Part 11
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 on thine, Oh, belovéd as thou art!
Oh 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; O! press it to thine own again Where it will break at last.
P.B. SHELLEY.
173.
She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies, And all that's best of dark and bright Meets 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.
174.
She was a phantom of delight When first she gleam'd 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 waylay.
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; A perfect woman, nobly plann'd, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of an angel-light.
W. WORDSWORTH.
175.
She is not fair to outward view As many maidens be; Her loveliness I never knew Until she smiled on me. O then I saw her eye was bright, A well of love, a spring of light.
But now her looks are coy and cold, To mine they ne'er reply, And yet I cease not to behold The love-light in her eye: Her very frowns are fairer far Than smiles of other maidens are.
H. COLERIDGE.
176.
I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden; Thou needest not fear mine; My spirit is too deeply laden Ever to burthen thine.
I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion; Thou needest not fear mine; Innocent is the heart's devotion With which I worship thine.
P.B. SHELLEY.
177. THE LOST LOVE.
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 O! The difference to me!
W. WORDSWORTH.
178.
I travell'd 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 cherish'd turn'd her wheel Beside an English fire.
Thy mornings showed, thy nights conceal'd, The bowers where Lucy play'd; And thine too is the last green field That Lucy's eyes survey'd.
W. WORDSWORTH.
179. THE EDUCATION OF NATURE.
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 her's shall be the breathing balm, And her's 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 E'en in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mould 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.
W. WORDSWORTH.
180.
A slumber did my spirit seal; I had no human fears: She seem'd a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years.
No motion has she now, no force; She neither hears nor sees; Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course With rocks, and stones, and trees!
W. WORDSWORTH.
181. LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.
A Chieftain to the Highlands bound Cries "Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry!"
"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle This dark and stormy water?" "O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.
"And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather.
"His horsemen hard behind us ride-- Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?"
Out spoke the hardy Highland wight "I'll go, my chief, I'm ready: It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady:--
"And by my word! the bonny bird In danger not shall tarry; So though the waves are raging white I'll row you o'er the ferry."
By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking.
But still as wilder blew the wind And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode arméd men, Their trampling sounded nearer.
"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, "Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father."
The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her,-- When O! too strong for human hand The tempest gather'd o'er her.
And still they row'd amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing: Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,-- His wrath was changed to wailing.
For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade His child he did discover:-- One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, And one was round her lover.
"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, "Across this stormy water: And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!--O my daughter!"
'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore, Return or aid preventing: The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting.
T. CAMPBELL.
182. JOCK O' HAZELDEAN.
"Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? Why weep ye by the tide? I'll wed ye to my youngest son, And ye sall be his bride: And ye sall be his bride, ladie, Sae comely to be seen"-- But aye she loot the tears doon fa' For Jock o' Hazeldean.
"Now let this wilfu' grief be done, And dry that cheek so pale; Young Frank is chief of Errington And lord of Langley-dale; His step is first in peaceful ha', His sword in battle keen"-- But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock o' Hazeldean.
"A chain of gold ye shall not lack, Nor braid to bind your hair, Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk Nor palfrey fresh and fair; And you the foremost o' them a' Shall ride our forest queen"-- But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock o' Hazeldean.
The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide, The tapers glimmer'd fair; The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, And dame and knight are there: They sought her baith by bower and ha'; The ladie was not seen! She's o'er the Border, and awa' Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean.
SIR W. SCOTT.
183. FREEDOM AND LOVE.
How delicious is the winning Of a kiss at love's beginning, When two mutual hearts are sighing For the knot there's no untying!
Yet remember, 'midst your wooing, Love has bliss, but Love has ruing; Other smiles may make you fickle, Tears for other charms may trickle.
Love he comes, and Love he tarries, Just as fate or fancy carries; Longest stays, when sorest chidden; Laughs and flies, when press'd and bidden.
Bind the sea to slumber stilly, Bind its odour to the lily, Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver, Then bind Love to last for ever.
Love's a fire that needs renewal Of fresh beauty for its fuel: Love's wing moults when caged and captured, Only free, he soars enraptured.
Can you keep the bee from ranging Or the ringdove's neck from changing? No! nor fetter'd Love from dying In the knot there's no untying.
T. CAMPBELL.
184. LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY.
The 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 disdain'd its brother: And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea-- What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me?
P.B. SHELLEY.
185. ECHOES.
How sweet the answer Echo makes To Music at night When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, And far away o'er lawns and lakes Goes answering light!
Yet Love hath echoes truer far And far more sweet Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star, Of horn or lute or soft guitar The songs repeat.
'Tis when the sigh,--in youth sincere And only then, The sigh that's breathed for one to hear-- Is by that one, that only Dear Breathed back again.
T. MOORE.
186. A SERENADE.
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh, The sun has left the lea, The orange-flower perfumes the bower, The breeze is on the sea. The lark, his lay who trill'd all day, Sits hush'd his partner nigh; Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour, But where is County Guy?
The village maid steals through the shade Her shepherd's suit to hear; To Beauty shy, by lattice high, Sings high-born Cavalier. The star of Love, all stars above, Now reigns o'er earth and sky, And high and low the influence know-- But where is County Guy?
SIR W. SCOTT.
187. TO THE EVENING STAR.
Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even, Companion of retiring day, Why at the closing gates of heaven, Beloved Star, dost thou delay?
So fair thy pensile beauty burns When soft the tear of twilight flows; So due thy plighted love returns To chambers brighter than the rose;
To Peace, to Pleasure, and to love So kind a star thou seem'st to be, Sure some enamour'd orb above Descends and burns to meet with thee.
Thine is the breathing, blushing hour When all unheavenly passions fly, Chased by the soul-subduing power Of Love's delicious witchery.
O! sacred to the fall of day Queen of propitious stars, appear, And early rise, and long delay When Caroline herself is here!
Shine on her chosen green resort Whose trees the sunward summit crown, And wanton flowers, that well may court An angel's feet to tread them down:--
Shine on her sweetly scented road Thou star of evening's purple dome, That lead'st the nightingale abroad, And guid'st the pilgrim to his home.
Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath Embalms the soft exhaling dew, Where dying winds a sigh bequeath To kiss the cheek of rosy hue:--
Where, winnow'd by the gentle air, Her silken tresses darkly flow And fall upon her brow so fair, Like shadows on the mountain snow.
Thus, ever thus, at day's decline In converse sweet to wander far-- O bring with thee my Caroline, And thou shalt be my Ruling Star!
T. CAMPBELL.
188. TO THE NIGHT.
Swiftly walk over the western wave, Spirit of Night! Out of the misty eastern cave Where all the long and lone daylight Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear Which make thee terrible and dear,-- Swift be thy flight!
Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, Star-inwrought! Blind with thine hair the eyes of day, Kiss her until she be wearied out, Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, Touching all with thine opiate wand-- Come, long-sought!
When I arose and saw the dawn, I sigh'd for thee; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turn'd to his rest, Lingering like an unloved guest, I sigh'd for thee.
Thy brother Death came, and cried, Wouldst thou me? Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee Shall I nestle near thy side? Wouldst thou me?--And I replied No, not thee!
Death will come when thou art dead, Soon, too soon-- Sleep will come when thou art fled; Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee, belovéd Night-- Swift be thine approaching flight, Come soon, soon!
P.B. SHELLEY.
189. TO A DISTANT FRIEND.
Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air Of absence withers what was once so fair? Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?
Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant, Bound to thy service with unceasing care-- The mind's least generous wish a mendicant For nought but what thy happiness could spare.
Speak!--though this soft warm heart, once free to hold A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, Be left more desolate, more dreary cold Than a forsaken bird's-nest fill'd with snow 'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine-- Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!
W. WORDSWORTH.
190.
When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years, 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.
191. HAPPY INSENSIBILITY.
In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy Tree Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity: 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 Writhed not at passéd joy? To know the change and feel it, When there is none to heal it Nor numbéd sense to steal it-- Was never said in rhyme.
J. KEATS.
192.
Where shall the lover rest Whom the fates sever From his true maiden's breast Parted for ever? Where, through groves deep and high Sounds the far billow, Where early violets die Under the willow. Eleu loro Soft shall be his pillow.
There, through the summer day Cool streams are laving: There, while the tempests sway, Scarce are boughs waving; There thy rest shalt thou take, Parted for ever, Never again to wake Never, O never! Eleu loro Never, O never!
Where shall the traitor rest, He, the deceiver, Who would win maiden's breast, Ruin, and leave her? In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying; Eleu loro There shall he be lying.
Her wing shall the eagle flap O'er the falsehearted; His warm blood the wolf shall lap Ere life be parted: Shame and dishonour sit By his grave ever; Blessing shall hallow it Never, O never! Eleu loro Never, O never!
SIR W. SCOTT.
193. LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI.
"O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing.
"O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done.
"I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever-dew, And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too."
"I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful--a faery's child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild.
"I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan.
"I set her on my pacing steed And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery's song.
"She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild and manna-dew, And sure in language strange she said, 'I love thee true.'
"She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore, And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four.
"And there she lulléd me asleep, And there I dream'd--Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dream'd On the cold hill's side.
"I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried--'La belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!'
"I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gapéd wide, And I awoke and found me here, On the cold hill's side.
"And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing."
J. KEATS.
194. THE ROVER.
"A weary lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, And press the rue for wine. A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green-- No more of me you knew, My Love! No more of me you knew.
"The morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain; But she shall bloom in winter snow Ere we two meet again." He turn'd his charger as he spake Upon the river shore, He gave the bridle-reins a shake, Said "Adieu for evermore, My Love! And adieu for evermore."
SIR W. SCOTT.
195. THE FLIGHT OF LOVE.
When the lamp is shatter'd, The light in the dust lies dead-- When the cloud is scatter'd, The rainbow's glory is shed. When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remember'd 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 ruin'd cell, Or the mournful surges That ring the dead seaman'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?
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.
196. THE MAID OF NEIDPATH.
O lovers' eyes are sharp to see, And lovers' ears in hearing; And love, in life's extremity Can lend an hour of cheering. Disease had been in Mary's bower And slow decay from mourning, Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower To watch her Love's returning.
All sunk and dim her eyes so bright, Her form decay'd by pining, Till through her wasted hand, at night, You saw the taper shining. By fits a sultry hectic hue Across her cheek was flying; By fits so ashy pale she grew Her maidens thought her dying.
Yet keenest powers to see and hear Seem'd in her frame residing; Before the watch-dog prick'd his ear She heard her lover's riding; Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd She knew and waved to greet him, And o'er the battlement did bend As on the wing to meet him.
He came--he pass'd--an heedless gaze As o'er some stranger glancing; Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase, Lost in his courser's prancing--
The castle-arch, whose hollow tone Returns each whisper spoken, Could scarcely catch the feeble moan Which told her heart was broken.
SIR W. SCOTT
197. THE MAID OF NEIDPATH.
Earl March look'd 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 look'd up to Ellen's bower And she look'd on her lover--
But ah! so pale, he knew her not, Though her smile on him was dwelling-- And am I 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.
T. CAMPBELL
198.
Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art-- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors:--
No--yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, Pillow'd upon my fair Love's ripening breast To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest;
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever,--or else swoon to death.
J. KEATS.
199. THE TERROR OF DEATH.