Part 33
I sewed his sheet, making my mane; I watched the corpse, mysel alane; I watched his body night and day; No living creature came that way.
I took his body on my back, And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat; I digged a grave, and laid him in, And happed him with the sod sae green.
But think na ye my heart was sair, When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair? O, think na ye my heart was wae, When I turned about, away to gae?
Nae living man I'll love again, Since that my lovely knight is slain; Wi' ae lock o' his yellow hair I'll chain my heart for evermair.
Unknown
ASPATIA'S SONG From "The Maid's Tragedy"
Lay a garland on my hearse Of the dismal yew; Maidens, willow branches bear; Say, I died true.
My love was false, but I was firm From my hour of birth. Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth!
John Fletcher [1579-1625]
A BALLAD From the "What-d'ye-call-it"
'Twas when the seas were roaring With hollow blasts of wind, A damsel lay deploring, All on a rock reclined. Wide o'er the foaming billows She cast a wistful look; Her head was crowned with willows, That trembled o'er the brook.
"Twelve months are gone and over, And nine long tedious days; Why didst thou, venturous lover, Why didst thou trust the seas? Cease, cease thou cruel ocean, And let my lover rest; Ah! what's thy troubled motion To that within my breast?
"The merchant robbed of pleasure, Sees tempests in despair; But what's the loss of treasure, To losing of my dear? Should you some coast be laid on, Where gold and diamonds grow, You'd find a richer maiden, But none that loves you so.
"How can they say that nature Has nothing made in vain; Why then, beneath the water, Should hideous rocks remain? No eyes the rocks discover That lurk beneath the deep, To wreck the wandering lover, And leave the maid to weep."
All melancholy lying, Thus wailed she for her dear; Repaid each blast with sighing, Each billow with a tear. When, o'er the white wave stooping, His floating corpse she spied, Then, like a lily drooping, She bowed her head, and died.
John Gay [1685-1732]
THE BRAES OF YARROW
Thy braes were bonnie, Yarrow stream, When first on them I met my lover: Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream, When now thy waves his body cover! Forever now, O Yarrow stream! Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; For never on thy banks shall I Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow.
He promised me a milk-white steed, To bear me to his father's bowers; He promised me a little page, To squire me to his father's towers; He promised me a wedding-ring, - The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow; Now he is wedded to his grave, Alas! his watery grave, in Yarrow.
Sweet were his words when last we met: My passion I as freely told him: Clasped in his arms, I little thought That I should never more behold him! Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost; It vanished with a shriek of sorrow; Thrice did the water-wraith ascend, And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow.
His mother from the window looked, With all the longing of a mother; His little sister weeping walked The greenwood path to meet her brother. They sought him east, they sought him west, They sought him all the forest thorough; They only saw the cloud of night, They only heard the roar of Yarrow!
No longer from thy window look, - Thou hast no son, thou tender mother! No longer walk, thou little maid; Alas! thou hast no more a brother. No longer seek him east or west, And search no more the forest thorough; For, wandering in the night so dark, He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow.
The tear shall never leave my cheek, No other youth shall be my marrow: I'll seek thy body in the stream, And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow. The tear did never leave her cheek, No other youth became her marrow; She found his body in the stream, And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.
John Logan [1748-1788]
THE CHURCHYARD ON THE SANDS
My love lies in the gates of foam, The last dear wreck of shore; The naked sea-marsh binds her home, The sand her chamber door.
The gray gull flaps the written stones, The ox-birds chase the tide; And near that narrow field of bones Great ships at anchor ride.
Black piers with crust of dripping green, One foreland, like a hand, O'er intervals of grass between Dim lonely dunes of sand.
A church of silent weathered looks, A breezy reddish tower, A yard whose mounded resting-nooks Are tinged with sorrel flower.
In peace the swallow's eggs are laid Along the belfry walls; The tempest does not reach her shade, The rain her silent halls.
But sails are sweet in summer sky, The lark throws down a lay; The long salt levels steam and dry, The cloud-heart melts away.
But patches of the sea-pink shine, The pied crows poise and come; The mallow hangs, the bind-weeds twine, Where her sweet lips are dumb.
The passion of the wave is mute; No sound or ocean shock; No music save the trilling flute That marks the curlew flock.
But yonder when the wind is keen, And rainy air is clear, The merchant city's spires are seen, The toil of men grows near.
Along the coast-way grind the wheels Of endless carts of coal; And on the sides of giant keels The shipyard hammers roll.
The world creeps here upon the shout, And stirs my heart to pain; The mist descends and blots it out, And I am strong again.
Strong and alone, my dove, with thee; And though mine eyes be wet, There's nothing in the world to me So dear as my regret.
I would not change my sorrow sweet For others' nuptial hours; I love the daisies at thy feet More than their orange flowers.
My hand alone shall tend thy tomb From leaf-bud to leaf-fall, And wreathe around each season's bloom Till autumn ruins all.
Let snowdrops early in the year Droop o'er her silent breast; And bid the later cowslip rear The amber of its crest.
Come hither, linnets tufted-red; Drift by, O wailing tern; Set pure vale lilies at her head, At her feet lady-fern.
Grow, samphire, at the tidal brink, Wave pansies of the shore, To whisper how alone I think Of her for evermore.
Bring blue sea-hollies thorny, keen, Long lavender in flower; Gray wormwood like a hoary queen, Stanch mullein like a tower.
O sea-wall, mounded long and low, Let iron bounds be thine; Nor let the salt wave overflow That breast I held divine.
Nor float its sea-weed to her hair, Nor dim her eyes with sands; No fluted cockle burrow where Sleep folds her patient hands.
Though thy crest feel the wild sea's breath, Though tide-weight tear thy root, Oh, guard the treasure-house, where death Has bound my Darling mute.
Though cold her pale lips to reward With love's own mysteries, Ah, rob no daisy from her swand, Rough gale of eastern seas!
Ah, render sere no silken bent That by her head-stone waves; Let noon and golden summer blent Pervade these ocean graves.
And, ah, dear heart, in thy still nest, Resign this earth of woes, Forget the ardors of the west, Neglect the morning glows.
Sleep and forget all things but one, Heard in each wave of sea, - How lonely all the years will run Until I rest by thee.
John Byrne Leicester Warren [1835-1895]
THE MINSTREL'S SONG From "Aella"
Oh sing unto my roundelay; Oh drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holiday; Like a running river be! My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow tree!
Black his hair as the winter night, White his throat as the summer snow, Red his cheek as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below.
Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note; Quick in dance as thought can be; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout, Oh, he lies by the willow tree.
Hark! the raven flaps his wing In the briery dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing, To the night-mares as they go.
See! the white moon shines on high; Whiter is my true love's shroud; Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud.
Here, upon my true love's grave, Shall the barren, flowers be laid; Not one holy saint to save All the coldness of a maid.
With my hands I'll twist the briers Round his holy corpse to gre; Elfin fairy, light your fires, Here my body still shall be.
Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, Drain my heartes blood away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day.
Water-witches, crowned with reeds, Bear me to your deadly tide. I die! I come! my true love waits! Thus the damsel spake, and died.
Thomas Chatterton [1752-1770]
HIGHLAND MARY
Ye banks and braes and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade I clasped her to my bosom! The golden hours on angel's wings Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace Our parting was fu' tender; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder; But, O! fell Death's untimely frost, That nipped my flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary!
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kissed sae fondly! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly; And moldering now in silent dust That heart that lo'ed me dearly! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary.
Robert Burns [1759-1796]
TO MARY IN HEAVEN
Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love! Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace, - Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!
Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twined amorous round the raptured scene; The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed, The birds sang love on every spray, - Till soon, too soon, the glowing west Proclaimed the speed of winged day.
Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, And fondly broods with miser care! Time but the impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
Robert Burns [1759-1796]
LUCY
I Strange fits of passion have I known: And I will dare to tell, But in the lover's ear alone, What once to me befell.
When she I loved looked every day Fresh as a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way, Beneath an evening moon.
Upon the moon I fixed my eye, All over the wide lea; With quickening pace my horse drew nigh Those paths so dear to me.
And now we reached the orchard-plot; And, as we climbed the hill, The sinking moon to Lucy's cot Came near, and nearer still.
In one of those sweet dreams I slept, Kind Nature's gentlest boon! And all the while my eyes I kept On the descending moon.
My horse moved on; hoof after hoof He raised, and never stopped: When down behind the cottage roof, At once, the bright moon dropped.
What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a lover's head! "O mercy!" to myself I cried, "If Lucy should be dead!"
II She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and oh, The difference to me!
III I traveled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor, England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.
'Tis past, that melancholy dream! Nor will I quit thy shore A second time; for still I seem To love thee more and more.
Among thy mountains did I feel The joy of my desire; And she I cherished turned her wheel Beside an English fire.
Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed, The bowers where Lucy played; And thine too is the last green field That Lucy's eyes surveyed.
IV Three years she grew in sun and shower; Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower On earth was never sown; This child I to myself will take; She shall be mine, and I will make A lady of my own.
"Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse: and with me The girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain.
"She shall be sportive as the fawn That wild with glee across the lawn Or up the mountain springs; And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm Of mute insensate things.
"The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend; Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mold the maiden's form By silent sympathy.
"The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
"And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell."
Thus Nature spake - The work was done - How soon my Lucy's race was run! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm and quiet scene; The memory of what has been, And never more will be.
V A slumber did my spirit seal; I had no human fears: She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years.
No motion has she now, or force; She neither hears nor sees; Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees.
William Wordsworth [1770-1850]
PROUD MAISIE From "The Heart of Midlothian"
Proud Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early; Sweet Robin sits on the bush, Singing so rarely.
"Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me?" - "When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye."
Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say truly?" - "The gray-headed sexton That delves the grave duly.
"The glow-worm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady; The owl from the steeple sing Welcome, proud lady!"
Walter Scott [1771-1832]
SONG
Earl March looked on his dying child, And, smit with grief to view her - The youth, he cried, whom I exiled Shall be restored to woo her.
She's at the window many an hour His coming to discover; And he looked up to Ellen's bower And she looked on her lover -
But ah! so pale, he knew her not, Though her smile on him was dwelling! And I am then forgot - forgot? It broke the heart of Ellen.
In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs, Her cheek is cold as ashes; Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes To lift their silken lashes.
Thomas Campbell [1777-1844]
THE MAID'S LAMENT From "The Examination of Shakespeare"
I loved him not; and yet now he is gone I feel I am alone. I checked him while he spoke; yet could he speak, Alas! I would not check. For reasons not to love him once I sought, And wearied all my thought To vex myself and him: I now would give My love, could he but live Who lately lived for me, and when he found 'Twas vain, in holy ground He hid his face amid the shades of death. I waste for him my breath Who wasted his for me; but mine returns, And this lorn bosom burns With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, And waking me to weep Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years Wept he as bitter tears. Merciful God! Such was his latest prayer, These may she never share! Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold, Than daisies in the mold, Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate, His name and life's brief date. Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be, And, oh! pray too for me!
Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]
"SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND"
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers are round her, sighing: But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying.
She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, Every note which he loved awaking; - Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, How the heart of the minstrel is breaking.
He had lived for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwined him; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him.
Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, From her own loved island of sorrow.
Thomas Moore [1779-1852]
"AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT"
At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye; And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there, And tell me our love is remembered even in the sky.
Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such rapture to hear, When our voices commingling breathed like one on the ear; And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.
Thomas Moore [1779-1852]
ON A PICTURE BY POUSSIN REPRESENTING SHEPHERDS IN ARCADIA
Ah, happy youths, ah, happy maid, Snatch present pleasure while ye may; Laugh, dance, and sing in sunny glade, Your limbs are light, your hearts are gay; Ye little think there comes a day ('Twill come to you, it came to me) When love and life shall pass away: I, too, once dwelt in Arcady.
Or listless lie by yonder stream, And muse and watch the ripples play, Or note their noiseless flow, and deem That life thus gently glides away - That love is but a sunny ray To make our years go smiling by. I knew that stream, I too could dream, I, too, once dwelt in Arcady.
Sing, shepherds, sing; sweet lady, listen; Sing to the music of the rill, With happy tears her bright eyes glisten, For, as each pause the echoes fill, They waft her name from hill to hill - So listened my lost love to me, The voice she loved has long been still; I, too, once dwelt in Arcady.
John Addington Symonds [1840-1893]
THRENODY
There's a grass-grown road from the valley - A winding road and steep - That leads to the quiet hill-top, Where lies your love asleep. . . . While mine is lying, God knows where, A hundred fathoms deep.
I saw you kneel at a grave-side - How still a grave can be, Wrapped in the tender starlight, Far from the moaning sea! But through all dreams and starlight, The breakers call to me.
Oh, steep is your way to Silence - But steeper the ways I roam, For never a road can take me Beyond the wind and foam, And never a road can reach him Who lies so far from home.
Ruth Guthrie Harding [1882-
STRONG AS DEATH
O death, when thou shalt come to me From out thy dark, where she is now, Come not with graveyard smell on thee, Or withered roses on thy brow.
Come not, O Death, with hollow tone, And soundless step, and clammy hand - Lo, I am now no less alone Than in thy desolate, doubtful land;
But with that sweet arid subtle scent That ever clung about her (such As with all things she brushed was blent); And with her quick and tender touch.
With the dim gold that lit her hair, Crown thyself, Death; let fall thy tread So light that I may dream her there, And turn upon my dying bed.
And through my chilling veins shall flame My love, as though beneath her breath; And in her voice but call my name, And I will follow thee, O Death.
Henry Cuyler Bunner [1855-1896]
"I SHALL NOT CRY RETURN"
I shall not cry Return! Return! Nor weep my years away; But just as long as sunsets burn, And dawns make no delay, I shall be lonesome - I shall miss Your hand, your voice, your smile, your kiss.
Not often shall I speak your name, For what would strangers care That once a sudden tempest came And swept my gardens bare, And then you passed, and in your place Stood Silence with her lifted face.
Not always shall this parting be, For though I travel slow, I, too, may claim eternity And find the way you go; And so I do my task and wait The opening of the outer gate.
Ellen M. H. Gates [1835-1920]
"OH! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM"
Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom, On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; But on thy turf shall roses rear Their leaves, the earliest of the year; And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:
And oft by yon blue gushing stream Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, And feed deep thought with many a dream, And lingering pause and lightly tread; Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead!
Away! we know that tears are vain, That Death nor heeds nor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain? Or make one mourner weep the less? And thou, - who tell'st me to forget, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.
George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]
TO MARY
If I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep for thee; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be: It never through my mind had passed The time would e'er be o'er, And I on thee should look my last, And thou shouldst smile no more!