At the sight of the great sky;
And the silence, as it stood
In the glory's golden flood,
Audibly did bud, and bud!
Through the winding hedge-rows green,
How we wandered, I and you,
With the bowery tops shut in,
And the gates that showed the view; How we talked there! thrushes soft Sang our pauses out, or oft
Bleatings took them from the croft.
Till the pleasure, grown too strong,
Left me muter evermore;
And, the winding road being long,
I walked out of sight, before;
And so, wrapt in musings fond,
Issued (past the wayside pond)
On the meadow-lands beyond.
I sat down beneath the beech
Which leans over to the lane,
And the far sound of your speech
Did not promise any pain;
And I blessed you, full and free,
With a smile stooped tenderly
O'er the May-flowers on my knee.
But the sound grew into word
As the speakers drew more near —
Sweet, forgive me that I heard
What you wished me not to hear.
Do not weep so, do not shake-
O, I heard thee, Bertha, make
Good true answers for my sake.
Yes, and he too! let him stand
In thy thoughts, untouched by blame. Could he help it, if my hand
He had claimed with hasty claim !
That was wrong perhaps, but then
Such things be- and will, again!
Women cannot judge for men.
Had he seen thee, when he swore
He would love but me alone?
Thou wert absent, sent before
To our kin in Sidmouth town.
When he saw thee, who art best
Past compare, and loveliest,
He but judged thee as the rest.
Could we blame him with grave words,
Thou and I, dear, if we might?
Thy brown eyes have looks like birds
Flying straightway to the light;
Mine are older. Hush! - look out
Up the street! Is none without?
How the poplar swings about!
I like May-bloom on thorn-tree, Thou like merry summer-bee! Fit, that I be plucked for thee.
Yet who plucks me?-no one mourns;
I have lived my season out,
And now die of my own thorns,
Which I could not live without.
Sweet, be merry! How the light
Comes and goes! If it be night,
Keep the candles in my sight.
Are there footsteps at the door?
Look out quickly. Yea, or nay? Some one might be waiting for Some last word that I might say. Nay? So best! - So angels would Stand off clear from deathly road, Not to cross the sight of God.
Colder grow my hands and feet,
When I wear the shroud I made, Let the folds lie straight and neat, And the rosemary be spread, That if any friend should come, (To see thee, sweet!) all the room May be lifted out of gloom.
And, dear Bertha, let me keep
On my hand this little ring, Which at nights, when others sleep, I can still see glittering.
Let me wear it out of sight,
In the grave, - where it will light
All the dark up, day and night.
Jesus, victim, comprehending
Love's divine self-abnegation,
Cleanse my love in its self-spending,
And absorb the poor libation!
Wind my thread of life up higher,
Up through angels' hands of fire!
I aspire while I expire !—
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
COME to me, O my Mother! come to me,
Thine own son slowly dying far away!
Through the moist ways of the wide ocean, blown
By great invisible winds, come stately ships
To this calm bay for quiet anchorage;
They come, they rest awhile, they go away,
But, O my Mother, never comest thou !
As a peculiar darling? Lo, the flies
Hum o'er him! Lo, a feather from the crow
Falls in his parted lips! Lo, his dead eyes
See not the raven! Lo, the worm, the worm
Creeps from his festering corse! My God! my
God!
O Lord, Thou doest well. I am content.
If Thou have need of him he shall not stay.
But as one calleth to a servant, saying
"At such a time be with me," so, O Lord,
Call him to Thee! O, bid him not in haste
Straight whence he standeth. Let him lay aside
The soiléd tools of labor. Let him wash
His hands of blood. Let him array himself
Meet for his Lord, pure from the sweat and fume
Of corporal travail ! Lord, if he must die,
Let him die here. O, take him where Thou gavest!
And even as once I held him in my womb
The snow is round thy dwelling, the white snow, Till all things were fulfilled, and he came forth,
That cold soft revelation pure as light,
And the pine-spire is mystically fringed,
Laced with incrusted silver. Here-ah me!
The winter is decrepit, underborn,
A leper with no power but his disease.
LORD, I am weeping. As Thou wilt, O Lord,
Do with him as Thou wilt; but O my God,
Let him come back to die! Let not the fowls
O' the air defile the body of my child,
My own fair child, that when he was a babe,
I lift up in my arms and gave to Thee!
Let not his garment, Lord, be vilely parted,
Nor the fine linen which these hands have spun
Fall to the stranger's lot! Shall the wild bird,
That would have pilfered of the ox, this year
Disdain the pens and stalls? Shall her blind
That on the fleck and moult of brutish beasts Had been too happy, sleep in cloth of gold Whereof each thread is to this beating heart
So, O Lord, let me hold him in my grave
Till the time come, and Thou, who settest when
The hinds shall calve, ordain a better birth;
And as I looked and saw my son, and wept
For joy, I look again and see my son,
And weep again for joy of him and Thee!
Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.
Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest !
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest!
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!
Ae fareweel, alas! forever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee; Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
O MY LUVE'S LIKE A RED, RED ROSE.
O MY Luve's like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June:
O my Luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I :
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry:
Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
THE KISS, DEAR MAID.
THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left
Shall never part from mine,
Till happier hours restore the gift
Untainted back to thine.
Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, An equal love may see:
The tear that from thine eyelid streams Can weep no change in me.
I ask no pledge to make me blest
In gazing when alone ;
Nor one memorial for a breast
Whose thoughts are all thine own.
Nor need I write to tell the tale
My pen were doubly weak:
O, what can idle words avail,
Unless the heart could speak?
|