Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB

Langley Lane

3177

LANGLEY LANE

In all the land, range up, range down,

Is there ever a place so pleasant and sweet,
As Langley Lane in London town,

Just out of the bustle of square and street?
Little white cottages all in a row,
Gardens where bachelors'-buttons grow,
Swallows' nests in roof and wall,

And up above the still blue sky,

Where the woolly white clouds go sailing by-
I seem to be able to see it all!

For now,

in summer, I take my chair,

And sit outside in the sun, and hear
The distant murmur of street and square,

And the swallows and sparrows chirping near;
And Fanny, who lives just over the way,
Comes running many a time each day,

With her little hand's-touch so warm and kind,
And I smile and talk, with the sun on my cheek,
And the little live hand seems to stir and speak-
For Fanny is dumb and I am blind.

Fanny is sweet thirteen, and she

Has fine black ringlets and dark eyes clear,

And I am older by summers three,

Why should we hold one another so dear?

Because she cannot utter a word,

Nor hear the music of bee or bird,

The water-cart's splash or the milkman's call.

Because I have never seen the sky,

Nor the little singers that hum and fly,—
Yet know she is gazing upon them all!

For the sun is shining, the swallows fly,
The bees and the blueflies murmur low,

And I hear the water-cart go by,

With its cool splash-splash down the dusty row; And the little one, close at my side, perceives Mine eyes upraised to the cottage eaves,

Where birds are chirping in summer shine,
And I hear, though I cannot look, and she,
Though she cannot hear, can the singers see,-
And the little soft fingers flutter in mine.
Hath not the dear little hand a tongue,

When it stirs on my palm for the love of me?
Do I not know she is pretty and young?
Hath not my soul an eye to see?
'Tis pleasure to make one's bosom stir,
To wonder how things appear to her,

That I only hear as they pass around;
And as long as we sit in the music and light,
She is happy to keep God's sight,

And I am happy to keep God's sound.

Why, I know her face, though I am blind-
I made it of music long ago:

Strange large eyes and dark hair twined
Round the pensive light of a brow of snow;
And when I sit by my
little one,

And hold her hand and talk in the sun,

And hear the music that haunts the place,
I know she is raising her eyes to me,
And guessing how gentle my voice must be,
And seeing the music upon my face.

Though, if ever the Lord should grant me a prayer (I know the fancy is only vain),

I should pray: Just once, when the weather is fair,
To see little Fanny and Langley Lane;

Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray to hear
The voice of the friend she holds so dear,

The song of the birds, the hum of the street,

It is better to be as we have been,

Each keeping up something, unheard, unseen,

To make God's heaven more strange and sweet!

Ah, life is pleasant in Langley Lane!

There is always something sweet to hear! Chirping of birds or patter of rain;

And Fanny, my little one, always near;

The Weakest Thing

And though I am weakly and can't live long,
And Fanny my darling is far from strong,

[ocr errors]

3179

And though we can never married be,-
What then?-since we hold one another so dear,
For the sake of the pleasure one cannot hear,
And the pleasure that only one can see?

Robert Buchanan [1841-1901]

THE WEAKEST THING

WHICH is the weakest thing of all
Mine heart can ponder?
The sun, a little cloud can pall
With darkness yonder?

The cloud, a little wind can move

Where'er it listeth?

The wind, a little leaf above,
Though sere, resisteth?

What time that yellow leaf was green,

My days were gladder;

But now, whatever Spring may mean,
I must grow sadder.

Ah me! a leaf with sighs can wring

My lips asunder?

Then is mine heart the weakest thing

Itself can ponder.

Yet, Heart, when sun and cloud are pined

And drop together,

And at a blast which is not wind

The forests wither,

Thou, from the darkening deathly curse

To glory breakest,

The Strongest of the universe

Guarding the weakest!

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

SONG

We only ask for sunshine,

We did not want the rain;

But see the flowers that spring from showers
All up and down the plain.

We beg the gods for laughter,

We shrink, we dread the tears;
But grief's redress is happiness,

Alternate through the years.

Helen Hay Whitney [18

THE HOUSE OF PAIN

UNTO the Prison House of Pain none willingly repair—
The bravest who an entrance gain

Reluctant linger there

For Pleasure, passing by that door, stays not to cheer the sight,

And Sympathy but muffles sound and banishes the light.

Yet in the Prison House of Pain things full of beauty blow— Like Christmas roses, which attain

Perfection 'mid the snow

Love, entering in his mild warmth the darkest shadows melt,

And often, where the hush is deep, the waft of wings is felt.

Ah, me! the Prison House of Pain!-what lessons there are

bought!

Lessons of a sublimer strain

Than any elsewhere taught

Amid its loneliness and gloom, grave meanings grow more

clear,

For to no earthly dwelling-place seems God so strangely

near!

Florence Earle Coates [1850

"Multum Dilexit"

WISE

AN apple orchard smells like wine;

A succory flower is blue;

Until Grief touched these eyes of mine,

Such things I never knew.

And now indeed I know so plain
Why one would like to cry
When spouts are full of April rain—
Such lonely folk go by!

So wise, so wise-that my tears fall
Each breaking of the dawn;

That I do long to tell you all

But you are dead and gone.

Lizette Woodworth Reese [1856

3181

"MULTUM DILEXIT"

SHE sat and wept beside His feet; the weight
Of sin oppressed her heart; for all the blame,
And the poor malice of the worldly shame,
To her was past, extinct, and out of date:
Only the sin remained,―the leprous state;
She would be melted by the heat of love,
By fires far fiercer than are blown to prove
And purge the silver ore adulterate.

She sat and wept, and with her untressed hair
Still wiped the feet she was so blessed to touch;

And He wiped off the soiling of despair

From her sweet soul, because she loved so much.

I am a sinner, full of doubts and fears:

Make me a humble thing of love and tears.

Hartley Coleridge [1796-1849]

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »