Chapter 24

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trinkled doun your cheek, Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak! That was a time, a blessed time, When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled - unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts As ye hae been to me? Oh! tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine; Oh! say gin e'er your heart grows great Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I've wandered east, I've wandered west, I've borne a weary lot; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart, Still travels on its way; And channels deeper as it rins The luve o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sindered young, I've never seen your face, nor heard The music o' your tongue; But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I dee, Did I but ken your heart still dreamed O' bygane days and me!

William Motherwell [1797-1835]

THE SEA-LANDS

Would I were on the sea-lands, Where winds know how to sting; And in the rocks at midnight The lost long murmurs sing.

Would I were with my first love To hear the rush and roar Of spume below the doorstep And winds upon the door.

My first love was a fair girl With ways forever new; And hair a sunlight yellow, And eyes a morning blue.

The roses, have they tarried Or are they dun and frayed? If we had stayed together, Would love, indeed, have stayed?

Ah, years are filled with learning, And days are leaves of change! And I have met so many I knew . . . and found them strange.

But on the sea-lands tumbled By winds that sting and blind, The nights we watched, so silent, Come back, come back to mind . . .

I mind about my first love, And hear the rush and roar Of spume below the doorstep And winds upon the door.

Orrick Johns [1887-

FAIR INES

O saw ye not fair Ines? She's gone into the West, To dazzle when the sun is down, And rob the world of rest: She took our daylight with her, The smiles that we love best, With morning blushes on her cheek, And pearls upon her breast.

O turn again, fair Ines, Before the fall of night, For fear the Moon should shine alone, And stars unrivaled bright; And blessed will the lover be That walks beneath their light, And breathes the love against thy cheek I dare not even write!

Would I had been, fair Ines, That gallant cavalier, Who rode so gaily by thy side, And whispered thee so near! Were there no bonny dames at home, Or no true lovers here, That he should cross the seas to win The dearest of the dear?

I saw thee, lovely Ines, Descend along the shore, With bands of noble gentlemen, And banners waved before; And gentle youth and maidens gay, And snowy plumes they wore: It would have been a beauteous dream, - If it had been no more!

Alas, alas! fair Ines, She went away with song, With Music waiting on her steps, And shoutings of the throng; But some were sad, and felt no mirth, But only Music's wrong, In sounds that sang Farewell, farewell, To her you've loved so long.

Farewell, farewell, fair Ines! That vessel never bore So fair a lady on its deck, Nor danced so light before, - Alas for pleasure on the sea, And sorrow on the shore! The smile that blessed one lover's heart Has broken many more!

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]

A VALEDICTION

God be with thee, my beloved, - God be with thee! Else alone thou goest forth, Thy face unto the north, Moor and pleasance all around thee and beneath thee Looking equal in one snow; While I, who try to reach thee, Vainly follow, vainly follow With the farewell and the hollo, And cannot reach thee so. Alas, I can but teach thee! God be with thee, my beloved, - God be with thee!

Can I teach thee, my beloved, - can I teach thee? If I said, "Go left or right," The counsel would be light, The wisdom, poor of all that could enrich thee; My right would show like left; My raising would depress thee, My choice of light would blind thee, Of way - would leave behind thee, Of end - would leave bereft. Alas, I can but bless thee! May God teach thee, my beloved, - may God teach thee!

Can I bless thee, my beloved, - can I bless thee? What blessing word can I From mine own tears keep dry? What flowers grow in my field wherewith to dress thee? My good reverts to ill; My calmnesses would move thee, My softnesses would prick thee, My bindings up would break thee, My crownings curse and kill. Alas, I can but love thee! May God bless thee, my beloved, - may God bless thee!

Can I love thee, my beloved, - can I love thee? And is this like love, to stand With no help in my hand, When strong as death I fain would watch above thee? My love-kiss can deny No tear that falls beneath it; Mine oath of love can swear thee From no ill that comes near thee, And thou diest while I breathe it, And I - I can but die! May God love thee, my beloved, - may God love thee!

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

FAREWELL

Thou goest; to what distant place Wilt thou thy sunlight carry? I stay with cold and clouded face: How long am I to tarry? Where'er thou goest, morn will be; Thou leavest night and gloom to me.

The night and gloom I can but take; I do not grudge thy splendor: Bid souls of eager men awake; Be kind and bright and tender. Give day to other worlds; for me It must suffice to dream of thee.

John Addington Symonds [1840-1893]

"I DO NOT LOVE THEE"

I do not love thee! - no! I do not love thee! And yet when thou art absent I am sad; And envy even the bright blue sky above thee, Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.

I do not love thee! - yet, I know not why, Whate'er thou dost seems still well done, to me: And often in my solitude I sigh That those I do love are not more like thee!

I do not love thee! - yet, when thou art gone, I hate the sound (though those who speak be near) Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear.

I do not love thee! - yet thy speaking eyes, With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue, Between me and the midnight heaven arise, Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.

I know I do not love thee! - yet, alas! Others will scarcely trust my candid heart; And oft I catch them smiling as they pass, Because they see me gazing where thou art.

Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton [1808-1870]

THE PALM-TREE AND THE PINE

Beneath an Indian palm a girl Of other blood reposes, Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl, Amid that wild of roses.

Beside a northern pine a boy Is leaning fancy-bound, Nor listens where with noisy joy Awaits the impatient hound.

Cool grows the sick and feverish calm, - Relaxed the frosty twine, - The pine-tree dreameth of the palm, The palm-tree of the pine.

As soon shall nature interlace Those dimly-visioned boughs, As these young lovers face to face Renew their early vows!

Richard Monckton Milnes [1809-1885]

"O SWALLOW, SWALLOW, FLYING SOUTH" From "The Princess"

O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, And tell her, tell her what I tell to thee.

O, tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, And dark and true and tender is the North.

O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, And cheep and twitter twenty million loves.

O, were I thou that she might take me in, And lay me on her bosom, and her heart Would rock the snowy cradle till I died!

Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, Delaying as the tender ash delays To clothe herself, when all the woods are green?

O, tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown; Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, But in the North long since my nest is made.

O, tell her, brief is life but love is long, And brief the sun of summer in the North, And brief the moon of beauty in the South.

O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

THE FLOWER'S NAME

Here's the garden she walked across, Arm in my arm, such a short while since: Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss Hinders the hinges and makes them wince! She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, As back with that murmur the wicket swung; For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned, To feed and forget it the leaves among.

Down this side of the gravel-walk She went while her robe's edge brushed the box: And here she paused in her gracious talk To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. Roses, ranged in valiant row, I will never think that she passed you by! She loves you, noble roses, I know; But yonder see where the rock-plants lie!

This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim; Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, Its soft meandering Spanish name: What a name! Was it love or praise? Speech half-asleep, or song half-awake? I must learn Spanish, one of these days, Only for that slow sweet name's sake.

Roses, if I live and do well, I may bring her, one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell, Fit you each with his Spanish phrase: But do not detain me now; for she lingers There, like sunshine over the ground, And ever I see her soft white fingers Searching after the bud she found.

Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not, Stay as you are and be loved forever! Bud, if I kiss you, 'tis that you blow not, Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never! For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle, Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn, and down they nestle - Is not the dear mark still to be seen?

Where I find her not, beauties vanish; Whither I follow her, beauties flee; Is there no method to tell her in Spanish June's twice June since she breathed it with me? Come, bud, show me the least of her traces, Treasure my lady's lightest footfall! - Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces, - Roses, you are not so fair after all!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

TO MARGUERITE

Yes: in the sea of life enisled, With echoing straits between us thrown, Dotting the shoreless watery wild, We mortal millions live alone. The islands feel the enclasping flow, And then their endless bounds they know.

But when the moon their hollows lights, And they are swept by balms of spring, And in their glens, on starry nights, The nightingales divinely sing; And lovely notes, from shore to shore, Across the sounds and channels pour;

O then a longing like despair Is to their farthest caverns sent! For surely once, they feel, we were Parts of a single continent. Now round us spreads the watery plain - O might our marges meet again!

Who ordered that their longing's fire Should be, as soon as kindled, cooled? Who renders vain their deep desire? - A God, a God their severance ruled; And bade betwixt their shores to be The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea.

Matthew Arnold [1822-1888]

SEPARATION

Stop! - not to me, at this bitter departing, Speak of the sure consolations of time! Fresh be the wound, still-renewed be its smarting, So but thy image endure in its prime.

But, if the steadfast commandment of Nature Wills that remembrance should always decay - If the loved form and the deep-cherished feature Must, when unseen, from the soul fade away -

Me let no half-effaced memories cumber! Fled, fled at once, be all vestige of thee! Deep be the darkness and still be the slumber - Dead be the past and its phantoms to me!

Then, when we meet, and thy look strays towards me, Scanning my face and the changes wrought there: Who, let me say, is this stranger regards me, With the gray eyes, and the lovely brown hair?

Matthew Arnold [1822-1888]

LONGING

Come to me in my dreams, and then By day I shall be well again! For then the night will more than pay The hopeless longing of the day.

Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times, A messenger from radiant climes, And smile on thy new world, and be As kind to others as to me!

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth, Come now, and let me dream it truth; And part my hair, and kiss my brow, And say: My love! why sufferest thou?

Come to me in my dreams, and then By day I shall be well again! For then the night will more than pay The hopeless longing of the day

Matthew Arnold [1822-1888]

DIVIDED

I An empty sky, a world of heather, Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom; We two among them wading together, Shaking out honey, treading perfume.

Crowds of bees are giddy with clover, Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet, Crowds of larks at their matins hang over, Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet.

Flusheth the rise with her purple favor, Gloweth the cleft with her golden ring, 'Twixt the two brown butterflies waver, Lightly settle, and sleepily swing.

We two walk till the purple dieth, And short dry grass under foot is brown, But one little streak at a distance lieth Green like a ribbon to prank the down.

II Over the grass we stepped unto it, And God He knoweth how blithe we were! Never a voice to bid us eschew it: Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair!

Hey the green ribbon! we kneeled beside it, We parted the grasses dewy and sheen: Drop over drop there filtered and slided A tiny bright beck that trickled between.

Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sung to us, Light was our talk as of fairy bells; - Fairy wedding-bells faintly rung to us Down in their fortunate parallels.

Hand in hand, while the sun peered over, We lapped the grass on that youngling spring; Swept back its rushes, smoothed its clover, And said, "Let us follow it westering."

III A dappled sky, a world of meadows, Circling above us the black rooks fly Forward, backward; lo their dark shadows Flit on the blossoming tapestry; -

Flit on the beck; for her long grass parteth As hair from a maid's bright eyes blown back: And, lo, the sun like a lover darteth His flattering smile on her wayward track.

Sing on! we sing in the glorious weather Till one steps over the tiny strand, So narrow, in sooth, that still together On either brink we go hand in hand.

The beck grows wider, the hands must sever. On either margin, our songs all done, We move apart, while she singeth ever, Taking the course of the stooping sun.

He prays, "Come over," - I may not follow; I cry, "Return," - but he cannot come: We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow; Our hands are hanging, our hearts are numb.

IV A breathing sigh, a sigh for answer, A little talking of outward things: The careless beck is a merry dancer, Keeping sweet time to the air she sings.

A little pain when the beck grows wider; "Cross to me now; for her wavelets swell"; "I may not cross," - and the voice beside her Faintly reacheth, though heeded well.

No backward path; ah! no returning; No second crossing that ripple's flow: "Come to me now, for the west is burning; Come ere it darkens. - Ah, no! ah, no!"

Then cries of pain, and arms outreaching, - The beck grows wider and swift and deep: Passionate words as of one beseeching: The loud beck drowns them: we walk, and weep.

V A yellow moon in splendor drooping, A tired queen with her state oppressed, Low by rushes and swordgrass stooping, Lies she soft on the waves at rest.

The desert heavens have felt her sadness; Her earth will weep her some dewy tears; The wild beck ends her tune of gladness, And goeth stilly as soul that fears.

We two walk on in our grassy places On either marge of the moonlit flood, With the moon's own sadness in our faces, Where joy is withered, blossom and bud.

VI A shady freshness, chafers whirring; A little piping of leaf-hid birds; A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring; A cloud to the eastward snowy as curds.

Bare grassy slopes, where kids are tethered, Round valleys like nests all ferny-lined, Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered, Swell high in their freckled robes behind.

A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver, When golden gleams to the tree-tops glide; A flashing edge for the milk-white river, The beck, a river - with still sleek tide.

Broad and white, and polished as silver, On she goes under fruit-laden trees: Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver, And 'plaineth of love's disloyalties.

Glitters the dew, and shines the river, Up comes the lily and dries her bell; But two are walking apart forever, And wave their hands for a mute farewell.

VII A braver swell, a swifter sliding; The river hasteth, her banks recede. Wing-like sails on her bosom gliding Bear down the lily, and drown the reed.

Stately prows are rising and bowing (Shouts of mariners winnow the air), And level sands for banks endowing The tiny green ribbon that showed so fair.

While, O my heart! as white sails shiver, And clouds are passing, and banks stretch wide, How hard to follow, with lips that quiver, That moving speck on the far-off side.

Farther, farther; I see it, know it - My eyes brim over, it melts away: Only my heart to my heart shall show it As I walk desolate day by day.

VIII And yet I know past all doubting, truly, - A knowledge greater than grief can dim, - I know, as he loved, he will love me duly, - Yea, better, e'en better than I love him.

And as I walk by the vast calm river, The awful river so dread to see, I say, "Thy breadth and thy depth forever Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to me."

Jean Ingelow [1820-1897]

MY PLAYMATE

The pines were dark on Ramoth hill, Their song was soft and low; The blossoms in the sweet May wind Were falling like the snow.

The blossoms drifted at our feet, The orchard birds sang clear; The sweetest and the saddest day It seemed of all the year.

For, more to me than birds or flowers, My playmate left her home, And took with her the laughing spring, The music and the bloom.

She kissed the lips of kith and kin, She laid her hand in mine: What more could ask the bashful boy Who fed her father's kine?

She left us in the bloom of May: The constant years told o'er Their seasons with as sweet May morns, But she came back no more.

I walk, with noiseless feet, the round Of uneventful years; Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring And reap the autumn ears.

She lives where all the golden year Her summer roses blow; The dusky children of the sun Before her come and go.

There haply with her jeweled hands She smooths her silken gown, - No more the homespun lap wherein I shook the walnuts down.

The wild grapes wait us by the brook, The brown nuts on the hill, And still the May-day flowers make sweet The woods of Follymill.

The lilies blossom in the pond, The bird builds in the tree, The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill The slow song of the sea.

I wonder if she thinks of them, And how the old time seems, - If ever the pines of Ramoth wood Are sounding in her dreams.

I see her face, I hear her voice: Does she remember mine? And what to her is now the boy Who fed her father's kine?

What cares she that the orioles build For other eyes than ours, - That other laps with nuts are filled, And other hands with flowers?

O playmate in the golden time! Our mossy seat is green, Its fringing violets blossom yet, The old trees o'er it lean.

The winds so sweet with birch and fern A sweeter memory blow; And there in spring the veeries sing The song of long ago.

And still the pines of Ramoth wood Are moaning like the sea, - The moaning of the sea of change Between myself and thee!

John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892]

A FAREWELL

With all my will, but much against my heart, We two now part. My Very Dear, Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear. It needs no art, With faint, averted feet And many a tear, In our opposed paths to persevere. Go thou to East, I West. We will not say There's any hope, it is so far away. But, O, my Best, When the one darling of our widowhead, The nursling Grief Is dead, And no dews blur our eyes To see the peach-bloom come in evening skies, Perchance we may, Where now this night is day, And even through faith of still averted feet, Making full circle of our banishment, Amazed meet; The bitter journey to the bourne so sweet Seasoning the termless feast of our content With tears of recognition never dry.

Coventry Patmore [1823-1896]

DEPARTURE

It was not like your great and gracious ways! Do you, that have naught other to lament, Never, my Love, repent Of how, that July afternoon, You went, With sudden, unintelligible phrase, And frightened eye, Upon your journey of so many days Without a single kiss, or a good-bye? I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon; And so we sate, within the low sun's rays, You whispering to me, for your voice was weak, Your harrowing praise. Well, it was well To hear you such things speak, And I could tell What made your eyes a glowing gloom of love, As a warm South-wind sombers a March grove.

And it was like your great and gracious ways To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear, Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash To let the laughter flash, Whilst I drew near, Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear. But all at once to leave me at the last, More at the wonder than the loss aghast, With huddled, unintelligible phrase, And frightened eye, And go your journey of all days With not one kiss, or a good-bye, And the only loveless look the look with which you passed: 'Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways.

Coventry Patmore [1823-1896]

A SONG OF PARTING

My dear, the time has come to say Farewell to London town, Farewell to each familiar street, The room where we looked down Upon the people going by, The river flowing fast: The innumerable shine of lamps, The bridges and - our past.

Our past of London days and nights, When every night we dreamed Of Love and Art and Happiness, And every day it seemed Ah! little room, you held my life, In you I found my all; A white hand on the mantelpiece, A shadow on the wall.

My dear, what dinners we have had, What cigarettes and wine In faded corners of Soho, Your fingers touching mine! And now the time has come to say Farewell to London town; The prologue of our play is done, So ring the curtain down.

There lies a crowded life ahead In field and sleepy lane, A fairer picture than we saw Framed in our window-pane. There'll be the stars on summer nights, The white moon through the trees, Moths, and the song of nightingales To float along the breeze.

And in the morning we shall see The swallows in the sun, And hear the cuckoo on the hill Welcome a day begun. And life will open with the rose For me, sweet, and for you, And on our life and on the rose How soft the falling dew!

So let us take this tranquil path, But drop a parting tear For town, whose greatest gift to us Was to be lovers here.

H. C. Compton Mackenzie [1833-

SONG From "The Earthly Paradise"

Fair is the night, and fair the day, Now April is forgot of May, Now into June May falls away: Fair day! fair night! O give me back The tide that all fair things did lack Except my Love, except my Sweet!

Blow back, O wind! thou art not kind, Though thou art sweet: thou hast no mind Her hair about my Sweet to bind. O flowery sward! though thou art bright, I praise thee not for thy delight, - Thou hast not kissed her silver feet.

Thou know'st her not, O rustling tree! What dost thou then to shadow me, Whose shade her breast did never see? O flowers! in vain ye bow adown: Ye have not felt her odorous gown Brush past your heads my lips to meet.

Flow on, great river! thou mayst deem That far away, a summer stream, Thou saw'st her limbs amidst the gleam, And kissed her foot, and kissed her knee: Yet get thee swift unto the sea! With naught of true thou wilt me greet.

And Thou that men call by my name! O helpless One! hast thou no shame That thou must even look the same As while agone, as while agone When Thou and She were left alone, And hands and lips and tears did meet?

Grow weak and pine, lie down to die, O body! in thy misery, Because short time and sweet goes by. O foolish heart! how weak thou art: Break, break, because thou needs must part From thine own Love, from thine own Sweet!