Part 2

I wish you were here. Were I duller Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear; I am dressed in your favorite color,-- Dear Fred, how I wish you were here! I am wearing my lazuli necklace, The necklace you fastened askew! Was there ever so rude or so reckless A darling as you?

I want you to come and pass sentence On two or three books with a plot; Of course you know "Janet's Repentance"? I'm reading Sir Waverley Scott, The story of Edgar and Lucy, How thrilling, romantic, and true; The master (his bride was a goosey!) Reminds me of you.

To-day, in my ride, I've been crowning The beacon; its magic still lures, For up there you discoursed about Browning, That stupid old Browning of yours. His vogue and his verve are alarming, I'm anxious to give him his due; But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming A poet as you.

I heard how you shot at The Beeches, I saw how you rode Chanticleer, I have read the report of your speeches, And echoed the echoing cheer. There's a whisper of hearts you are breaking,-- I envy their owners, I do! Small marvel that Fortune is making Her idol of you.

Alas for the world, and its dearly Bought triumph, and fugitive bliss! Sometimes I half wish I were merely A plain or a penniless miss; But perhaps one is best with a measure Of pelf, and I'm not sorry, too, That I'm pretty, because it's a pleasure, My dearest, to you.

Your whim is for frolic and fashion, Your taste is for letters and art; This rhyme is the commonplace passion That glows in a fond woman's heart. Lay it by in a dainty deposit For relics,--we all have a few!-- Love, some day they'll print it, because it Was written to you.

_Frederick Locker._

* * * * *

THE COURTIN'.

God makes sech nights, all white an' still Fur'z you can look or listen. Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, All silence an' all glisten.

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown An' peeked in thru' the winder, An' there sot Huldy all alone, 'Ith no one nigh to hender.

A fireplace filled the room's one side With half a cord o' wood in,-- There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin'.

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her! An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser.

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, An' in amongst 'em rusted The ole queen's arm thet Gran'ther Young Fetched back from Concord busted.

The very room, coz she was in, Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin'.

'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look On sech a blesséd cretur. A dog-rose blushin' to a brook Ain't modester nor sweeter.

He was six foot o' man, Al, Clean grit an' human natur'; None couldn't quicker pitch a ton Nor dror a furrer straighter.

He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells,-- All is, he couldn't love 'em.

But long o' her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple, The side she breshed felt full o' sun Ez a south slope in Ap'il.

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing Ez hisn in the choir; My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, She _knowed_ the Lord was nigher.

An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, When her new meetin'-bunnet Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair O' blue eyes sot upon it.

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked _some_! She seemed to 've gut a new soul, For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, Down to her very shoe-sole.

She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, A-raspin' on the scraper,-- All ways to once her feelin's flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, Some doubtfle o' the sekle; His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, But hern went pity Zekle.

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work, Parin' away like murder.

"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" "Wal ... no ... I come dasignin'"-- "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin'."

To say why gals acts so or so, Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; Mebby to mean _yes_ an' say _no_ Comes nateral to women.

He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on t' other, An' on which one he felt the wust He couldn't ha' told ye nuther.

Says he, "I'd better call agin"; Says she, "Think likely, Mister"; Thet last word pricked him like a pin, An' ... Wal, he up an' kist her.

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, Huldy sot pale ez ashes, All kin' o' smily roun' the lips An' teary roun' the lashes.

For she was jes' the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary, Like streams that keep a summer mind Snowhid in Jenooary.

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressin', Tell mother see how metters stood, And gin 'em both her blessin'.

Then her red come back like the tide Down to the Bay o' Fundy, An' all I know is they was cried In meetin' come nex' Sunday.

_James Russell Lowell._

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WHEN THE KYE COME HAME.

Come, all ye jolly shepherds, That whistle through the glen! I'll tell ye o' a secret That courtiers dinna ken: What is the greatest bliss That the tongue o' man can name? 'Tis to woo a bonnie lassie When the kye come hame. When the kye come hame, When the kye come hame,-- 'Tween the gloamin' an' the mirk, When the kye come hame.

'Tis not beneath the burgonet, Nor yet beneath the crown; 'Tis not on couch o' velvet, Nor yet in bed o' down: 'Tis beneath the spreading birk, In the glen without the name, Wi' a bonnie bonnie lassie, When the kye come hame.

There the blackbird bigs his nest For the mate he lo'es to see, And on the tapmost bough O, a happy bird is he! There he pours his melting ditty, And love is a' the theme; And he'll woo his bonnie lassie, When the kye come hame.

When the blewart bears a pearl, And the daisy turns a pea, And the bonnie lucken gowan Has fauldit up his ee, Then the laverock, frae the blue lift, Draps down and thinks nae shame To woo his bonnie lassie, When the kye come hame.

See yonder pawky shepherd, That lingers on the hill: His yowes are in the fauld, And his lambs are lying still; Yet he downa gang to bed, For his heart is in a flame, To meet his bonnie lassie When the kye come hame.

When the little wee bit heart Rises high in the breast, And the little wee bit starn Rises red in the east, O, there's a joy sae dear That the heart can hardly frame! Wi' a bonnie bonnie lassie, When the kye come hame.

Then since all nature joins In this love without alloy, O, wha wad prove a traitor To nature's dearest joy? Or wha wad choose a crown, Wi' its perils an' its fame, And miss his bonnie lassie, When the kye come hame?

_James Hogg._

* * * * *

THE SPINNING-WHEEL SONG.

Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning; Close by the window young Eileen is spinning; Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother, sitting, Is croaning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting,-- "Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping." "'Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping." "Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing." "'Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying." Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring; Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.

"What's that noise that I hear at the window, I wonder?" "'Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush under." "What makes you be shoving and moving your stool on, And singing all wrong that old song of 'The Coolun'?" There's a form at the casement,--the form of her true-love,-- And he whispers, with face bent, "I'm waiting for you, love; Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly, We'll rove in the grove while the moon's shining brightly." Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring; Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.

The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fingers, Steals up from her seat,--longs to go, and yet lingers; A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother, Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the other. Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round; Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound; Noiseless and light to the lattice above her The maid steps,--then leaps to the arms of her lover. Slower--and slower--and slower the wheel swings; Lower--and lower--and lower the reel rings; Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and moving, Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving.

_John Francis Waller._

* * * * *

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.

She walks in beauty like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meets in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent.

_Lord Byron._

* * * * *

THE WELCOME.

Come in the evening, or come in the morning; Come when you're looked for, or come without warning; Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you! Light is my heart since the day we were plighted; Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don't sever!"

I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them! Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom; I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you; I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. O, your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed farmer, Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor; I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me, Then, wandering, I'll wish you, in silence, to love me.

We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyry; We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy; We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river, Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her,-- O, she'll whisper you, "Love, as unchangeably beaming, And trust, when in secret, most tunefully streaming; Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver, As our souls flow in one down eternity's river."

So come in the evening, or come in the morning: Come when you're looked for, or come without warning; Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you! Light is my heart since the day we were plighted; Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don't sever!"

_Thomas Davis._

* * * * *

THE BROOKSIDE.

I wandered by the brookside, I wandered by the mill; I could not hear the brook flow,-- The noisy wheel was still. There was no burr of grasshopper, No chirp of any bird, But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm-tree: I watched the long, long shade, And, as it grew still longer, I did not feel afraid; For I listened for a footfall, I listened for a word,-- But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

He came not,--no, he came not,-- The night came on alone,-- The little stars sat one by one, Each on his golden throne; The evening wind passed by my cheek, The leaves above were stirred,-- But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

Fast, silent tears were flowing, When something stood behind: A hand was on my shoulder,-- I knew its touch was kind: It drew me nearer--nearer-- We did not speak one word, For the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard.

_Richard Monckton Milnes._

* * * * *

MARIANA.

"Mariana in the moated grange."--_Measure for Measure._

With blackest moss the flower-pots Were thickly crusted, one and all: The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the peach to the garden-wall. The broken sheds looked sad and strange: Unlifted was the clinking latch: Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"

Her tears fell with the dews at even; Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats, When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement-curtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats. She only said, "The night is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"

Upon the middle of the night, Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: The cock sung out an hour ere light: From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her: without hope of change, In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn, Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange. She only said, "The day is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"

About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blackened waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small, The clustered marish-mosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway, All silver-green with gnarléd bark: For leagues no other tree did mark The level waste, the rounding gray. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"

And ever when the moon was low, And the shrill winds were up and away, In the white curtain, to and fro, She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low, And wild winds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow. She only said, "The night is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"

All day within the dreamy house, The doors upon their hinges creaked; The blue-fly sung i' the pane; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shrieked, Or from the crevice peered about. Old faces glimmered through the doors, Old footsteps trod the upper floors, Old voices called her from without. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof The poplar made, did all confound Her sense; but most she loathed the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his western bower. Then said she, "I am very dreary, He will not come," she said; She wept, "I am aweary, aweary, O God, that I were dead!"

_Alfred Tennyson._

* * * * *

BUGLE-SONG.

The splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story; The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

_Alfred Tennyson._

* * * * *

SERENADE.

Stars of the summer night! Far in yon azure deeps, Hide, hide your golden light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps!

Moon of the summer night! Far down yon western steeps, Sink, sink in silver light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps!

Wind of the summer night! Where yonder woodbine creeps, Fold, fold thy pinions light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps!

Dreams of the summer night! Tell her, her lover keeps Watch, while in slumbers light She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps!

_Henry Wadsworth Longfellow._

* * * * *

LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR.

I arise from dreams of thee, In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright; I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Has led me,--who knows how? To thy chamber-window, sweet!

The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream,-- The champak odors fail, Like sweet thoughts in a dream. The nightingale's complaint It dies upon her heart, As I must die on thine, O beloved as thou art!

O lift me from the grass! I die, I faint, I fail. Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! My heart beats loud and fast. Oh! press it close to thine again, Where it will break at last.

_Percy Bysshe Shelley._

* * * * *

NOT FAR TO GO.

As upland fields were sunburnt brown, And heat-dried brooks were running small, And sheep were gathered, panting all, Below the hawthorn on the down,-- The while my mare, with dipping head, Pulled on my cart above the bridge,-- I saw come on, beside the ridge, A maiden white in skin and thread, And walking, with an elbow-load, The way I drove along my road.

As there with comely steps up hill She rose by elm-trees all in ranks, From shade to shade, by flowery banks, Where flew the bird with whistling bill, I kindly said, "Now won't you ride, This burning weather, up the knap? I have a seat that fits the trap, And now is swung from side to side." "O no," she cried, "I thank you, no. I've little farther now to go."

Then, up the timbered slope, I found The prettiest house a good day's ride Would bring you by, with porch and side By rose and jessamine well bound; And near at hand a spring and pool, With lawn well sunned and bower cool; And while the wicket fell behind Her steps, I thought, "If I would find A wife I need not blush to show, I've little farther now to go."

_William Barnes._

* * * * *

MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART.

Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, O give me back my heart! Or, since that has left my breast, Keep it now, and take the rest! Hear my vow before I go, [Greek: Zôê mou sas agapô.]

By those tresses unconfined, Wooed by each Ægean wind; By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge; By those wild eyes like the roe, [Greek: Zôê mou sas agapô.]

By that lip I long to taste; By that zone-encircled waist; By all the token-flowers that tell What words can never speak so well; By love's alternate joy and woe, [Greek: Zôê mou sas agapô.]

Maid of Athens! I am gone. Think of me, sweet! when alone. Though I fly to Istambol, Athens holds my heart and soul: Can I cease to love thee? No! [Greek: Zôê mou sas agapô.]

_Lord Byron._

* * * * *

COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM.

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer: Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here; Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast, And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.

Oh! what was love made for, if 't is not the same Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame? I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss, And thy Angel I 'll be, 'mid the horrors of this, Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee,--or perish there too!

_Thomas Moore._

* * * * *

A WOMAN'S QUESTION.

Before I trust my fate to thee, Or place my hand in thine, Before I let thy future give Color and form to mine, Before I peril all for thee, Question thy soul to-night for me.

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel A shadow of regret: Is there one link within the past That holds thy spirit yet? Or is thy faith as clear and free As that which I can pledge to thee?

Does there within thy dimmest dreams A possible future shine, Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, Untouched, unshared by mine? If so, at any pain or cost, O, tell me before all is lost!

Look deeper still: if thou canst feel, Within thy inmost soul, That thou hast kept a portion back, While I have staked the whole, Let no false pity spare the blow, But in true mercy tell me so.

Is there within thy heart a need That mine cannot fulfil? One chord that any other hand Could better wake or still? Speak now, lest at some future day My whole life wither and decay.

Lives there within thy nature hid The demon-spirit, change, Shedding a passing glory still On all things new and strange? It may not be thy fault alone,-- But shield my heart against thine own.

Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day And answer to my claim, That fate, and that to-day's mistake,-- Not thou,--had been to blame? Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou Wilt surely warn and save me now.

Nay, answer _not_,--I dare not hear,-- The words would come too late; Yet I would spare thee all remorse, So comfort thee, my fate: Whatever on my heart may fall, Remember, I _would_ risk it all!

_Adelaide Anne Procter._

* * * * *

SONNETS.

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tattered weed, of small worth held: Then being asked where all thy beauty lies, Where all the treasure of thy lusty days; To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes, Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise. How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use, If thou couldst answer,--"This fair child of mine Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse--" Proving his beauty by succession thine. This were to be new-made when thou art old, And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.

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