Part 4

O knight, if thou a lady hast, Gentle and loving, high and true, Cling to her, live for her, die for her, too, Swerve not from her while life shall last-- O knight, if thou a lady hast.

But if thou, knight, no lady hast, Kind as courteous, fair as fond, So grasp the joyless pilgrim’s wand, Go high, go wide, go far and fast-- Till thou e’en such a lady hast.

GERTRUDE HALL.

AT LAST.

When I shall stand before the judgment throne, At that last hour when all things pass away, And see beneath me there the vast array Of souls who wait their life deeds to atone, And there before the face of God, alone Appear, and hear His awful voice then say, “Throughout thy life, until thy dying day, Is there not any good deed thou hast done?”

And I shall answer, “Nay, I cannot tell; But this there is: I loved with all my heart, Above mine own, one soul; was that not well? On earth my love brought only bitter smart, And there I felt the pangs of Thy dread Hell; From her, my Heaven, bid me not now depart!”

WILLIAM C. HALL.

THE OLD IS BETTER.

Alone, alone, thro’ the sunny street, In the shadow of a dream, The forms and faces I pass and meet In a mist and darkness seem.

The old gray houses stand a-row, Their windows blink and stare, The sparrows chirp on the lilac bough From the garden in the square.

The busy mower whets his scythe, He hums a cheery rhyme; The wild bees murmur, and drowse and dive In the blossom of the lime.

The forms and faces that come and go, They flicker and wane and gleam, As I walk through the streets of long ago In the shadow of a dream.

The faces waver and fade away; While under the lilac bough Upspringeth the aspect, bright and gay, Of a face I used to know.

I see her stand, and she calls my name, And my heart and pulses glow As the old life starts like a buried flame, And the new life flickers low.

The present darkens and faints and fades, And the old-loved smiles shine through; The living wander, like ghostly shades, And the lost are born anew.

And my soul with the joy of its calm is rife, As I bask in my after-glow, For I loved my love, and I lived my life In the days of long ago.

MARY L. HANKIN.

BALLADE OF MIDSUMMER DAYS AND NIGHTS.

With a ripple of leaves and a tinkle of streams The full world rolls in a rhythm of praise, And the winds are one with the clouds and beams-- Midsummer days! midsummer days! The dusk grows vast; in a purple haze, While the west from a rapture of sunset rights, Faint stars their exquisite lamps upraise-- Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!

The wood’s green heart is a nest of dreams, The lush grass thickens and springs and sways, The rathe wheat rustles, the landscape gleams-- Midsummer days! midsummer days! In the stilly fields, in the stilly ways, All secret shadows and mystic lights, Late lovers murmurous linger and gaze-- Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!

There’s a music of bells from the trampling teams, Wild skylarks hover, the gorses blaze, The rich ripe rose as with incense steams-- Midsummer days! midsummer days! A soul from the honeysuckle strays, And the nightingale as from prophet heights, Sings to the Earth of her million Mays-- Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!

And it’s O! for my dear and the charm that stays-- Midsummer days! midsummer days! It’s O! for my Love and the dark that plights-- Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!

W. E. HENLEY.

OH, GATHER ME THE ROSE.

Oh, gather me the rose, the rose, While yet in flower we find it, For summer smiles, but summer goes, And winter waits behind it.

For with the dream foregone, foregone, The deed forborne forever, The worm regret will canker on, And time will turn him never.

So well it were to love, my love, And cheat of any laughter The fate beneath us and above, The dark before and after.

The myrtle and the rose, the rose, The sunshine and the swallow, The dream that comes, the wish that goes, The memories that follow!

W. E. HENLEY.

HER DREAM.

Fold your arms around me, Sweet, As against your heart my heart doth beat.

Kiss me, Love, till it fade,--the fright Of the dreadful dream I dreamt last night.

Oh, thank God, it is you, it is you, My own love, fair and strong and true.

We two are the same that, yesterday, Played in the light and tost the hay.

My hair you stroke, O dearest one, Is alive with youth and bright with the sun.

Tell me again, Love, how I seem “The prettiest queen of curds and cream.”

Fold me close and kiss me again; Kiss off the shadow of last night’s pain.

I dreamt last night, as I lay in bed, That I was old and that you were dead.

I knew you had died long time ago, And I well recalled the moan and woe.

You had died in your beautiful youth, my sweet; You had gone to your rest with untired feet;

And I had prayed to come to you, To lay me down and slumber too.

But it might not be, and the days went on, And I was all alone, alone.

The women came so neighbourly, And kissed my face and wept with me;

And the men stood still to see me pass, And smiled grave smiles, and said, “_Poor lass!_”

Sometimes I seemed to hear your feet, And my grief-numbed heart would wildly beat;

And I stopt and named my darling’s name-- But never a word of answer came.

The men and women ceased at last To pity pain that was of the past;

For pain is common, and grief, and loss; And many come home by Weeping Cross.

Why do I tell you this, my dear? Sorrow is gone now you are here.

You and I, we sit in the light, And fled is the horror of yesternight.

The time went on, and I saw one day My body was bent and my hair was gray.

But the boys and girls a-whispering Sweet tales in the sweet light of the spring,

Never paused in the tales they told To say, “_He is dead and she is old_.”

There’s a place in the churchyard where, I thought, Long since my lover had been brought;

It had sunk with years from a high green mound To a level no stranger would have found;

But I--I always knew the spot; How could I miss it, know it not?

Darling, darling, draw me near, For I cannot shake off the dread and fear.

Fold me so close I scarce can breathe; And kiss me, for, lo, above, beneath,

The blue sky fades, and the green grass dries, And the sunshine goes from my lips and eyes.

O God--that dream--it has not fled-- _One of us old, and one of us dead_!

EMILY H. HICKEY.

SONG.

How many lips have uttered one sweet word-- Ever the sweetest word in any tongue! How many listening hearts have wildly stirred, While burning blushes to the soft cheeks sprung, And dear eyes, deepening with a light divine, Were lifted up, as thine are now to mine!

How oft the night, with silence and perfume, Has hushed the world that heart might speak to heart, And make in each dim haunt of leafy gloom A trysting-place where love might meet and part, And kisses fall unseen on lips and brow, As on thine, sweet! my kisses linger now!

CHARLES LOTIN HILDRETH.

THE TRYST.

Sweet as the change from pleasant thoughts to sleep The silver gloaming melted into gloom, Then came the evening silence rich and deep, With mingled breaths of dew-released perfume; The few first stars shone in the azure pale, Soft as a young nun’s glances through her veil.

Was it for darkness that thou waited, sweet? Ah, though thy face was dusk in night’s eclipse, Thy heart betrayed thee by its quickened beat! I needed not the light to find thy lips, Nor in the balmy hush of even-time, To hear one word more sweet than any rhyme.

CHARLES LOTIN HILDRETH.

BY ONE RAPT DAY.

By one rapt day Love doth his harvest mete, And from dream wings in memory’s light caressed Fans calms of joy into my burning breast. It is that day when Love bowed at thy feet, And all the noontide in a rush of heat Rippled with whispers of thy love confessed; And larks afar sank down with sobs of rest, Finding their carol heights in thee complete.

The day when, midst the well-known Sussex wood, Stream music kissed the spirit of the wold And sang the sun to rest, mingling its gold With heather-bell and oak, and, rapt in moods Of melody and shy sweet interludes, Held our soul’s transport still with joys untold.

A. ERNEST HINSHELWOOD.

THE DILEMMA.

Now, by the blessed Paphian queen, Who heaves the breast of sweet sixteen; By every name I cut on bark Before my morning star grew dark; By Hymen’s torch, by Cupid’s dart, By all that thrills the beating heart; The bright black eye, the melting blue,-- I cannot choose between the two.

I had a vision in my dreams;-- I saw a row of twenty beams; From every beam a rope was hung, In every rope a lover swung; I asked the hue of every eye That bade each luckless lover die; Ten shadowy lips said heavenly blue, And ten accused the darker hue.

I asked a matron which she deemed With fairest light of beauty beamed; She answered, some thought both were fair,-- Give her blue eyes and golden hair. I might have liked her judgment well, But, as she spoke, she rung the bell, And all her girls, nor small nor few, Came marching in,--their eyes were blue.

I asked a maiden; back she flung The locks that round her forehead hung, And turned her eye, a glorious one, Bright as a diamond in the sun, On me, until beneath its rays I felt as if my hair would blaze; She liked all eyes but eyes of green; She looked at me, what could she mean?

Ah! many lids Love lurks between, Nor heeds the colouring of his screen; And when his random arrows fly, The victim falls, but knows not why. Gaze not upon his shield of jet, The shaft upon the string is set; Look not beneath his azure veil, Though every limb were cased in mail.

Well both might make a martyr break The chain that bound him to the stake; And both with but a single ray Can melt our very hearts away; And both, when balanced, hardly seem To stir the scales, or rock the beam; But that is dearest, all the while, That wears for us the sweetest smile.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

THE MEASURE.

Between the pansies and the rye Flutters my purple butterfly;

Between her white brow and her chin, Does Love his fairy wake begin:

By poppy-cups and drifts of heather, Dances the sun and she together.

But o’er the scarlet of her mouth Whence those entreated words come forth, Love hovers all the livelong day, And cannot, through its spell, away; But there, where he was born, must die Between the pansies and the rye.

HERBERT P. HORNE.

TWO TRUTHS.

“Darling,” he said, “I never meant To hurt you;” and his eyes were wet. “I would not hurt you for the world: Am I to blame if I forget?”

“Forgive my selfish tears!” she cried, “Forgive! I knew that it was not Because you meant to hurt me, sweet,-- I knew it was that you forgot!”

But all the same, deep in her heart Rankled this thought, and rankles yet,-- “When love is at its best, one loves So much that he cannot forget.”

HELEN HUNT.

A PRAYER.

Dear, let me dream of love, Ah! though a dream it be! I’ll ask no boon above A word, a smile from thee: At most, in some still hour, one kindly thought of me.

Sweet, let me gaze awhile Into those radiant eyes! I’ll scheme not to beguile The heart, that deeper lies Beneath them than yon star in night’s pellucid skies.

Love, let my spirit bow In worship at thy shrine! I’ll swear thou shalt not know One word from lip of mine, An instant’s pain to send through that shy soul of thine.

SELWYN IMAGE.

A JUNE STORM.

Sullenly fell the rain while under the oak we stood; It hissed in the leaves above us, and big drops plashed to the ground, And a horror of darkness fell over river and field and wood, Where the trees were huddling together like children scared by a sound.

Then suddenly rang a note from a wildbird out of the trees In quick response to a sunbeam, and lo, o’erhead it was fair, And sweet was the smell of the meadow, and pleasant the hum of the bees, As we look’d in each other’s eyes--and the raindrops shone in your hair.

HENRY JENNER.

DOLCINO TO MARGARET.

The world goes up and the world goes down, And the sunshine follows the rain; And yesterday’s sneer and yesterday’s frown Can never come over again, Sweet wife; No, never come over again.

For woman is warm, though man be cold, And the night will hallow the day; Till the heart which at even was weary and old Can rise in the morning gay, Sweet wife; To its work in the morning gay.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

A BALLADE OF WAITING.

No girdle hath weaver or goldsmith wrought So rich as the arms of my love can be; No gems with a lovelier lustre fraught Than her eyes when they answer me liquidly. Dear lady of love, be kind to me In days when the waters of hope abate, And doubt like a shimmer on sand shall be, In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.

Sweet mouth, that the wear of the world hath taught No glitter of wile or traitorie, More soft than a cloud in the sunset caught, Or the heart of a crimson peony; Oh, turn not its beauty away from me; To kiss it and cling to it early and late Shall make sweet minutes of days that flee, In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.

Rich hair, that a painter of old had sought For the weaving of some soft phantasy, Most fair when the streams of it run distraught On the firm sweet shoulders yellowly; Dear Lady, gather it close to me, Weaving a nest for the double freight Of cheeks and lips that are one and free, For the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.

ENVOY.

So time shall be swift till thou mate with me, For love is mightiest next to fate, And none shall be happier, Love, than we, In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.

ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN.

A FORECAST.

What days await this woman whose strange feet Breathe spells, whose presence makes men dream like wine, Tall, free and slender as the forest pine, Whose form is moulded music, through whose sweet Frank eyes I feel the very heart’s least beat, Keen, passionate, full of dreams and fire: How in the end, and to what man’s desire Shall all this yield, whose lips shall these lips meet?

One thing I know: if he be great and pure, This love, this fire, this beauty shall endure; Triumph and hope shall lead him by the palm: But if not this, some differing thing he be, That dream shall break in terror; he shall see The whirlwind ripen, where he sowed the calm.

ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN.

AN OLD TUNE.

FROM THE FRENCH OF GÉRARD DE NERVAL.

There is an air for which I would disown Mozart’s, Rossini’s, Weber’s melodies,-- A sweet sad air that languishes and sighs, And keeps its secret charm for me alone.

Whene’er I hear that music vague and old, Two hundred years are mist that rolls away; The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I behold A green land golden in the dying day.

An old red castle, strong with stony towers, The windows gay with many-coloured glass, Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers, That bathe the castle basement as they pass.

In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair, A lady looks forth from her window high; It may be that I knew and found her fair, In some forgotten life, long time gone by.

ANDREW LANG.

GOOD-BYE.

Kiss me, and say good-bye; Good-bye, there is no word to say but this, Nor any lips left for my lips to kiss, Nor any tears to shed, when these tears dry; Kiss me, and say good-bye.

Farewell, be glad, forget; There is no need to say “forget,” I know, For youth is youth, and time will have it so, And though your lips are pale, and your eyes wet, Farewell, you must forget.

You shall bring home your sheaves, Many, and heavy, and with blossoms twined Of memories that go not out of mind; Let this one sheaf be twined with poppy leaves When you bring home your sheaves.

In garnered loves of thine, The ripe good fruit of many hearts and years, Somewhere let this lie, gray and salt with tears; It grew too near the sea wind, and the brine Of life, this love of mine.

This sheaf was spoiled in spring, And over-long was green, and early sear, And never gathered gold in the late year From autumn suns, and moons of harvesting, But failed in frosts of spring.

Yet was it thine, my sweet, This love, though weak as young corn withered, Whereof no man may gather and make bread; Thine, though it never knew the summer heat;-- Forget not quite, my sweet.

ANDREW LANG.

METEMPSYCHOSIS.

I shall not see thee, nay, but I shall know Perchance, thy gray eyes in another’s eyes, Shall guess thy curls in gracious locks that flow On purest brows, yea, and the swift surmise Shall follow, and track, and find thee in disguise Of all sad things, and fair, where sunsets glow, When through the scent of heather, faint and low, The weak wind whispers to the day that dies.

From all sweet art, and out of all “old rhyme,” Thine eyes and lips are light and song to me; The shadows of the beauty of all time, Carven and sung are only shapes of thee; Alas, the shadowy shapes! ah, sweet, my dear, Shall life or death bring all thy being near?

ANDREW LANG.

A BALLADE OF OLD SWEETHEARTS.

Who is it that weeps for the last year’s flowers When the wood is aflame with the fires of spring, And we hear her voice in the lilac bowers As she croons the runes of the blossoming? For the same old blooms do the new years bring, But not to our lives do the years come so, New lips must kiss and new bosoms cling.-- Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.

Ah me! for a breath of those morning hours When Alice and I went a-wandering Through the shining fields, and it still was ours To kiss and to feel we were shuddering-- Ah me! when a kiss was a holy thing.-- How sweet were a smile from Maud, and oh! With Phyllis once more to be whispering.-- Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.

But it cannot be that old Time devours Such loves as was Annie’s and mine we sing, And surely beneficent heavenly powers Save Muriel’s beauty from perishing; And if in some golden evening To a quaint old garden I chance to go, Shall Marion no more by the wicket sing?-- Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.

In these lives of ours do the new years bring Old loves as old flowers again to blow? Or do new lips kiss and new bosoms cling?-- Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.

RICHARD LE GALLIENNE.

IN THE MILE-END ROAD.

How like her! But ’tis she herself Comes up the crowded street; How little did I think, the morn, My only love to meet!

Whose else that motion and that mien? Whose else that airy tread? For one strange moment I forgot My only love was dead.

AMY LEVY.

LOVE AFRAID.

I dared not lead my arm around Her dainty waist; I dared not seek her lips, that mine Hunger’d to taste: I dared not, for such awe I found, O Love divine!

I trembled as my eager hand Her light touch graced; And when her fond look answer’d mine, I dared not haste, But waited, holding my demand For farther sign.

Sweet mouth, that with so sweet a sound My dread hath chased, And to my lips the holy wine, Love’s vintage, placed! Dear heart, that ever now will bound Or rest with mine!

W. J. LINTON.

TO MY MISTRESS.

Countess, I see the flying year, And feel how Time is wasting here: Ay, more, he soon his worst will do, And garner all your roses too.

It pleases Time to fold his wings Around our best and fairest things; He’ll mar your blooming cheek, as now He stamps his mark upon my brow.

The same mute planets rise and shine To rule your days and nights as mine: Once I was young and gay, and see-- What I am now you soon will be.

And yet I boast a certain charm That shields me from your worst alarm; And bids me gaze, with front sublime, On all these ravages of Time.

You boast a gift to charm the eyes, I boast a gift that Time defies: For mine will still be mine, and last When all your pride of beauty’s past.

My gift may long embalm the lures Of eyes--ah, sweet to me as yours! For ages hence the great and good Will judge you as I choose they should.

In days to come the peer or clown, With whom I still shall win renown, Will only know that you were fair Because I chanced to say you were.

Proud Lady! Scornful beauty mocks At aged heads and silver locks; But think awhile before you fly, Or spurn a poet such as I.

FREDERICK LOCKER.

IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY.

The sun is bright,--the air is clear, The darting swallows soar and sing, And from the stately elms I hear The bluebird prophesying spring.

So blue yon winding river flows, It seems an outlet from the sky, Where waiting till the west-wind blows, The freighted clouds at anchor lie.

All things are new,--the buds, the leaves, That gild the elm-tree’s nodding crest, And even the nest beneath the eaves;-- There are no birds in last year’s nest!

All things rejoice in youth and love, The fulness of their first delight! And learn from the soft heavens above The melting tenderness of night.

Maiden, that read’st this simple rhyme, Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay; Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, For O, it is not always May!

Enjoy the spring of Love and Youth, To some good angel leave the rest; For Time will teach thee soon the truth, There are no birds in last year’s nest.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

ET MELLE ET FELLE.

What hast thou done to me, Girl, with the dream in thine eyes? Brightened the sun to me, Lightened the skies; Made there be one to me, One only sun to me Not in the skies.

What hast thou done to me, Girl, with the dream in thine eyes? Darkened the sun to me, Blackened the skies; Made there be none to me, Nor star nor sun to me, Only black skies.

LOVE IN A MIST.

A SONG OF LOVE.

If in thine eyes I saw that softer light That in the skies Doth herald spring’s delight, Ah, love, how loud my heart should sing, Ev’n as the blackbird to the spring!

If on thy cheek I saw that warm hue play That doth bespeak The dawn of a new day, Ah, love, how like the lark should rise My soul in rapture to the skies!

If from thy mouth I heard such whisper low As from the South Doth through the pine-woods blow, How should my whole soul murmur through With music, as the pine-woods do!

LOVE LIES BLEEDING.

THE LONELY LANDSCAPE.