed it, lost it forever.
Robert Browning [1812-1889]
TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA
I 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?
For me, I touched a thought, I know, Has tantalized me many times, (Like turns of thread the spiders throw Mocking across our path) for rhymes To catch at and let go.