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SONG OF THE OLD LOVE From "Supper at the Mill"
When sparrows build, and the leaves break forth, My old sorrow wakes and cries, For I know there is dawn in the far, far north, And a scarlet sun doth rise; Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads, And the icy founts run free, And the bergs begin to bow their heads, And plunge, and sail in the sea.
O my lost love, and my own, own love, And my love that loved me so!
Is there never a c.h.i.n.k in the world above Where they listen for words from below?
Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore, I remember all that I said, And now thou wilt hear me no more--no more Till the sea gives up her dead.
Thou didst set thy foot on the s.h.i.+p, and sail To the ice-fields and the snow; Thou wert sad, for thy love did naught avail, And the end I could not know; How could I tell I should love thee to-day, Whom that day I held not dear?
How could I know I should love thee away When I did not love thee anear?
We shall walk no more through the sodden plain With the faded bents o'erspread, We shall stand no more by the seething main While the dark wrack drives o'erhead; We shall part no more in the wind and the rain, Where thy last farewell was said; But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again When the sea gives up her dead.
Jean Ingelow [1820-1897]
REQUIESCAT
Strew on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew!
In quiet she reposes: Ah! would that I did too.
Her mirth the world required: She bathed it in smiles of glee.
But her heart was tired, tired, And now they let her be.
Her life was turning, turning, In mazes of heat and sound.
But for peace her soul was yearning, And now peace laps her round.
Her cabined, ample Spirit, It fluttered and failed for breath.
To-night it doth inherit The vasty hall of Death.
Matthew Arnold [1822-1888]
TOO LATE "DOWGLAS, DOWGLAS, TENDIR AND TREU"
Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, In the old likeness that I knew, I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.
Never a scornful word should grieve ye, I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do: Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.
Oh, to call back the days that are not!
My eyes were blinded, your words were few: Do you know the truth now, up in heaven, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?
I never was worthy of you, Douglas; Not half worthy the like of you: Now all men beside seem to me like shadows-- I love you, Douglas, tender and true.
Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew; As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true!
Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [1826-1887]
FOUR YEARS
At the Midsummer, when the hay was down, Said I mournful--Though my life be in its prime, Bare lie my meadows all shorn before their time, O'er my sere woodlands the leaves are turning brown; It is the hot Midsummer, when the hay is down.
At the Midsummer, when the hay was down, Stood she by the brooklet, young and very fair, With the first white bindweed twisted in her hair-- Hair that drooped like birch-boughs, all in her simple gown-- That eve in high Midsummer, when the hay was down.
At the Midsummer, when the hay was down, Crept she a willing bride close into my breast; Low-piled the thunder-clouds had sunk into the west, Red-eyed the sun out-glared like knight from leaguered town; It was the high Midsummer, and the sun was down.
It is Midsummer--all the hay is down, Close to her forehead press I dying eyes, Praying G.o.d s.h.i.+eld her till we meet in Paradise, Bless her in love's name who was my joy and crown, And I go at Midsummer, when the hay is down.
Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [1826-1887]
BARBARA
On the Sabbath-day, Through the churchyard old and gray, Over the crisp and yellow leaves, I held my rustling way; And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms; 'Mid the gorgeous storms of music--in the mellow organ calms, 'Mid the upward streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms, I stood careless, Barbara.
My heart was otherwhere While the organ shook the air, And the priest, with outspread hands, blessed the people with a prayer; But, when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saint-like s.h.i.+ne Gleamed a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mine-- Gleamed and vanished in a moment--O that face was surely thine Out of heaven, Barbara!
O pallid, pallid face!
O earnest eyes of grace!
When last I saw thee, dearest, it was in another place.
You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on your wrist: The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mist-- A purple stain of agony was on the mouth I kissed, That wild morning, Barbara!
I searched in my despair, Sunny noon and midnight air; I could not drive away the thought that you were lingering there.
O many and many a winter night I sat when you were gone, My worn face buried in my hands, beside the fire alone.
Within the dripping churchyard, the rain plas.h.i.+ng on your stone, You were sleeping, Barbara.
'Mong angels, do you think Of the precious golden link I clasped around your happy arm while sitting by yon brink?
Or when that night of gliding dance, of laughter and guitars, Was emptied of its music, and we watched, through lattice-bars, The silent midnight heaven creeping o'er us with its stars, Till the day broke, Barbara?
In the years I've changed; Wild and far my heart has ranged, And many sins and errors now have been on me avenged; But to you I have been faithful, whatsoever good I lacked: I loved you, and above my life still hangs that love intact-- Your love the trembling rainbow, I the reckless cataract.
Still I love you, Barbara!
Yet, love, I am unblest; With many doubts oppressed, I wander like a desert wind, without a place of rest.
Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry sh.o.r.e, The hunger of my soul were stilled, for Death hath told you more Than the melancholy world doth know; things deeper than all lore Will you teach me, Barbara?
In vain, in vain, in vain!
You will never come again.
There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of rain; The gloaming closes slowly round, loud winds are in the tree, Round selfish sh.o.r.es for ever moans the hurt and wounded sea, There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with Death and thee, Barbara!
Alexander Smith [1830-1867]
