Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 132

And the lily whispers, 'I wait.'

She is coming, my own, my sweet; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red.

Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892

709. O that 'twere possible

O THAT 'twere possible After long grief and pain To find the arms of my true love Round me once again!...

A shadow flits before me, Not thou, but like to thee: Ah, Christ! that it were possible For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be!

Richard Monckton Milnes, Lord Houghton. 1809-1885

710. Shadows

THEY seem'd, to those who saw them meet, The casual friends of every day; Her smile was undisturb'd and sweet, His courtesy was free and gay.

But yet if one the other's name In some unguarded moment heard, The heart you thought so calm and tame Would struggle like a captured bird:

And letters of mere formal phrase Were blister'd with repeated tears,-- And this was not the work of days, But had gone on for years and years!

Alas, that love was not too strong For maiden shame and manly pride!

Alas, that they delay'd so long The goal of mutual bliss beside!

Yet what no chance could then reveal, And neither would be first to own, Let fate and courage now conceal, When truth could bring remorse alone.

Henry Alford. 1810-1871

711. The Bride

'RISE,' said the Master, 'come unto the feast.'

She heard the call and rose with willing feet; But thinking it not otherwise than meet For such a bidding to put on her best, She is gone from us for a few short hours Into her bridal closet, there to wait For the unfolding of the palace gate That gives her entrance to the blissful bowers.

We have not seen her yet, though we have been Full often to her chamber door, and oft Have listen'd underneath the postern green, And laid fresh flowers, and whisper'd short and soft.

But she hath made no answer, and the day From the clear west is fading fast away.

Sir Samuel Ferguson. 1810-1886

712. Cean Dubh Deelish

PUT your head, darling, darling, darling, Your darling black head my heart above; O mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance, Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?

O many and many a young girl for me is pining, Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free, For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows; But I'd leave a hundred, pure love, for thee!

Then put your head, darling, darling, darling, Your darling black head my heart above; O mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance, Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?

Cean dubh deelish] darling black head.

Sir Samuel Ferguson. 1810-1886

713. Cashel of Munster FROM THE IRISH

I'D wed you without herds, without money or rich array, And I'd wed you on a dewy morn at day-dawn gray; My bitter woe it is, love, that we are not far away In Cashel town, tho' the bare deal board were our marriage-bed this day!

O fair maid, remember the green hill-side, Remember how I hunted about the valleys wide; Time now has worn me; my locks are turn'd to gray; The year is scarce and I am poor--but send me not, love, away!

O deem not my blood is of base strain, my girl; O think not my birth was as the birth of a churl; Marry me and prove me, and say soon you will That n.o.ble blood is written on my right side still.

My purse holds no red gold, no coin of the silver white; No herds are mine to drive through the long twilight; But the pretty girl that would take me, all bare tho' I be and lone, O, I'd take her with me kindly to the county Tyrone!

O my girl, I can see 'tis in trouble you are; And O my girl, I see 'tis your people's reproach you bear!

--I am a girl in trouble for his sake with whom I fly, And, O, may no other maiden know such reproach as I!

Sir Samuel Ferguson. 1810-1886

714. The Fair Hills of Ireland FROM THE IRISH

A PLENTEOUS place is Ireland for hospitable cheer, Uileacan dubh O!

Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear; Uileacan dubh O!

There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand, And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fann'd, There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i' the yellow sand, On the fair hills of holy Ireland.

Curl'd he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee-- Uileacan dubh O!

Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea; Uileacan dubh O!

And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand, Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand, And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command, For the fair hills of holy Ireland.

Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground, Uileacan dubh O!

The b.u.t.ter and the cream do wondrously abound; Uileacan dubh O!

The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand, And the cuckoo 's calling daily his note of music bland, And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i' the forests grand, On the fair hills of holy Ireland.

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

715. Song from 'Paracelsus'

HEAP ca.s.sia, sandal-buds and stripes Of labdanum, and aloe-b.a.l.l.s, Smear'd with dull nard an Indian wipes From out her hair: such balsam falls Down sea-side mountain pedestals, From tree-tops where tired winds are fain, Spent with the vast and howling main, To treasure half their island-gain.

And strew faint sweetness from some old Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud Which breaks to dust when once unroll'd; Or shredded perfume, like a cloud From closet long to quiet vow'd, With moth'd and dropping arras hung, Mouldering her lute and books among, As when a queen, long dead, was young.

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

716. The Wanderers

OVER the sea our galleys went, With cleaving prows in order brave To a speeding wind and a bounding wave-- A gallant armament: Each bark built out of a forest-tree Left leafy and rough as first it grew, And nail'd all over the gaping sides, Within and without, with black bull-hides, Seethed in fat and suppled in flame, To bear the playful billows' game; So, each good s.h.i.+p was rude to see, Rude and bare to the outward view.