Chapter 12

Meet me by the sweet briar, By the mole hill swelling there; When the West glows like a fire God's crimson bed is there. Meet me in the green glen.

_Love Cannot Die_

In crime and enmity they lie Who sin and tell us love can die, Who say to us in slander's breath That love belongs to sin and death. From heaven it came on angel's wing To bloom on earth, eternal spring; In falsehood's enmity they lie Who sin and tell us love can die.

Twas born upon an angel's breast. The softest dreams, the sweetest rest, The brightest sun, the bluest sky, Are love's own home and canopy. The thought that cheers this heart of mine Is that of love; love so divine They sin who say in slander's breath That love belongs to sin and death.

The sweetest voice that lips contain, The sweetest thought that leaves the brain, The sweetest feeling of the heart-- There's pleasure in its very smart. The scent of rose and cinnamon Is not like love remembered on; In falsehood's enmity they lie Who sin and tell us love can die.

_Peggy_

Peggy said good morning and I said good bye, When farmers dib the corn and laddies sow the rye. Young Peggy's face was common sense and I was rather shy When I met her in the morning when the farmers sow the rye.

Her half laced boots fit tightly as she tripped along the grass, And she set her foot so lightly where the early bee doth pass. Oh Peggy was a young thing, her face was common sense, I courted her about the spring and loved her ever thence.

Oh Peggy was the young thing and bonny as to size; Her lips were cherries of the spring and hazel were her eyes. Oh Peggy she was straight and tall as is the poplar tree, Smooth as the freestone of the wall, and very dear to me.

Oh Peggy's gown was chocolate and full of cherries white; I keep a bit on't for her sake and love her day and night. I drest myself just like a prince and Peggy went to woo, But she's been gone some ten years since, and I know not what to do.

_The Crow Sat on the Willow_

The crow sat on the willow tree A-lifting up his wings, And glossy was his coat to see, And loud the ploughman sings, "I love my love because I know The milkmaid she loves me"; And hoarsely croaked the glossy crow Upon the willow tree. "I love my love" the ploughman sung, And all the fields with music rung.

"I love my love, a bonny lass, She keeps her pails so bright, And blythe she trips the dewy grass At morning and at night. A cotton dress her morning gown, Her face was rosy health: She traced the pastures up and down And nature was her wealth." He sung, and turned each furrow down, His sweetheart's love in cotton gown.

"My love is young and handsome As any in the town, She's worth a ploughman's ransom In the drab cotton gown." He sang and turned his furrow oer And urged his team along, While on the willow as before The old crow croaked his song: The ploughman sung his rustic lay And sung of Phoebe all the day.

The crow he was in love no doubt And [so were] many things: The ploughman finished many a bout, And lustily he sings, "My love she is a milking maid With red rosy cheek; Of cotton drab her gown was made, I loved her many a week." His milking maid the ploughman sung Till all the fields around him rung.

_Now is Past_

_Now_ is past--the happy _now_ When we together roved Beneath the wildwood's oak-tree bough And Nature said we loved. Winter's blast The _now_ since then has crept between, And left us both apart. Winters that withered all the green Have froze the beating heart. Now is past.

_Now_ is past since last we met Beneath the hazel bough; Before the evening sun was set Her shadow stretched below. Autumn's blast Has stained and blighted every bough; Wild strawberries like her lips Have left the mosses green below, Her bloom's upon the hips. Now is past.

_Now_ is past, is changed agen, The woods and fields are painted new. Wild strawberries which both gathered then, None know now where they grew. The skys oercast. Wood strawberries faded from wood sides, Green leaves have all turned yellow; No Adelaide walks the wood rides, True love has no bed-fellow. Now is past.

_Song_

I wish I was where I would be, With love alone to dwell, Was I but her or she but me, Then love would all be well. I wish to send my thoughts to her As quick as thoughts can fly, But as the winds the waters stir The mirrors change and fly.

_First Love_

I ne'er was struck before that hour With love so sudden and so sweet. Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower And stole my heart away complete. My face turned pale as deadly pale, My legs refused to walk away, And when she looked "what could I ail?" My life and all seemed turned to clay.

And then my blood rushed to my face And took my sight away. The trees and bushes round the place Seemed midnight at noonday. I could not see a single thing, Words from my eyes did start; They spoke as chords do from the string And blood burnt round my heart.

Are flowers the winter's choice? Is love's bed always snow? She seemed to hear my silent voice And love's appeal to know. I never saw so sweet a face As that I stood before: My heart has left its dwelling-place And can return no more.

_Mary Bayfield_

How beautiful the summer night When birds roost on the mossy tree, When moon and stars are shining bright And home has gone the weary bee! Then Mary Bayfield seeks the glen, The white hawthorn and grey oak tree, And nought but heaven can tell me then How dear thy beauty is to me.

Dear is the dewdrop to the flower, The old wall to the weary bee, And silence to the evening hour, And ivy to the stooping tree. Dearer than these, than all beside, Than blossoms to the moss-rose tree, The maid who wanders by my side-- Sweet Mary Bayfield is to me.

Sweet is the moonlight on the tree, The stars above the glassy lake, That from the bottom look at me Through shadows of the crimping brake. Such are sweet things--but sweeter still Than these and all beside I see The maid whose look my heart can thrill, My Mary Bayfield's look to me.

O Mary with the dark brown hair, The rosy cheek, the beaming eye, I would thy shade were ever near; Then would I never grieve or sigh. I love thee, Mary dearly love-- There's nought so fair on earth I see, There's nought so dear in heaven above, As Mary Bayfield is to me.

_The Maid of Jerusalem_

Maid of Jerusalem, by the Dead Sea, I wandered all sorrowing thinking of thee,-- Thy city in ruins, thy kindred deplored, All fallen and lost by the Ottoman's sword.

I saw thee sit there in disconsolate sighs, Where the hall of thy fathers a ruined heap lies. Thy fair finger showed me the place where they trod, In thy childhood where flourished the city of God.

The place where they fell and the scenes where they lie, In the tomb of Siloa--the tear in her eye She stifled: transfixed there it grew like a pearl, Beneath the dark lash of the sweet Jewish Girl.

Jerusalem is fallen! still thou art in bloom, As fresh as the ivy around the lone tomb, And fair as the lily of morning that waves Its sweet-scented bells over desolate graves.

When I think of Jerusalem in kingdoms yet free, I shall think of its ruins and think upon thee; Thou beautiful Jewess, content thou mayest roam; A bright spot in Eden still blooms as thy home.

Song

I would not feign a single sigh Nor weep a single tear for thee: The soul within these orbs burns dry; A desert spreads where love should be. I would not be a worm to crawl A writhing suppliant in thy way; For love is life, is heaven, and all The beams of an immortal day.

For sighs are idle things and vain, And tears for idiots vainly fall. I would not kiss thy face again Nor round thy shining slippers crawl. Love is the honey, not the bee, Nor would I turn its sweets to gall For all the beauty found in thee, Thy lily neck, rose cheek, and all.

I would not feign a single tale Thy kindness or thy love to seek; Nor sigh for Jenny of the Vale, Her ruby smile or rosy cheek. I would not have a pain to own For those dark curls and those bright eyes A frowning lip, a heart of stone, False love and folly I despise.

_Thou Flower of Summer_

When in summer thou walkest In the meads by the river, And to thyself talkest, Dost thou think of one ever-- A lost and a lorn one That adores thee and loves thee? And when happy morn's gone, And nature's calm moves thee, Leaving thee to thy sleep like an angel at rest, Does the one who adores thee still live in thy breast?

Does nature eer give thee Love's past happy vision, And wrap thee and leave thee In fancies elysian? Thy beauty I clung to, As leaves to the tree; When thou fair and young too Looked lightly on me, Till love came upon thee like the sun to the west And shed its perfuming and bloom on thy breast.

_The Swallow_

Pretty swallow, once again Come and pass me in the rain. Pretty swallow, why so shy? Pass again my window by.

The horsepond where he dips his wings, The wet day prints it full of rings. The raindrops on his [ ] track Lodge like pearls upon his back.

Then again he dips his wing In the wrinkles of the spring, Then oer the rushes flies again, And pearls roll off his back like rain.

Pretty little swallow, fly Village doors and windows by, Whisking oer the garden pales Where the blackbird finds the snails;

Whewing by the ladslove tree For something only seen by thee; Pearls that on the red rose hing Fall off shaken by thy wing.

On that low thatched cottage stop, In the sooty chimney pop, Where thy wife and family Every evening wait for thee.

_The Sailor-Boy_

Tis three years and a quarter since I left my own fireside To go aboard a ship through love, and plough the ocean wide. I crossed my native fields, where the scarlet poppies grew, And the groundlark left his nest like a neighbour which I knew.

The pigeons from the dove cote cooed over the old lane, The crow flocks from the oakwood went flopping oer the grain; Like lots of dear old neighbours whom I shall see no more They greeted me that morning I left the English shore.

The sun was just a-rising above the heath of furze, And the shadows grow to giants; that bright ball never stirs: There the shepherds lay with their dogs by their side, And they started up and barked as my shadow they espied.

A maid of early morning twirled her mop upon the moor; I wished her my farewell before she closed the door. My friends I left behind me for other places new, Crows and pigeons all were strangers as oer my head they flew.

Trees and bushes were all strangers, the hedges and the lanes, The steeples and the houses and broad untrodden plains. I passed the pretty milkmaid with her red and rosy face; I knew not where I met her, I was strange to the place.

At last I saw the ocean, a pleasing sight to me: I stood upon the shore of a mighty glorious sea. The waves in easy motion went rolling on their way, English colours were a-flying where the British squadron lay.

I left my honest parents, the church clock and the village; I left the lads and lasses, the labour and the tillage; To plough the briny ocean, which soon became my joy-- I sat and sang among the shrouds, a lonely sailor-boy.

_The Sleep of Spring_

O for that sweet, untroubled rest That poets oft have sung!-- The babe upon its mother's breast, The bird upon its young, The heart asleep without a pain-- When shall I know that sleep again?

When shall I be as I have been Upon my mother's breast Sweet Nature's garb of verdant green To woo to perfect rest-- Love in the meadow, field, and glen, And in my native wilds again?

The sheep within the fallow field, The herd upon the green, The larks that in the thistle shield, And pipe from morn to e'en-- O for the pasture, fields, and fen! When shall I see such rest again?

I love the weeds along the fen, More sweet than garden flowers, For freedom haunts the humble glen That blest my happiest hours. Here prison injures health and me: I love sweet freedom and the free.

The crows upon the swelling hills, The cows upon the lea, Sheep feeding by the pasture rills, Are ever dear to me, Because sweet freedom is their mate, While I am lone and desolate.

I loved the winds when I was young, When life was dear to me; I loved the song which Nature sung, Endearing liberty; I loved the wood, the vale, the stream, For there my boyhood used to dream.

There even toil itself was play; Twas pleasure een to weep; Twas joy to think of dreams by day, The beautiful of sleep. When shall I see the wood and plain, And dream those happy dreams again?

_Mary Bateman_

My love she wears a cotton plaid, A bonnet of the straw; Her cheeks are leaves of roses spread, Her lips are like the haw. In truth she is as sweet a maid As true love ever saw.

Her curls are ever in my eyes, As nets by Cupid flung; Her voice will oft my sleep surprise, More sweet then ballad sung. O Mary Bateman's curling hair! I wake, and there is nothing there.

I wake, and fall asleep again, The same delights in visions rise; There's nothing can appear more plain Than those rose cheeks and those bright eyes. I wake again, and all alone Sits Darkness on his ebon throne.

All silent runs the silver Trent, The cobweb veils are all wet through, A silver bead's on every bent, On every leaf a bleb of dew. I sighed, the moon it shone so clear; Was Mary Bateman walking here?

_Bonny Mary O!_

The morning opens fine, bonny Mary O! The robin sings his song by the dairy O! Where the little Jenny wrens cock their tails among the hens, Singing morning's happy songs with Mary O!

The swallow's on the wing, bonny Mary O! Where the rushes fringe the spring, bonny Mary O! Where the cowslips do unfold, shaking tassels all of gold, Which make the milk so sweet, bonny Mary O!

There's the yellowhammer's nest, bonny Mary O! Where she hides her golden breast, bonny Mary O! On her mystic eggs she dwells, with strange writing on their shells, Hid in the mossy grass, bonny Mary O!

There the spotted cow gets food, bonny Mary O! And chews her peaceful cud, bonny Mary O! In the mole-hills and the bushes, and the clear brook fringed with rushes To fill the evening pail, bonny Mary O!

The cowpond once agen, bonny Mary O! Lies dimpled like thy sen, bonny Mary O! Where the gnat swarms fall and rise under evening's mellow skies, And on flags sleep dragon flies, bonny Mary O!

And I will meet thee there, bonny Mary O! When a-milking you repair, bonny Mary O! And I'll kiss thee on the grass, my buxom, bonny lass, And be thine own for aye, bonny Mary O!

_Where She Told Her Love_

I saw her crop a rose Right early in the day, And I went to kiss the place Where she broke the rose away And I saw the patten rings Where she oer the stile had gone, And I love all other things Her bright eyes look upon. If she looks upon the hedge or up the leafing tree, The whitethorn or the brown oak are made dearer things to me.

I have a pleasant hill Which I sit upon for hours, Where she cropt some sprigs of thyme And other little flowers; And she muttered as she did it As does beauty in a dream, And I loved her when she hid it On her breast, so like to cream, Near the brown mole on her neck that to me a diamond shone Then my eye was like to fire, and my heart was like to stone.

There is a small green place Where cowslips early curled, Which on Sabbath day I trace, The dearest in the world. A little oak spreads oer it, And throws a shadow round, A green sward close before it, The greenest ever found: There is not a woodland nigh nor is there a green grove, Yet stood the fair maid nigh me and told me all her love.

_Autumn_

I love the fitful gust that shakes The casement all the day, And from the glossy elm tree takes The faded leaves away, Twirling them by the window pane With thousand others down the lane.

I love to see the shaking twig Dance till the shut of eve, The sparrow on the cottage rig, Whose chirp would make believe That Spring was just now flirting by In Summer's lap with flowers to lie.

I love to see the cottage smoke Curl upwards through the trees, The pigeons nestled round the cote On November days like these; The cock upon the dunghill crowing, The mill sails on the heath a-going.

The feather from the raven's breast Falls on the stubble lea, The acorns near the old crow's nest Drop pattering down the tree; The grunting pigs, that wait for all, Scramble and hurry where they fall.

_Invitation to Eternity_

Say, wilt thou go with me, sweet maid, Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me Through the valley-depths of shade, Of bright and dark obscurity; Where the path has lost its way, Where the sun forgets the day, Where there's nor light nor life to see, Sweet maiden, wilt thou go with me?

Where stones will turn to flooding streams, Where plains will rise like ocean's waves, Where life will fade like visioned dreams And darkness darken into caves, Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me Through this sad non-identity Where parents live and are forgot, And sisters live and know us not?

Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me In this strange death of life to be, To live in death and be the same, Without this life or home or name, At once to be and not to be-- That was and is not--yet to see Things pass like shadows, and the sky Above, below, around us lie?

The land of shadows wilt thou trace, Nor look nor know each other's face; The present marred with reason gone, And past and present both as one? Say, maiden, can thy life be led To join the living and the dead? Then trace thy footsteps on with me: We are wed to one eternity.

_The Maple Tree_

The maple with its tassel flowers of green, That turns to red a staghorn-shaped seed, Just spreading out its scolloped leaves is seen, Of yellowish hue, yet beautifully green; Bark ribbed like corderoy in seamy screed, That farther up the stem is smoother seen, Where the white hemlock with white umbel flowers Up each spread stoven to the branches towers; And moss around the stoven spreads, dark green, And blotched leaved orchis, and the blue bell flowers; Thickly they grow and neath the leaves are seen; I love to see them gemmed with morning hours, I love the lone green places where they be, And the sweet clothing of the maple tree.

_House or Window Flies_

These little window dwellers, in cottages and halls, were always entertaining to me; after dancing in the window all day from sunrise to sunset they would sip of the tea, drink of the beer, and eat of the sugar, and be welcome all summer long. They look like things of mind or fairies, and seem pleased or dull as the weather permits. In many clean cottages and genteel houses, they are allowed every liberty to creep, fly, or do as they like; and seldom or ever do wrong. In fact they are the small or dwarfish portion of our own family, and so many fairy familiars that we know and treat as one of ourselves.

_Dewdrops_

The dewdrops on every blade of grass are so much like silver drops that I am obliged to stoop down as I walk to see if they are pearls, and those sprinkled on the ivy-woven beds of primroses underneath the hazels, whitethorns and maples are so like gold beads that I stooped down to feel if they were hard, but they melted from my finger. And where the dew lies on the primrose, the violet and whitethorn leaves they are emerald and beryl, yet nothing more than the dews of the morning on the budding leaves; nay, the road grasses are covered with gold and silver beads, and the further we go the brighter they seem to shine, like solid gold and silver. It is nothing more than the sun's light and shade upon them in the dewy morning; every thorn-point and every bramble-spear has its trembling ornament: till the wind gets a little brisker, and then all is shaken off, and all the shining jewelry passes away into a common spring morning full of budding leaves, primroses, violets, vernal speedwell, bluebell and orchis, and commonplace objects.

_Fragment_

The cataract, whirling down the precipice, Elbows down rocks and, shouldering, thunders through. Roars, howls, and stifled murmurs never cease; Hell and its agonies seem hid below. Thick rolls the mist, that smokes and falls in dew; The trees and greenwood wear the deepest green. Horrible mysteries in the gulph stare through, Roars of a million tongues, and none knows what they mean.

_From "A Rhapsody"_

Sweet solitude, what joy to be alone-- In wild, wood-shady dell to stay for hours. Twould soften hearts if they were hard as stone To see glad butterflies and smiling flowers. Tis pleasant in these quiet lonely places, Where not the voice of man our pleasure mars, To see the little bees with coal black faces Gathering sweets from little flowers like stars.

The wind seems calling, though not understood. A voice is speaking; hark, it louder calls. It echoes in the far-outstretching wood. First twas a hum, but now it loudly squalls; And then the pattering rain begins to fall, And it is hushed--the fern leaves scarcely shake, The tottergrass it scarcely stirs at all. And then the rolling thunder gets awake, And from black clouds the lightning flashes break.

The sunshine's gone, and now an April evening Commences with a dim and mackerel sky. Gold light and woolpacks in the west are leaving, And leaden streaks their splendid place supply. Sheep ointment seems to daub the dead-hued sky, And night shuts up the lightsomeness of day, All dark and absent as a corpse's eye. Flower, tree, and bush, like all the shadows grey, In leaden hues of desolation fade away.

Tis May; and yet the March flower Dandelion Is still in bloom among the emerald grass, Shining like guineas with the sun's warm eye on-- We almost think they are gold as we pass, Or fallen stars in a green sea of grass. They shine in fields, or waste grounds near the town. They closed like painter's brush when even was. At length they turn to nothing else but down, While the rude winds blow off each shadowy crown.

_Secret Love_

I hid my love when young till I Couldn't bear the buzzing of a fly; I hid my love to my despite Till I could not bear to look at light: I dare not gaze upon her face But left her memory in each place; Where eer I saw a wild flower lie I kissed and bade my love good bye.

I met her in the greenest dells Where dewdrops pearl the wood blue bells The lost breeze kissed her bright blue eye, The bee kissed and went singing by, A sunbeam found a passage there, A gold chain round her neck so fair; As secret as the wild bee's song She lay there all the summer long.

I hid my love in field and town Till een the breeze would knock me down, The bees seemed singing ballads oer, The fly's bass turned a lion's roar; And even silence found a tongue, To haunt me all the summer long; The riddle nature could not prove Was nothing else but secret love.

_Bantry Bay_

On the eighteenth of October we lay in Bantry Bay, All ready to set sail, with a fresh and steady gale: A fortnight and nine days we in the harbour lay, And no breeze ever reached us or strained a single sail. Three ships of war had we, and the great guns loaded all; But our ships were dead and beaten that had never feared a foe. The winds becalmed around us cared for no cannon ball; They locked us in the harbour and would not let us go.