Изображения страниц

We are not proud, with a fool's pride,

Nor cowards, to be held in thrall By pelf or lineage, rank or lands: -One honest heart, two honest hands,

Are worth far more than Moreton Hall.

Therefore we laugh to scorn — we two

The bars that weaker souls appall : I take her hand, and hold it fast, Knowing she 'll love me to the last, My dearest maid of Moreton Hall.



Fair Amy of the terraced house,

Assist me to discover
Why you who would not hurt a mouse

Can torture so your lover.


You give your coffee to the cat,

You stroke the dog for coming, And all your face grows kinder at

The little brown bee's humming.


But when he haunts your door... the town

Marks coming and marks going... You seem to have stitched your eyelids down

To that long piece of sewing!


You never give a look, not you,

Nor drop him Good morning,” To keep his long day warm and blue,

So fretted by your scorning.


She shook her head : “The mouse and bee

For crumb or flower will linger; The dog is happy at my knee,

The cat purrs at my finger.


“But he ... to him, the least thing given

Means great things at a distance ; He wants my world, my sun, my heaven,

Soul, body, whole existence.


“ They say love gives as well as takes ;

But I'm a simple maiden, My mother's first smile when she wakes

I still have smiled and prayed in.

Shall I love you like the fire, love,

With furious heat and noise,
To waken in you all love's fears

And little of love's joys!
The passion of the fire, love,

Whate'er it finds, destroys.

I will love you like the stars, love,

Set in the heavenly blue,
That only shine the brighter

After weeping tears of dew;
Above the wind and fire, love,

They love the ages through !

And when this life is o'er, love,

With all its joys and jars,
We'll leave behind the wind and fire

To wage their boisterous wars,
Then we shall only be, love,

The ncarer to the stars !



She moves as light across the grass

As moves my shadow large and tall ; And like my shadow, close yet free, The thought of her aye follows me,

My little maid of Moreton Hall.

No matter how or where we loved,

Or when we 'll wed, or what befall ;
I only feel she 's mine at last,
I only know I 'll hold her fast,

Though to dust crumbles Moreton Hall.

Her pedigree - good sooth, 't is long !

Her grim sires stare from every wall;
And centuries of ancestral grace
Revive in her sweet girlish face,

As meek she glides through Moreton Hall. Whilst I have — nothing ; save, perhaps,

Some worthless heaps of idle gold And a true heart,

the which her eye Through glittering dross spied, womanly ;

Therefore they say her heart was sold !
I laugh ; she laughs; the hills and vales

Laugh as we ride 'neath chestnuts tall,
Or start the deer that silent graze,
And look up, large-eyed, with soft gaze,

At the fair maid of Moreton Hall;

We let the neighbors talk their fill,

For life is sweet, and love is strong, And two, close knit in marriage ties, The whole world's shams may well despise,

Its folly, madness, shame, and wrong.


“I only know my mother's love

Which gives all and asks nothing,

And this new loving sets the groove

Too much the way of loathing.


“Unless he gives me all in change,

I forfeit all things by him : The risk is terrible and strange —

I tremble, doubt, ... deny him.


“ He's sweetest friend, or hardest foe,

Best angel, or worst devil ;
I either hate or ... love him so,

I can't be merely civil !


“You trust a woman who puts forth

Her blossoms thick as summer's ? You think she dreams what love is worth,

Who casts it to new-comers ?

That thou hast kept a portion back,

While I have staked the whole,
Let no false pity spare the blow,
But in true mercy tell me so.
Is there within thy heart a need

That mine cannot fulfil ?
One chord that any other hand

Could better wake or still ?
Speak now, lest at some future day
My whole life wither and decay.
Lives there within thy nature hid

The demon-spirit, change,
Shedding a passing glory still

On all things new and strange ?
It may not be thy fault alone,
But shield my heart against thine own.
Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day

And answer to my claim,
That fate, and that to-day's mistake,

Not thou, — had been to blame?
Some soothe their conscience thus ; but thou
Wilt surely warn and save me now.
Nay, answer not, I dare not hear,

The words would come too late ; Yet I would spare thee all remorse,

So comfort thee, my fate : Whatever on my heart may fall, Remember, I would risk it all !

[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors]


[blocks in formation]



Lead her from the festive boards,

Point her to the starry skies,
Guard her, by your truthful words,

Pure from courtship’s flatteries.

By your truth she shall be true,

Ever true, as wives of yore ;
And her yes, once said to you,

Suall be Yes forevermore.


Give me more love or more disdain';

The torrid or the frozen zone
Brings equal ease unto my pain ;

The temperate affords me none;
Either extreme, of love or hate,
Is sweeter than a calm estate.
Give me a storm ; if it be love,

Like Danaë in a golden shower,
I swim in pleasure ; if it prove

Disdain, that torrent will devour
My vulture hopes; and he's possessed
Of heaven that's but from hell released ;
Then crown my joys, or cure my pain ;
Give me more love or more disdain.



BECAUSE I breathe not love to everie one,

Nor do not use set colors for to weare,

Nor nourish special locks of vowed haire,
Nor give each speech a full point of a groane, -
The courtlie nymphs, acquainted with the moane

Of them who on their lips Love's standard beare,
“What! he ?” say they of me. “Now I dare





He cannot love : No, no ! let him alone."

THINK not I love him, though I ask for him ; And think so still, — if Stella know my minde. "T is but a peevish boy :— yet he talks well;

But what care I for words? yet words do well, Profess, indeed, I do not Cupid's art;

When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. But you, faire maids, at length this true shall

But, sure,

he's proud ; and yet his pride becomes finde,

him : That his right badge is but worne in the hearte.

He'll make a proper man: The best thing in him Dumb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers Is his complexion ; and faster than his tongue prove :

Did make offence, his eye did heal it up.
They love indeed who quake to say they love. He is not very tall; yet for his years he's tall ;

His leg is but so so; and yet 't is well :
There was a pretty redness in his lip,

A little riper and more lusty red
THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE. Than that mixed in his cheek ; 't was just the

difference NEVER wedding, ever wooing,

Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask. Still a love-lorn heart pursuing,

There be some women, Silvius, had they marked Read you not the wrong you 're doing

him In my cheek's pale hue ?

In parcels, as I did, would have gone near All my life with sorrow strewing,

To fall in love with him : but, for my part, Wed, or cease to woo.

I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet

I have more cause to hate him than to love him : Rivals banished, bosoms plighted,

For what had he to do to chide at me? Still our days are disunited ;

He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black; Now the lamp of hope is lighted, Now half quenched appears,

And, now I am remembered, scorned at me :

I marvel, why I answered not again : Damped and wavering and benighted

But that's all one ; omittance is no quittance. Midst my sighs and tears.



Charms you call your dearest blessing,
Lips that thrill at your caressing,
Eyes a mutual soul confessing,

Soon you ’ll make them grow
Dim, and worthless your possessing,

Not with age, but woe !

SHALL I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair ?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are ?


Why then ask of silly man,
To oppose great Nature's plan?
We'll be constant while we can,

You can be no more, you know.



Love in my bosom like a bee,

Doth suck his sweet ; Now with his wings he plays with me,

Now with his feet; Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amidst my tender breast, My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest :

Ah! wanton, will you ?

And if I sleep, then pierceth he

With pretty slight,
And makes his pillow of my knee,

The livelong night ;
Strike I the lute, he tunes the string,
He music plays, if I but sing :
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet cruel, he my heart doth sting :

Ah! wanton, will you ? Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence, And bind you when you long to play,

For your offence; I'll shut my eyes to keep you in, I'll make you fast it for your sin, I'll count your power not worth a pin, Alas ! what hereby shall I win

If he gainsay me!

[blocks in formation]

Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flowery meads in May,

If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?

Shall my foolish heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind ?
Or a well-disposéd nature
Joined with a lovely feature ?
Be she meeker, kinder than
The turtle-dove or pelican,

If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love ?
Or, her well deservings known,
Make me quite forget mine own ?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may merit name of best,

If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be ?

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die ?
Those that bear a noble mind
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do
That without them dare to woo ;

And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair :
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve.
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go ;

For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?



LET not woman e'er complain

Of inconstancy in love ;
Let not woman e'er complain

Fickle man is apt to rove;
Look abroad through Nature's range,
Nature's mighty law is change ;
Ladies, would it not be strange

Man should then a monster prove ?

Mark the winds, and mark the skies ;

Ocean's ebb and ocean's flow; Sun and moon but set to rise, Round and round the seasons go.

CUPID and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses, — Cupid paid ;
He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows,
Loses them too ; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose

“God save all here,” that kind wish flies

Still sweeter from his lips so sweet; “God save you kindly,” Norah cries,

“Sit down, my child, and rest and eat."

Growing on 's cheek (but none knows how);
With these the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin,
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last set her both his eyes ;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love ! has she done this to thee ?
What shall, alas ! become of me?


“Thanks, gentle Norah, fair and good,

We'll rest awhile our weary feet; But though this old man needeth food,

There's nothing here that he can eat. His taste is strange, he eats alone,

Beneath some ruined cloister's cope, Or on some tottering turret's stone,

While I can only live on Hope !


Tother day, as I was twining
Roses for a crown to dine in,
What, of all things, midst the heap,
Should I light on, fast asleep,
But the little desperate elf,
The tiny traitor, - Love himself !
By the wings I pinched him up
Like a bee, and in a cup
Of my wine I plunged and sank him ;
And what d' ye think I did ? - I drank him !
Faith, I thought him dead. Not he!
There he lives with tenfold glee;
And now this moment, with his wings
I feel him tickling my heart-strings.

A week ago, ere you were wed,

It was the very night before, Upon so many sweets I fed

While passing by your mother's door, — It was that dear, delicious hour

When Owen here the nosegay brought, And found you in the woodbine bower,

Since then, indeed, I've needed naught."


A blush steals over Norah's face,

A smile comes over Owen's brow, A tranquil joy illumes the place,

As if the moon were shining now; The boy beholds the pleasing pain,

The sweet confusion he has done, And shakes the crystal glass again,

And makes the sands more quickly run.


“Dear Norah, we are pilgrims, bound

Upon an endless path sublime; We pace the green earth round and round,

And mortals call us Love and TIME; He seeks the many, I the few ;

I dwell with peasants, he with kings. We seldom meet; but when we do,

I take his glass, and he my wings.

Two pilgrims from the distant plain

Come quickly o'er the mossy ground. One is a boy, with locks of gold

Thick curling round his face so fair ; The other pilgrim, stern and old,

Has snowy beard and silver hair. The youth with many a merry trick

Goes singing on his careless way ; His old companion walks as quick,

But speaks no word by night or day. Where'er the old man treads, the grass

Fast fadeth with a certain doom ; But where the beauteous boy doth pass

Unnumbered flowers are seen to bloom. And thus before the sage, the boy

Trips lightly o'er the blooming lands, And proudly bears a pretty toy,

A crystal glass with diamond sands.
A smile o'er any brow would pass

To see him frolic in the sun,
To see him shake the crystal glass,

And make the sands more quickly run. And now they leap the streamlet o'er,

A silver thread so white and thin, And now they reach the open door,

And now they lightly enter in :

“ And thus together on we go,

Where'er I chance or wish to lead ; And Time, whose lonely steps are slow,

Now sweeps along with lightning speed. Now on our bright predestined way

We must to other regions pass ;
But take this gift, and night and day

Look well upon its truthful glass.

“How quick or slow the bright sands fall

Is hid from lovers' eyes alone, If you can see them move at all,

Be sure your heart has colder grown.
'T is coldness makes the glass grow dry,

The icy hand, the freezing brow;
But warm the heart and breathe the sigh,

And then they 'll pass you know not how.":

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »