I searched, in my despair, Sunny noon and midnight air; I could not drive away the thought that you were lingering there. Within the dripping church-yard, the rain plashing on your stone, 'Mong angels, do you think Of the precious golden link I clasped around your happy arm while sitting by yon brink? In the years I've changed; Wild and far my heart hath ranged, And many sins and errors now have been on me avenged; Still I love you, Barbara! Yet, love, I am unblest; I wander like a desert wind, without a place of rest. Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry shore, In vain, in vain, in vain! You will never come again! There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of rain; Black Labor draws his weary waves A sunbeam like an angel's sword Thus have I watched thee, Terror! While the blue night crept up the Which, night and morning, ebbs and The wild train plunges in the hills, flows. I dwelt within a gloomy court, Yet there my heart was stirred- With leaves as pale as human cheeks. Afar, one summer, I was borne; I sat, and watched an endless plain Oh, fair the lightly-sprinkled waste, Oh, fair the April shoots! Is dreaming round the roots! Draw thy fierce streams of blindingore, square Lie empty to the stars. and When sunset bathes thee in his gold, In wreaths of bronze thy sides are rolled, Thy smoke is dusky fire; He shrieks across the midnight rills; And on the moorlands bare At midnight, when thy suburbs lie When larks with heat are mute, Disturbed but by my foot; While the black lazy stream beneath And through thy heart as through a dream, Flows on that black disdainful All scornfully it flows, 'Tween lamps in streaming rows, O long, dark river of the dead! Afar, the banner of the year I know the happy Summer smiles 'Twere neither pæan now, nor dirge, On flat sands wide and bare; And, from the glory round thee Alike to me the desert flower, poured, The rainbow laughingo'er the shower. While o'erthy walls the darkness sails, I lean against the churchyard rails; Up in the midnight towers The belfried spire, the street is dead, I hear in silence overhead The clang of iron hours: It moves me not- I know her tomb All raptures of this mortal breath, Dwell in thy noise alone: The beech is dipped in wine; the shower Is burnished; on the swinging flower The latest bee doth sit The low sun stares through dust of gold. And o'er the darkening heath and wold The large ghost-moth doth flit. In every orchard Autumn stands, With apples in his golden hands. But all these sights and sounds are strange; Then wherefore from thee should I range? Thou hast my kith and kin; My childhood, youth, and manhood brave; Thou hast that unforgotten grave A sacredness of love and death Dwells in thy noise and smoky breath. CHARLOTTE SMITH. THE CRICKET. LITTLE inmate, full of mirth, Though in voice and shape they be Neither night nor dawn of day 508 FLORENCE SMITH. [From Rainbow-Songs.] THE PURPLE OF THE POET. PURPLE, the passionate color! The sea lies gleaming before me, Pale in the smile of the sunNo shadow- all golden and azure— The joy of the day has begun! Throbbing and yearning forever, With longing unsatisfied, sweet Flushed with the pain and the rapture, Warm at the sun-god's feet In the glow and gloom of the evening The glory is reached - and o'erpast; Joy's rose-bloom has ripened to purple "Twill fade, but the stars shine at last! |In her sluggish old veins 'tis the warm rich blood The old mother-monster! how soundly she sleeps! Come! nearest her heart, where the strong life leaps — We drink, we bathe in the flood! Lying low at my threshold - I bid thee depart! Thou shalt dog my footsteps no more. Wilt thou bring me the faded flowers of my youth With hands full of dead leaves, and lips full of lies For these shall I yield thee my treasure, in sooth ? Are the buttercup's petals pure gold, say truth! Wilt thou coin me the daisy's eyes? I hate them! the smiling flowers in the sun, And the yellow, smooth rays that they feed on at noon — Tis the hard cold gold I will have or none! Come, pluck me the stars down, one by one, Plant me the pale rich moon! The horrible color-the color of flame! 'Tis a romance to them - a wonder I know that the great All-Father UNREQUITING. The hot sun has o'erflowed from his I CANNOT love thee, but I hold thee broken urn O thou pitiless sky! wilt thou show me my shame ? dear Thou must not stay thee go! While the cursed gold clings to my I am so lonely, and the end draws fingers like flame And glitters only to burn! SOMEBODY OLDER. How pleasant it is that always There's somebody older than youSome one to pet and caress you, Some one to scold you too! Some one to call you a baby, To laugh at you when you're wise; Some one to care when you're sorry, To kiss the tears from your eyes. When life has begun to be weary, The path cannot be so lonely, For some one has trod it before; The golden gates are the nearer, That some one stands at the door! -I can think of nothing sadder Than to feel, when days are few, There's nobody left to lean on, Nobody older than you! The younger ones may be tender over Alas! how should they know! near Ah, love me still, but do not tell me so! 'Tis but a little longer-keep thy faith! Though love's last rapture I shall never know, I fain would trust thee even unto death; Ah, love me still, but do not tell me so! I am so poor I have no self to give, And less than all I will not offer, no! I die, but not for thee-fain would I live Ay! love me still, but do not tell me so! Like a strange flower that blossoms in the night, And dies at dawn, love faded long ago Born in a dream it perished with the light Lov'st thou me still? Ah, do not tell me so! Let me imagine that thou art my friend No less- - no more I ask for here below! Be patient with me even to the endLoving me still, thou wilt not teil me so! |