Chapter 28

But do not, do not, pretty mine, To feignings false thy heart incline! Be loyal to thy lover true, And never change her for a new: If good or fair, of her have care For women's banning's wondrous sair - Balow, la-low!

Bairn, by thy face I will beware; Like Sirens' words, I'll come not near; My babe and I together will live; He'll comfort me when cares do grieve. My babe and I right soft will lie, And ne'er respect man's cruelty - Balow, la-low!

Farewell, farewell, the falsest youth That ever kissed a woman's mouth! I wish all maids be warned by me Never to trust man's courtesy; For if we do but chance to bow, They'll use us then they care not how - Balow, la-low!

Unknown

A WOMAN'S LOVE

A sentinel angel, sitting high in glory, Heard this shrill wail ring out from Purgatory: "Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story!

"I loved, - and, blind with passionate love, I fell. Love brought me down to death, and death to Hell; For God is just, and death for sin is well.

"I do not rage against His high decree, Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be; But for my love on earth who mourns for me.

"Great Spirit! Let me see my love again And comfort him one hour, and I were fain To pay a thousand years of fire and pain."

Then said the pitying angel, "Nay, repent That wild vow! Look, the dial-finger's bent Down to the last hour of thy punishment!"

But still she wailed, "I pray thee, let me go! I cannot rise to peace and leave him so. O, let me soothe him in his bitter woe!"

The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar, And upwards, joyous, like a rising star, She rose and vanished in the ether far.

But soon adown the dying sunset sailing, And like a wounded bird her pinions trailing, She fluttered back, with broken-hearted wailing,

She sobbed, "I found him by the summer sea Reclined, his head upon a maiden's knee, - She curled his hair and kissed him. Woe is me!"

She wept, "Now let my punishment begin! I have been fond and foolish. Let me in To expiate my sorrow and my sin."

The angel answered, "Nay, sad soul, go higher! To be deceived in your true heart's desire Was bitterer than a thousand years of fire!"

John Hay [1838-1905]

A TRAGEDY

She was only a woman, famished for loving, Mad with devotion, and such slight things; And he was a very great musician, And used to finger his fiddle-strings.

Her heart's sweet gamut is cracking and breaking For a look, for a touch, - for such slight things; But he's such a very great musician Grimacing and fingering his fiddle-strings.

Theophile Marzials [1850-

"MOTHER, I CANNOT MIND MY WHEEL"

Mother, I cannot mind my wheel; My fingers ache, my lips are dry: O, if you felt the pain I feel! But O, who ever felt as I?

No longer could I doubt him true - All other men may use deceit; He always said my eyes were blue, And often swore my lips were sweet.

Walter Savage Lander [1775-1864]

AIRLY BEACON

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; O the pleasant sight to see Shires and towns from Airly Beacon, While my love climbed up to me!

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; O the happy hours we lay Deep in fern on Airly Beacon, Courting through the summer's day!

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; O the weary haunt for me, All alone on Airly Beacon, With his baby on my knee!

Charles Kingsley [1819-1875]

A SEA CHILD

The lover of child Marjory Had one white hour of life brim full; Now the old nurse, the rocking sea, Hath him to lull.

The daughter of child Marjory Hath in her veins, to beat and run, The glad indomitable sea, The strong white sun.

Bliss Carmen [1861-1929]

FROM THE HARBOR HILL

"Is it a sail?" she asked. "No," I said. "Only a white sea-gull with its pinions spread."

"Is it a spar?" she asked. "No," said I. "Only the slender light-house tower against the sky."

"Flutters a pennant there?" "No," I said. "Only a shred of cloud in the sunset red."

"Surely a hull, a hull!" "Where?" I cried. "Only a rock half-bared by the ebbing tide."

"Wait you a ship?" I asked. "Aye!" quoth she. "The Harbor Belle; her mate comes home to marry me.

"Surely the good ship hath Met no harm?" Was it the west wind wailed or the babe on her arm?

"The Harbor Belle!" she urged. Naught said I. - For I knew o'er the grave o' the Harbor Belle the sea-gulls fly.

Gustav Kobbe [1857-1918]

ALLAN WATER

On the banks of Allan Water, When the sweet spring-time did fall, Was the miller's lovely daughter, Fairest of them all.

For his bride a soldier sought her, And a winning tongue had he, On the banks of Allan Water, None so gay as she.

On the banks of Allan Water, When brown autumn spread his store, There I saw the miller's daughter, But she smiled no more.

For the summer grief had brought her, And the soldier false was he, On the banks of Allan Water, None so sad as she.

On the banks of Allan Water, When the winter snow fell fast, Still was seen the miller's daughter, Chilling blew the blast.

But the miller's lovely daughter, Both from cold and care was free; On the banks of Allan Water, There a corse lay she.

Matthew Gregory Lewis [1775-1818]

FORSAKEN

O waly waly up the bank, And waly waly down the brae, And waly waly yon burn-side Where I and my Love wont to gae! I leaned my back unto an aik, I thought it was a trusty tree; But first it bowed, and syne it brak, Sae my true Love did lichtly me.

O waly waly, but love be bonny A little while when it is new; But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld And fades awa' like morning dew. O wherefore should I busk my head? Or wherefore should I kame my hair? For my true Love has me forsook, And says he'll never loe me mair.

Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed; The sheets shall ne'er be pressed by me: Saint Anton's well sall be my drink, Since my true Love has forsaken me. Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw And shake the green leaves aff the tree? O gentle Death, when wilt thou come? For of my life I am wearie.

'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell, Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie; 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my Love's heart grown cauld to me. When we cam in by Glasgow town We were a comely sight to see; My Love was clad in black velvet. And I mysel in cramasie.

But had I wist, before I kissed, That love had been sae ill to win; I had locked my heart in a case of gowd And pinned it with a siller pin. And, O! if my young babe were born, And sat upon the nurse's knee, And I mysel were dead and gane, And the green grass growing over me!

Unknown

BONNIE DOON

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o' care!

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings upon the bough; Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fause Luve was true.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings beside thy mate; For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wist na o' my fate.

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon To see the woodbine twine, And ilka bird sang o' its love; And sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Frae aff its thorny tree; And my fause luver staw the rose, But left the thorn wi' me.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

THE TWO LOVERS

The lover of her body said: "She is more beautiful than night, - But like the kisses of the dead Is my despair and my delight."

The lover of her soul replied: "She is more wonderful than death, - But bitter as the aching tide Is all the speech of love she saith."

The lover of her body said: "To know one secret of her heart, For all the joy that I have had, Is past the reach of all my art."

The lover of her soul replied: "The secrets of her heart are mine, - Save how she lives, a riven bride, Between the dust and the divine."

The lover of her body sware: "Though she should hate me, wit you well, Rather than yield one kiss of her I give my soul to burn in hell."

The lover of her soul cried out: "Rather than leave her to your greed, I would that I were walled about With death, - and death were death indeed!"

The lover of her body wept, And got no good of all his gain, Knowing that in her heart she kept The penance of the other's pain.

The lover of her soul went mad, But when he did himself to death, Despite of all the woe he had, He smiled as one who vanquisheth.

Richard Hovey [1864-1900]

THE VAMPIRE As suggested By The Painting By Philip Burne-Jones

A fool there was and he made his prayer (Even as you and I!) To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair (We called her the woman who did not care), But the fool he called her his lady fair (Even as you and I!)

Oh the years we waste and the tears we waste, And the work of our head and hand, Belong to the woman who did not know (And now we know that she never could know) And did not understand.

A fool there was and his goods he spent (Even as you and I!) Honor and faith and a sure intent (And it wasn't the least what the lady meant), But a fool must follow his natural bent (Even as you and I!)

Oh the toil we lost and the spoil we lost, And the excellent things we planned, Belong to the woman who didn't know why (And now we know she never knew why) And did not understand.

The fool was stripped to his foolish hide (Even as you and I!) Which she might have seen when she threw him aside, - (But it isn't on record the lady tried) So some of him lived but the most of him died - (Even as you and I!)

And it isn't the shame and it isn't the blame That stings like a white-hot brand. It's coming to know that she never knew why (Seeing at last she could never know why) And never could understand.

Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936]

AGATHA

She wanders in the April woods, That glisten with the fallen shower; She leans her face against the buds, She stops, she stoops, she plucks a flower. She feels the ferment of the hour: She broodeth when the ringdove broods; The sun and flying clouds have power Upon her cheek and changing moods. She cannot think she is alone, As o'er her senses warmly steal Floods of unrest she fears to own. And almost dreads to feel.

Along the summer woodlands wide Anew she roams, no more alone; The joy she feared is at her side, Spring's blushing secret now is known. The thrush's ringing note hath died; But glancing eye and glowing tone Fall on her from her god, her guide. She knows not, asks not, what the goal, She only feels she moves towards bliss, And yields her pure unquestioning soul To touch and fondling kiss.

And still she haunts those woodland ways, Though all fond fancy finds there now To mind of spring or summer days, Are sodden trunk and songless bough. The past sits widowed on her brow, Homeward she wends with wintry gaze, To walls that house a hollow vow, To hearth where love hath ceased to blaze: Watches the clammy twilight wane, With grief too fixed for woe or tear; And, with her forehead 'gainst the pane, Envies the dying year.

Alfred Austin [1835-1913]

"A ROSE WILL FADE"

You were always a dreamer, Rose - red Rose, As you swung on your perfumed spray, Swinging, and all the world was true, Swaying, what did it trouble you? A rose will fade in a day.

Why did you smile to his face, red Rose, As he whistled across your way? And all the world went mad for you, All the world it knelt to woo. A rose will bloom in a day.

I gather your petals, Rose - red Rose, The petals he threw away. And all the world derided you; Ah! the world, how well it knew A rose will fade in a day!

Dora Sigerson Shorter [1862-1918]

AFFAIRE D'AMOUR

One pale November day Flying Summer paused, They say: And growing bolder, O'er rosy shoulder Threw her lover such a glance That Autumn's heart began to dance. (O happy lover!)

A leafless peach-tree bold Thought for him she smiled, I'm told; And, stirred by love, His sleeping sap did move, Decking each naked branch with green To show her that her look was seen! (Alas, poor lover!)

But Summer, laughing fled, Nor knew he loved her! 'Tis said The peach-tree sighed, And soon he gladly died: And Autumn, weary of the chase, Came on at Winter's sober pace (O careless lover!)

Margaret Deland [1857-

A CASUAL SONG

She sang of lovers met to play "Under the may bloom, under the may," But when I sought her face so fair, I found the set face of Despair.

She sang of woodland leaves in spring, And joy of young love dallying; But her young eyes were all one moan, And Death weighed on her heart like stone.

I could not ask, I know not now, The story of that mournful brow; It haunts me as it haunted then, A flash from fire of hellbound men.

Roden Noel [1834-1894]

THE WAY OF IT

The wind is awake, pretty leaves, pretty leaves, Heed not what he says; he deceives, he deceives: Over and over To the lowly clover He has lisped the same love (and forgotten it, too) He will soon be lisping and pledging to you.

The boy is abroad, pretty maid, pretty maid, Beware his soft words; I'm afraid, I'm afraid: He has said them before Times many a score, Ay, he died for a dozen ere his beard pricked through, And the very same death he will die for you.

The way of the boy is the way of the wind, As light as the leaves is dainty maid-kind; One to deceive, And one to believe - That is the way of it, year to year; But I know you will learn it too late, my dear.

John Vance Cheney [1848-1922]

"WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY" From "The Vicar of Wakefield"

When lovely woman stoops to folly And finds too late that men betray, - What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover And wring his bosom, is - to die.

Oliver Goldsmith [1728-1774]

FOLK-SONG

Back she came through the trembling dusk; And her mother spoke and said: "What is it makes you late to-day, And why do you smile and sing as gay As though you just were wed?" "Oh mother, my hen that never had chicks Has hatched out six!"

Back she came through the flaming dusk; And her mother spoke and said: "What gives your eyes that dancing light, What makes your lips so strangely bright, And why are your cheeks so red?" "Oh mother, the berries I ate in the lane Have left a stain."

Back she came through the faltering dusk; And her mother spoke and said: "You are weeping; your footstep is heavy with care - What makes you totter and cling to the stair, And why do you hang your head?" "Oh mother - oh mother - you never can know - I loved him so!"

Louis Untermeyer [1885-

A VERY OLD SONG

"Daughter, thou art come to die: Sound be thy sleeping, lass." "Well: without lament or cry, Mother, let me pass."

"What things on mould were best of all? (Soft be thy sleeping, lass.)" "The apples reddening till they fall In the sun beside the convent wall. Let me pass."

"Whom on earth hast thou loved best? (Sound be thy sleeping, lass.)" "Him that shared with me thy breast; Thee and a knight last year our guest. He hath an heron to his crest. Let me pass."

"What leavest thou of fame or hoard? (Soft be thy sleeping, lass.)" "My far-blown shame for thy reward; To my brother, gold to get him a sword. Let me pass."

"But what wilt leave thy lover, Grim? (Sound be thy sleeping, lass.)" "The hair he kissed to strangle him. Mother, let me pass."

William Laird [1888-

"SHE WAS YOUNG AND BLITHE AND FAIR"

She was young and blithe and fair, Firm of purpose, sweet and strong; Perfect was her crown of hair, Perfect most of all her song.

Yesterday beneath an oak, She was chanting in the wood: Wandering harmonies awoke; Sleeping echoes understood.

To-day without a song, without a word, She seems to drag one piteous fallen wing Along the ground, and, like a wounded bird, Move silent, having lost the heart to sing.

She was young and blithe and fair, Firm of purpose, sweet and strong; Perfect was her crown of hair, Perfect most of all her song.

Harold Monro [1879-1932]

THE LASS THAT DIED OF LOVE

Life is not dear or gay Till lovers kiss it, Love stole my life away Ere I might miss it. In sober March I vowed I'd have no lover, Love laid me in my shroud Ere June was over.

I felt his body take My body to it, And knew my heart would break Ere I should rue it; June roses are not sad When dew-drops steep them, My moments were so glad I could not keep them.

Proud was I love had made Desire to fill me, I shut my eyes and prayed That he might kill me. I saw new wonders wreathe The stars above him. And oh, I could not breathe For kissing of him.

Is love too sweet to last, Too fierce to cherish, Can kisses fall too fast And lovers perish? Who heeds since love disarms Death, ere we near him? Within my lover's arms I did not fear him!

But since I died in sin And all unshriven, They would not let me win Into their heaven; They would not let my bier Into God's garden, But bade me tarry here And pray for pardon.

I lie and wait for grace That shall surround me, His kisses on my face, His arms around me; And sinless maids draw near To drop above me A virginal sad tear For envy of me.

Richard Middleton [1882-1911]

THE PASSION-FLOWER

My love gave me a passion-flower. I nursed it well - so brief its hour! My eyelids ache, my throat is dry: He told me that it would not die.

My love and I are one, and yet Full oft my cheeks with tears are wet - So sweet the night is and the bower! My love gave me a passion-flower.

So sweet! Hold fast my hands. Can God Make all this joy revert to sod, And leave to me but this for dower - My love gave me a passion-flower.

Margaret Fuller [1871-

NORAH

I knew his house by the poplar-trees, Green and silvery in the breeze;

"A heaven-high hedge," were the words he said, "And holly-hocks, pink and white and red. . . ."

It seemed so far from McChesney's Hall - Where first he told me about it all.

A long path runs inside from the gate, - He still can take it, early or late;

But where in the world is the path for me Except the river that runs to the sea!

Zoe Akins [1886-

OF JOAN'S YOUTH

I would unto my fair restore A simple thing: The flushing cheek she had before! Out-velveting No more, no more, On our sad shore, The carmine grape, the moth's auroral wing.

Ah, say how winds in flooding grass Unmoor the rose; Or guileful ways the salmon pass To sea, disclose; For so, alas, With Love, alas, With fatal, fatal Love a girlhood goes.

Louise Imogen Guiney [1861-1920]

THERE'S WISDOM IN WOMEN

"On love is fair, and love is rare;" my dear one she said, "But love goes lightly over." I bowed her foolish head, And kissed her hair and laughed at her. Such a child was she; So new to love, so true to love, and she spoke so bitterly.

But there's wisdom in women, of more than they have known, And thoughts go blowing through them, are wiser than their own, Or how should my dear one, being ignorant and young, Have cried on love so bitterly, with so true a tongue?

Rupert Brooke [1887-1915]

GOETHE AND FREDERIKA

Wander, oh, wander, maiden sweet, In the fairy bower, while yet you may; See in rapture he lies at your feet; Rest on the truth of the glorious youth, Rest - for a summer day. That great clear spirit of flickering fire You have lulled awhile in magic sleep, But you cannot fill his wide desire. His heart is tender, his eyes are deep, His words divinely flow; But his voice and his glance are not for you; He never can be to a maiden true; Soon will he wake and go. Well, well, 'twere a piteous thing To chain forever that strong young wing. Let the butterfly break for his own sweet sake The gossamer threads that have bound him; Let him shed in free flight his rainbow light, And gladden the world around him. Short is the struggle and slight is the strain; Such a web was made to be broken, And she that wove it may weave again Or, if no power of love to bless Can heal the wound in her bosom true, It is but a lorn heart more or less, And hearts are many and poets few, So his pardon is lightly spoken.

Henry Sidgwick [1838-1901]

THE SONG OF THE KING'S MINSTREL

I sing no longer of the skies, And the swift clouds like driven ships, For there is earth upon my eyes And earth between my singing lips. Because the King loved not my song That he had found so sweet before, I lie at peace the whole night long, And sing no more. The King liked well my song that night; Upon the palace roof he lay With his fair Queen, and as I might I sang, until the morning's gray Crept o'er their faces, and the King, Mocked by the breaking dawn above, Clutched at his youth and bade me sing A song of love.

Well it might be - the King was old, And though his Queen was passing fair, His dull eyes might not catch the gold That tangled in her wayward hair, It had been much to see her smile, But with my song I made her weep. Our heavens last but a little while, So now I sleep.

More than the pleasures that I had I would have flung away to know My song of love could make her sad, Her sweet eyes fill and tremble so. What were my paltry store of years, My body's wretched life to stake, Against the treasure of her tears, For my love's sake?

Not lightly is a King made wise; My body ached beneath his whips, And there is earth upon my eyes, And earth between my singing lips. But I sang once - and for that grace I am content to lie and store The vision of her dear, wet face, And sing no more.

Richard Middleton [1882-1911]

ANNIE SHORE AND JOHNNIE DOON

Annie Shore, 'twas, sang last night Down in South End saloon; A tawdry creature in the light, Painted cheeks, eyes over bright, Singing a dance-hall tune.

I'd be forgetting Annie's singing - I'd not have thought again - But for the thing that cried and fluttered Through all the shrill refrain: Youth crying above foul words, cheap music, And innocence in pain.

They sentenced Johnnie Doon today For murder, stark and grim: Death's none too dear a price, they say, For such-like men as him to pay: No need to pity him!

And Johnnie Doon I'd not be pitying - I could forget him now - But for the childish look of trouble That fell across his brow, For the twisting hands he looked at dumbly As if they'd sinned, he knew not how.

Patrick Orr [18

EMMY

Emmy's exquisite youth and her virginal air, Eyes and teeth in the flash of a musical smile, Come to me out of the past, and I see her there As I saw her once for a while.

Emmy's laughter rings in my ears, as bright, Fresh and sweet as the voice of a mountain brook, And still I hear her telling us tales that night, Out of Boccaccio's book.

There, in the midst of the villainous dancing-hall, Leaning across the table, over the beer, While the music maddened the whirling skirts of the ball, As the midnight hour drew near,

There with the women, haggard, painted and old, One fresh bud in a garland withered and stale, She, with her innocent voice and her clear eyes, told Tale after shameless tale.

And ever the witching smile, to her face beguiled, Paused and broadened, and broke in a ripple of fun, And the soul of a child looked out of the eyes of a child, Or ever the tale was done.

O my child, who wronged you first, and began First the dance of death that you dance so well? Soul for soul: and I think the soul of a man Shall answer for yours in hell.

Arthur Symons [1865-

THE BALLAD OF CAMDEN TOWN

I walked with Maisie long years back The streets of Camden Town, I splendid in my suit of black, And she divine in brown.

Hers was a proud and noble face, A secret heart, and eyes Like water in a lonely place Beneath unclouded skies.

A bed, a chest, a faded mat, And broken chairs a few, Were all we had to grace our flat In Hazel Avenue.

But I could walk to Hampstead Heath, And crown her head with daisies, And watch the streaming world beneath, And men with other Maisies.

When I was ill and she was pale And empty stood our store, She left the latchkey on its nail, And saw me nevermore.

Perhaps she cast herself away Lest both of us should drown: Perhaps she feared to die, as they Who die in Camden Town.

What came of her? The bitter nights Destroy the rose and lily, And souls are lost among the lights Of painted Piccadilly.