II.
White violets find whiter rest: For fairest flowers how fair a fate! For me remain, O fragrant breast! Inviolate.
_MY THRUSH._
All through the sultry hours of June, From morning blithe to golden noon, And till the star of evening climbs The gray-blue East, a world too soon, There sings a Thrush amid the limes.
God's poet, hid in foliage green, Sings endless songs, himself unseen; Right seldom come his silent times. Linger, ye summer hours serene! Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes.
. . . . . . .
May I not dream God sends thee there, Thou mellow angel of the air, Even to rebuke my earthlier rhymes With music's soul, all praise and prayer? Is that thy lesson in the limes?
Closer to God art thou than I: His minstrel thou, whose brown wings fly Through silent aether's sunnier climes. Ah, never may thy music die! Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes!
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.
1826-1887.
_TOO LATE._
_"Dowglas, Dowglas, tendir and treu."_
Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, In the old likeness that I knew, I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.
Never a scornful word should grieve ye, I 'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do;-- Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.
O to call back the days that are not! My eyes were blinded, your words were few: Do you know the truth now up in heaven, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?
I never was worthy of you, Douglas; Not half worthy the like of you: Now all men beside seem to me like shadows-- I love _you_, Douglas, tender and true.
Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew; As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.
[Decoration]
_A SILLY SONG._
"O heart, my heart!" she said, and heard His mate the blackbird calling, While through the sheen of the garden green May rain was softly falling,-- Aye softly, softly falling.
The buttercups across the field Made sunshine rifts of splendour: The round snow-bud of the thorn in the wood Peeped through its leafage tender, As the rain came softly falling.
"O heart, my heart!" she said and smiled, "There 's not a tree of the valley, Or a leaf I wis which the rain's soft kiss Freshens in yonder alley, Where the drops keep ever falling,--
"There 's not a foolish flower i' the grass, Or bird through the woodland calling, So glad again of the coming rain As I of these tears now falling,-- These happy tears down falling."
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
GEORGE DARLEY.
1795-1846.
_MAY DAY._
FROM "SYLVIA": _Act III. Scene ii_.
O may, thou art a merry time, Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale! When hedge-pipes they begin to chime, And summer-flowers to sow the dale.
When lasses and their lovers meet Beneath the early village-thorn, And to the sound of tabor sweet Bid welcome to the Maying-morn!
O May, thou art a merry time, Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale! When hedge-pipes they begin to chime, And summer-flowers to sow the dale.
When grey-beards and their gossips come With crutch in hand our sports to see, And both go tottering, tattling home, Topful of wine as well as glee!
O May, thou art a merry time, Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale! When hedge-pipes they begin to chime, And summer-flowers to sow the dale.
But Youth was aye the time for bliss, So taste it, Shepherds! while ye may: For who can tell that joy like this Will come another holiday?
O May, thou art a merry time, Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale! When hedge-pipes they begin to chime, And summer-flowers to sow the dale.
_I'VE BEEN ROAMING._
FROM "LILIAN OF THE VALE."
I 've been roaming! I 've been roaming! Where the meadow dew is sweet, And like a queen I 'm coming With its pearls upon my feet.
I 've been roaming! I 've been roaming! O'er red rose and lily fair, And like a sylph I 'm coming With their blossoms in my hair.
I 've been roaming! I 've been roaming! Where the honeysuckle creeps, And like a bee I 'm coming With its kisses on my lips.
I 've been roaming! I 've been roaming! Over hill and over plain, And like a bird I 'm coming To my bower back again!
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_SYLVIA'S SONG._
The streams that wind amid the hills And lost in pleasure slowly roam, While their deep joy the valley fills,-- Even these will leave their mountain home; So may it, Love! with others be, But I will never wend from thee.
The leaf forsakes the parent spray, The blossom quits the stem as fast; The rose-enamour'd bird will stray And leave his eglantine at last: So may it, Love! with others be, But I will never wend from thee.
_SERENADE._
FROM "SYLVIA": _Act IV. Scene I_.
Romanzo sings:
Awake thee, my Lady-love! Wake thee, and rise! The sun through the bower peeps Into thine eyes!
Behold how the early lark Springs from the corn! Hark, hark how the flower-bird Winds her wee horn!
The swallow's glad shriek is heard All through the air! The stock-dove is murmuring Loud as she dare!
Apollo's winged bugleman Cannot contain, But peals his loud trumpet-call Once and again!
Then wake thee, my Lady-love, Bird of my bower! The sweetest and sleepiest Bird at this hour!
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
LORD DE TABLEY.
1835.
_A WINTER SKETCH._
When the snow begins to feather, And the woods begin to roar Clashing angry boughs together, As the breakers grind the shore Nature then a bankrupt goes, Full of wreck and full of woes.
When the swan for warmer forelands Leaves the sea-firth's icebound edge, When the gray geese from the morelands Cleave the clouds in noisy wedge, Woodlands stand in frozen chains, Hung with ropes of solid rains.
Shepherds creep to byre and haven, Sheep in drifts are nipped and numb; Some belated rook or raven Rocks upon a sign-post dumb; Mere-waves, solid as a clod, Roar with skaters, thunder-shod.
All the roofs and chimneys rumble; Roads are ridged with slush and sleet; Down the orchard apples tumble; Ploughboys stamp their frosty feet; Millers, jolted down the lanes, Hardly feel for cold their reins.
Snipes are calling from the trenches, Frozen half and half at flow; In the porches servant wenches Work with shovels at the snow; Rusty blackbirds, weak of wing, Clean forget they once could sing.
Dogs and boys fetch down the cattle, Deep in mire and powdered pale; Spinning-wheels commence to rattle; Landlords spice the smoking ale. Hail, white winter, lady fine, In a cup of elder wine!
[Decoration]
_THE SECOND MADRIGAL._
Woo thy lass while May is here; Winter vows are colder. Have thy kiss when lips are near; To-morrow you are older.
Think, if clear the throstle sing, A month his note will thicken; A throat of gold in a golden spring At the edge of the snow will sicken.
Take thy cup and take thy girl, While they come for asking; In thy heyday melt the pearl At the love-ray basking.
Ale is good for careless bards, Wine for wayworn sinners. They who hold the strongest cards Rise from life as winners.
[Decoration]
AUBREY DE VERE.
1788-1846.
_SONG._