The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 74

Although I enter not, Yet round about the spot Ofttimes I hover; And near the sacred gate, With longing eyes I wait, Expectant of her.

The Minster bell tolls out Above the city's rout, And noise and humming; They've hushed the Minster bell: The organ 'gins to swell; She's coming, she's coming!

My lady comes at last, Timid, and stepping fast And hastening hither, With modest eyes downcast; She comes--she's here--she's past!

May heaven go with her!

Kneel undisturbed, fair Saint!

Pour out your praise or plaint Meekly and duly; I will not enter there, To sully your pure prayer With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace Round the forbidden place, Lingering a minute, Like outcast spirits, who wait, And see, through heaven's gate, Angels within it.

William Makepeace Thackeray [1811-1863]

MABEL, IN NEW HAMPs.h.i.+RE

Fairest of the fairest, rival of the rose, That is Mabel of the Hills, as everybody knows.

Do you ask me near what stream this sweet floweret grows?

That's an ignorant question, sir, as everybody knows.

Ask you what her age is, reckoned as time goes?

Just the age of beauty, as everybody knows.

Is she tall as Rosalind, standing on her toes?

She is just the perfect height, as everybody knows.

What's the color of her eyes, when they ope or close?

Just the color they should be, as everybody knows.

Is she lovelier dancing, or resting in repose?

Both are radiant pictures, as everybody knows.

Do her s.h.i.+ps go sailing on every wind that blows?

She is richer far than that, as everybody knows.

Has she scores of lovers, heaps of bleeding beaux?

That question's quite superfluous, as everybody knows.

I could tell you something, if I only chose!-- But what's the use of telling what everybody knows?

James Thomas Fields [1816-1881]

TOUJOURS AMOUR

Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin, At what age does Love begin?

Your blue eyes have scarcely seen Summers three, my fairy queen, But a miracle of sweets, Soft approaches, sly retreats, Show the little archer there, Hidden in your pretty hair; When didst learn a heart to win?

Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin!

"Oh!" the rosy lips reply, "I can't tell you if I try.

'Tis so long I can't remember: Ask some younger la.s.s than I!"

Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face, Do your heart and head keep pace?

When does h.o.a.ry Love expire, When do frosts put out the fire?

Can its embers burn below All that chill December snow?

Care you still soft hands to press, Bonny heads to smooth and bless?

When does Love give up the chase?

Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face!

"Ah!" the wise old lips reply, "Youth may pa.s.s and strength may die; But of Love I can't foretoken: Ask some older sage than I!"

Edmund Clarence Stedman [1833-1908]

THE DOORSTEP

The conference-meeting through at last, We boys around the vestry waited To see the girls come tripping past, Like snow-birds willing to be mated.

Not braver he that leaps the wall By level musket-flashes bitten, Than I, that stepped before them all Who longed to see me get the mitten.

But no! she blushed and took my arm: We let the old folks have the highway, And started toward the Maple Farm Along a kind of lovers' by-way.

I can't remember what we said,-- 'Twas nothing worth a song or story; Yet that rude path by which we sped Seemed all transformed and in a glory.

The snow was crisp beneath our feet, The moon was full, the fields were gleaming; By hood and tippet sheltered sweet, Her face with youth and health was beaming.

The little hand outside her m.u.f.f (O sculptor! if you could but mold it) So lightly touched my jacket-cuff, To keep it warm I had to hold it.

To have her with me there alone,-- 'Twas love and fear and triumph blended; At last we reached the foot-worn stone Where that delicious journey ended.

The old folks, too, were almost home: Her dimpled hand the latches fingered, We heard the voices nearer come, Yet on the doorstep still we lingered.

She shook her ringlets from her hood, And with a "Thank you, Ned!" dissembled; But yet I knew she understood With what a daring wish I trembled.

A cloud pa.s.sed kindly overhead, The moon was slyly peeping through it, Yet hid its face, as if it said-- "Come, now or never! do it! do it!"

My lips till then had only known The kiss of mother and of sister,-- But somehow, full upon her own Sweet, rosy, darling mouth,--I kissed her!

Perhaps 'twas boyish love: yet still, O listless woman! weary lover!

To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill I'd give--but who can live youth over?

Edmund Clarence Stedman [1833-1908]