IV.
The streamlet now is frozen, The nightingales are fled, The cornfields are deserted, And every rose is dead. I sit beside my lonely fire, And pray for wisdom yet-- For calmness to remember Or courage to forget.
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_OH, LET ME DREAM._
FROM "A NINE DAYS' WONDER."
Oh! let me dream of happy days gone by, Forgetting sorrows that have come between, As sunlight gilds some distant summit high, And leaves the valleys dark that intervene. The phantoms of remorse that haunt The soul, are laid beneath that spell; As, in the music of a chaunt Is lost the tolling of a bell. Oh! let me dream of happy days gone by, etc.
In youth, we plucked full many a flower that died, Dropped on the pathway, as we danced along; And now, we cherish each poor leaflet dried In pages which to that dear past belong. With sad crushed hearts they yet retain Some semblance of their glories fled; Like us, whose lineaments remain, When all the fires of life are dead. Oh! let me dream, etc.
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_LOVE, THE PILGRIM._
SUGGESTED BY A SKETCH BY E. BURNE-JONES.
Every day a Pilgrim, blindfold, When the night and morning meet, Entereth the slumbering city, Stealeth down the silent street; Lingereth round some battered doorway, Leaves unblest some portal grand, And the walls, where sleep the children, Toucheth, with his warm young hand. Love is passing! Love is passing!-- Passing while ye lie asleep: In your blessed dreams, O children, Give him all your hearts to keep!
Blindfold is this Pilgrim, Maiden. Though to-day he touched thy door, He may pass it by to-morrow-- --Pass it--to return no more. Let us then with prayers entreat him,-- Youth! her heart, whose coldness grieves, May one morn by Love be softened; Prize the treasure that he leaves. Love is passing! Love is passing! All, with hearts to hope and pray, Bid this pilgrim touch the lintels Of your doorways every day.
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WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.
1824-1889.
_LOVELY MARY DONNELLY._
Oh, lovely Mary Donnelly, my joy, my only best! If fifty girls were round you, I 'd hardly see the rest; Be what it may the time o' day, the place be where it will, Sweet looks o' Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.
Her eyes like mountain water that 's flowing on a rock, How clear they are, how dark they are! they give me many a shock; Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a show'r, Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its pow'r.
Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up, Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup, Her hair 's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine; It 's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine.
The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before, No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor; But Mary kept the belt o' love, and O but she was gay! She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away.
When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete The music nearly kill'd itself to listen to her feet; The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised, But bless'd his luck to not be deaf when once her voice she raised.
And evermore I 'm whistling or lilting what you sung, Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue; But you 've as many sweethearts as you 'd count on both your hands, And for myself there 's not a thumb or little finger stands.
'T is you 're the flower o' womankind in country or in town; The higher I exalt you, the lower I 'm cast down. If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright, And you to be his lady, I 'd own it was but right.
O might we live together in a lofty palace hall, Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall! O might we live together in a cottage mean and small, With sods o' grass the only roof, and mud the only wall!
O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty 's my distress. It 's far too beauteous to be mine, but I 'll never wish it less. The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low; But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go!
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_SONG._
O spirit of the Summertime! Bring back the roses to the dells; The swallow from her distant clime, The honey-bee from drowsy cells.
Bring back the friendship of the sun; The gilded evenings, calm and late, When merry children homeward run, And peeping stars bid lovers wait.
Bring back the singing; and the scent Of meadowlands at dewy prime;-- Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summertime!
_SERENADE._
Oh, hearing sleep, and sleeping hear, The while we dare to call thee dear, So may thy dreams be good, altho' The loving power thou dost not know. As music parts the silence,--lo! Through heaven the stars begin to peep, To comfort us that darkling pine Because those fairer lights of thine Have set into the Sea of Sleep. Yet closed still thine eyelids keep; And may our voices through the sphere Of Dreamland all as softly rise As through these shadowy rural dells, Where bashful Echo somewhere dwells, And touch thy spirit to as soft replies. May peace from gentle guardian skies, Till watches of the dark are worn, Surround thy bed, and joyous morn Makes all the chamber rosy bright! Good-night!--From far-off fields is borne The drowsy Echo's faint 'Good-night,'-- Good-night! Good-night!
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_ACROSS THE SEA._
I walked in the lonesome evening, And who so sad as I, When I saw the young men and maidens Merrily passing by. To thee, my Love, to thee-- So fain would I come to thee! While the ripples fold upon sands of gold, And I look across the sea.
I stretch out my hands; who will clasp them? I call,--thou repliest no word. Oh, why should heart-longing be weaker Than the waving wings of a bird! To thee, my Love, to thee-- So fain would I come to thee! For the tide 's at rest from east to west, And I look across the sea.
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There 's joy in the hopeful morning, There 's peace in the parting day, There 's sorrow with every lover Whose true love is far away. To thee, my Love, to thee-- So fain would I come to thee! And the water 's bright in a still moonlight, As I look across the sea.
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SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.
1832.
_SERENADE._
Lute! breathe thy lowest in my Lady's ear, Sing while she sleeps, "Ah! belle dame, aimez-vous?" Till, dreaming still, she dream that I am here, And wake to find it, as my love is, true; Then, when she listens in her warm white nest, Say in slow music,--softer, tenderer yet, That lute-strings quiver when their tone 's at rest, And my heart trembles when my lips are set.
Stars! if my sweet love still a-dreaming lies, Shine through the roses for a lover's sake And send your silver to her lidded eyes, Kissing them very gently till she wake; Then while she wonders at the lay and light, Tell her, though morning endeth star and song, That ye live still, when no star glitters bright, And my love lasteth, though it finds no tongue.
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_A LOVE SONG OF HENRI QUATRE._
Come, rosy Day! Come quick--I pray-- I am so glad when I thee see! Because my Fair, Who is so dear, Is rosy-red and white like thee.
She lives, I think, On heavenly drink Dawn-dew, which Hebe pours for her; Else--when I sip At her soft lip How smells it of ambrosia?
She is so fair None can compare; And, oh, her slender waist divine! Her sparkling eyes Set in the skies The morning stars would far outshine!
Only to hear Her voice so clear The village gathers in the street; And Tityrus, Grown one of us, Leaves piping on his flute so sweet.
The Graces three, Where'er she be, Call all the Loves to flutter nigh; And what she 'll say,-- Speak when she may,-- Is full of sense and majesty!
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THOMAS ASHE.
1836-1889.
_NO AND YES._
If I could choose my paradise, And please myself with choice of bliss, Then I would have your soft blue eyes And rosy little mouth to kiss! Your lips, as smooth and tender, child, As rose-leaves in a coppice wild.
If fate bade choose some sweet unrest, To weave my troubled life a snare, Then I would say "her maiden breast And golden ripple of her hair;" And weep amid those tresses, child, Contented to be thus beguiled.
_AT ALTENAHR._
1872.
_Meet we no angels, Pansie?_
Came, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet, In white, to find her lover; The grass grew proud beneath her feet, The green elm-leaves above her:-- Meet we no angels, Pansie?
She said, "We meet no angels now;" And soft lights streamed upon her; And with white hand she touched a bough; She did it that great honour:-- What! meet no angels, Pansie?
O sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes Down-dropped brown eyes so tender! Then what said I?--Gallant replies Seem flattery, and offend her:-- But,--meet no angels, Pansie?
_MARIT._
1869-70.
_C'est un songe que d'y penser._
My love, on a fair May morning, Would weave a garland of May: The dew hung frore, as her foot tripped o'er The grass at dawn of the day; On leaf and stalk, in each green wood-walk, Till the sun should charm it away.
Green as a leaf her kirtle, Her bodice red as a rose: Her white bare feet went softly and sweet By roots where the violet grows; Where speedwells azure as heaven, Their sleepy eyes half close.
O'er arms as fair as the lilies No sleeve my love drew on: She found a bower of the wildrose flower, And for her breast culled one: And I laugh and know her breasts will grow Or ever a year be gone.
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O sweet dream, wrought of a dear fore-thought, Of a golden time to fall! She seemed to sing, in her wandering, Till doves in the elm-tops tall Grew mute to hear; as her song rang clear How love is the lord of all.
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ALFRED AUSTIN.
1835.
_A NIGHT IN JUNE._
Lady! in this night of June, Fair like thee and holy, Art thou gazing at the moon That is rising slowly? I am gazing on her now: Something tells me, so art thou.
Night hath been when thou and I Side by side were sitting, Watching o'er the moonlit sky Fleecy cloudlets flitting. Close our hands were linked then; When will they be linked again?
What to me the starlight still, Or the moonbeams' splendour, If I do not feel the thrill Of thy fingers slender? Summer nights in vain are clear, If thy footstep be not near.
Roses slumbering in their sheaths O'er my threshold clamber, And the honeysuckle wreathes Its translucent amber Round the gables of my home: How is it thou dost not come?
If thou camest, rose on rose From its sleep would waken; From each flower and leaf that blows Spices would be shaken; Floating down from star and tree, Dreamy perfumes welcome thee.
I would lead thee where the leaves In the moon-rays glisten; And, where shadows fall in sheaves, We would lean and listen For the song of that sweet bird That in April nights is heard.
And when weary lids would close, And thy head was drooping, Then, like dew that steeps the rose, O'er thy languor stooping, I would, till I woke a sigh, Kiss thy sweet lips silently.
I would give thee all I own, All thou hast would borrow, I from thee would keep alone Fear and doubt and sorrow. All of tender that is mine Should most tenderly be thine.
Moonlight! into other skies, I beseech thee wander. Cruel thus to mock mine eyes, Idle, thus to squander Love's own light on this dark spot;-- For my lady cometh not!
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THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES.
1803-1849.
_DREAM-PEDLARY._