Chapter 30

I shall not cry Return! Return! Nor weep my years away; But just as long as sunsets burn, And dawns make no delay, I shall be lonesome - I shall miss Your hand, your voice, your smile, your kiss.

Not often shall I speak your name, For what would strangers care That once a sudden tempest came And swept my gardens bare, And then you passed, and in your place Stood Silence with her lifted face.

Not always shall this parting be, For though I travel slow, I, too, may claim eternity And find the way you go; And so I do my task and wait The opening of the outer gate.

Ellen M. H. Gates [1835-1920]

"OH! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM"

Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom, On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; But on thy turf shall roses rear Their leaves, the earliest of the year; And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:

And oft by yon blue gushing stream Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, And feed deep thought with many a dream, And lingering pause and lightly tread; Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead!

Away! we know that tears are vain, That Death nor heeds nor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain? Or make one mourner weep the less? And thou, - who tell'st me to forget, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

TO MARY

If I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep for thee; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be: It never through my mind had passed The time would e'er be o'er, And I on thee should look my last, And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill smile again; And still the thought I will not brook, That I must look in vain. But when I speak - thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid; And now I feel, as well I may, Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, All cold and all serene, I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been. While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, Thou seemest still mine own; But there I lay thee in thy grave, - And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art, Thou hast forgotten me; And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart In thinking, too, of thee; Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light ne'er seen before, As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore!

Charles Wolfe [1791-1823]

MY HEART AND I

Enough! we're tired, my heart and I. We sit beside the headstone thus, And wish that name were carved for us. The moss reprints more tenderly The hard types of the mason's knife, As Heaven's sweet life renews earth's life With which we're tired, my heart and I.

You see we're tired, my heart and I. We dealt with books, we trusted men, And in our own blood drenched the pen, As if such colors could not fly. We walked too straight for fortune's end, We loved too true to keep a friend; At last we're tired, my heart and I.

How tired we feel, my heart and I We seem of no use in the world; Our fancies hang gray and uncurled About men's eyes indifferently; Our voice which thrilled you so, will let You sleep; our tears are only wet: What do we here, my heart and I?

So tired, so tired, my heart and I! It was not thus in that old time When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime To watch the sunset from the sky. "Dear love, you're looking tired," he said: I, smiling at him, shook my head. 'Tis now we're tired, my heart and I.

So tired, so tired, my heart and I! Though now none takes me on his arm To fold me close and kiss me warm Till each quick breath end in a sigh Of happy languor. Now, alone, We lean upon this graveyard stone, Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I.

Tired out we are, my heart and I. Suppose the world brought diadems To tempt us, crusted with loose gems Of powers and pleasures? Let it try. We scarcely care to look at even A pretty child, or God's blue heaven, We feel so tired, my heart and I.

Yet who complains? My heart and I? In this abundant earth no doubt Is little room for things worn out: Disdain them, break them, throw them by! And if before the days grew rough We once were loved, used, - well enough, I think, we've fared, my heart and I.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

ROSALIND'S SCROLL From "The Poet's Vow"

I left thee last, a child at heart, A woman scarce in years: I come to thee, a solemn corpse Which neither feels nor fears. I have no breath to use in sighs; They laid the dead-weights on mine eyes To seal them safe from tears.

Look on me with thine own calm look: I meet it calm as thou. No look of thine can change this smile, Or break thy sinful vow: I tell thee that my poor scorned heart Is of thine earth - thine earth, a part: It cannot vex thee now.

But out, alas! these words are writ By a living, loving one, Adown whose cheeks the proofs of life, The warm quick tears do run: Ah, let the unloving corpse control Thy scorn back from the loving soul Whose place of rest is won.

I have prayed for thee with bursting sob When passion's course was free; I have prayed for thee with silent lips In the anguish none could see; They whispered oft, "She sleepeth soft" - But I only prayed for thee.

Go to! I pray for thee no more: The corpse's tongue is still; Its folded fingers point to heaven, But point there stiff and chill: No farther wrong, no farther woe Hath license from the sin below Its tranquil heart to thrill.

I charge thee, by the living's prayer, And the dead's silentness, To wring from out thy soul a cry Which God shall hear and bless! Lest Heaven's own palm droop in my hand, And pale among the saints I stand, A saint companionless.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side On a bright May mornin' long ago, When first you were my bride. The corn was springin' fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high, And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary, The day is bright as then, The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath, warm on my cheek: And I still keep list'nin' for the words You never more will speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near - The church where we were wed, Mary; I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest - For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends; But, oh! they love the better still The few our Father sends. And you were all I had, Mary, My blessin' and my pride: There's nothin' left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone; There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow - I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break, When the hunger pain was gnawin' there, And you hid it for my sake; I bless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and sore - Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm biddin' you a long farewell, My Mary - kind and true! But I'll not forget you, darling, In the land I'm goin' to: They say there's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there, But I'll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods I'll sit, and shut my eyes, And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies; And I'll think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side, And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride.

Helen Selina Sheridan [1807-1867]

THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE

Word was brought to the Danish king (Hurry!) That the love of his heart lay suffering, And pined for the comfort his voice would bring; (O, ride as though you were flying!) Better he loves each golden curl On the brow of that Scandinavian girl Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl: And his rose of the isles is dying!

Thirty nobles saddled with speed; (Hurry!) Each one mounting a gallant steed Which he kept for battle and days of need; (O, ride as though you were flying!) Spurs were struck in the foaming flank; Worn-out chargers staggered and sank; Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst; But ride as they would, the king rode first, For his rose of the isles lay dying!

His nobles are beaten, one by one; (Hurry!) They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone; His little fair page now follows alone, For strength and for courage trying! The king looked back at that faithful child; Wan was the face that answering smiled; They passed the drawbridge with clattering din, Then he dropped; and only the king rode in Where his rose of the isles lay dying!

The king blew a blast on his bugle horn; (Silence!) No answer came; but faint and forlorn An echo returned on the cold gray morn, Like the breath of a spirit sighing. The castle portal stood grimly wide; None welcomed the king from that weary ride; For dead, in the light of the dawning day, The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, Who had yearned for his voice while dying!

The panting steed, with a drooping crest, Stood weary. The king returned from her chamber of rest, The thick sobs choking in his breast; And, that dumb companion eyeing, The tears gushed forth which he strove to check; He bowed his head on his charger's neck: "O steed, that every nerve didst strain, Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain To the halls where my love lay dying!"

Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton [1808-1870]

THE WATCHER

A rose for a young head, A ring for a bride, Joy for the homestead Clean and wide - Who's that waiting In the rain outside?

A heart for an old friend, A hand for the new: Love can to earth lend Heaven's hue - Who's that standing In the silver dew?

A smile for the parting, A tear as they go, God's sweethearting Ends just so - Who's that watching Where the black winds blow?

He who is waiting In the rain outside, He who is standing Where the dew drops wide, He who is watching In the wind must ride (Though the pale hands cling) With the rose And the ring And the bride, Must ride With the red of the rose, And the gold of the ring, And the lips and the hair of the bride.

James Stephens [1882-

THE THREE SISTERS

Gone are those three, those sisters rare With wonder-lips and eyes ashine. One was wise and one was fair, And one was mine.

Ye mourners, weave for the sleeping hair Of only two your ivy vine. For one was wise and one was fair, But one was mine.

Arthur Davison Ficke [1883-

BALLAD

He said: "The shadows darken down, The night is near at hand. Now who's the friend will follow me Into the sunless land?

"For I have vassals leal and true, And I have comrades kind, And wheresoe'er my soul shall speed, They will not stay behind."

He sought the brother young and blithe Who bore his spear and shield: "In the long chase you've followed me, And in the battle-field.

"Few vows you make; but true's your heart, And you with me will win." He said: "God speed you, brother mine, But I am next of kin."

He sought the friar, the gray old priest Who loved his father's board. The friar he turned him to the east And reverently adored.

He said: "A godless name you bear, A godless life you've led, And whoso wins along with you, His spirit shall have dread.

"Oh, hasten, get your guilty soul From every burden shriven; Yet you are bound for flame and dole, But I am bound for heaven."

He sought the lady bright and proud, Who sate at his right hand: "Make haste, O Love, to follow me Into the sunless land."

She said: "And pass you in your prime? Heaven give me days of cheer! And keep me from the sunless clime Many and many a year."

All heavily the sun sank down Among black clouds of fate. There came a woman fair and wan Unto the castle gate.

Through gazing vassals, idle serfs, So silently she sped! The winding staircase echoed not Unto her light, light tread.

His lady eyed her scornfully. She stood at his right hand; She said: "And I will follow you Into the sunless land.

"There is no expiation, none. A bitter load I bore: Now I shall love you nevermore, Never and nevermore.

"There is no touch or tone of yours Can make the old love wake." She said: "But I will follow you, Even for the old love's sake."

Oh, he has kissed her on the brow, He took her by the hand: Into the sunless land they went, Into the starless land.

May Kendall [1861-

"O THAT 'TWERE POSSIBLE" From "Maud"

O that 'twere possible After long grief and pain To find the arms of my true love Round me once again!

When I was wont to meet her In the silent moody places Of the land that gave me birth, We stood tranced in long embraces Mixed with kisses sweeter, sweeter Than anything on earth.

A shadow flits before me, Not thou, but like to thee. Ah, Christ, that it were possible For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be!

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

"HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD" From "The Princess"

Home they brought her warrior dead; She nor swooned, nor uttered cry. All her maidens, watching, said, "She must weep or she will die."

Then they praised him, soft and low, Called him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and noblest foe; Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stepped, Took the face-cloth from the face; Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee, - Like summer tempest came her tears, "Sweet my child, I live for thee."

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

EVELYN HOPE

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed; She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, Beginning to die too, in the glass. Little has yet been changed, I think: The shutters are shut, no light may pass Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.

Sixteen years old when she died! Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; It was not her time to love; beside, Her life had many a hope and aim, Duties enough and little cares, And now was quiet, now astir, Till God's hand beckoned unawares, - And the sweet white brow is all of her.

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope? What, your soul was pure and true, The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit, fire, and dew - And, just because I was thrice as old, And our paths in the world diverged so wide, Each was naught to each, must I be told? We were fellow mortals, naught beside?

No, indeed! for God above Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love: I claim you still, for my own love's sake! Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet, Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few: Much is to learn, much to forget Ere the time be come for taking you.

But the time will come, - at last it will, When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say) In the lower earth, in the years long still, That body and soul so pure and gay? Why your hair was amber, I shall divine, And your mouth of your own geranium's red, - And what you would do with me, in fine, In the new life come in the old one's stead.

I have lived (I shall say) so much since then, Given up myself so many times, Gained me the gains of various men, Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, Either I missed or itself missed me: And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! What is the issue? let us see!

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while! My heart seemed full as it could hold; There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. So, hush, - I will give you this leaf to keep: See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand! There, that is our secret: go to sleep! You will wake, and remember, and understand.

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

REMEMBRANCE

Cold in the earth - and the deep snow piled above thee, Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave! Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover Over the mountains, on that northern shore, Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?

Cold in the earth - and fifteen wild Decembers, From those brown hills, have melted into spring: Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers After such years of change and suffering!

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, While the world's tide is bearing me along; Other desires and other hopes beset me, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

No later light has lightened up my heaven, No second morn has ever shone for me; All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

But, when the days of golden dreams had perished, And even Despair was powerless to destroy; Then did I learn how existence could be cherished, Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.

Then did I check the tears of useless passion - Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine; Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten Down to that tomb already more than mine.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?

Emily Bronte [1818-1848]

SONG

The linnet in the rocky dells, The moor-lark in the air, The bee among the heather bells That hide my lady fair:

The wild deer browse above her breast; The wild birds raise their brood; And they, her smiles of love caressed, Have left her solitude.

I ween that, when the grave's dark wall Did first her form retain, They thought their hearts could ne'er recall The light of joy again.

They thought the tide of grief would flow Unchecked through future years; But where is all their anguish now, And where are all their tears?

Well, let them fight for honor's breath, Or pleasure's shade pursue: The dweller in the land of death Is changed and careless too.

And, if their eyes should watch and weep Till sorrow's source were dry, She would not, in her tranquil sleep, Return a single sigh.

Blow, west-wind, by the lonely mound, And murmur, summer streams! There is no need of other sound To soothe my lady's dreams.

Emily Bronte [1818-1848]

SONG OF THE OLD LOVE From "Supper at the Mill"

When sparrows build, and the leaves break forth, My old sorrow wakes and cries, For I know there is dawn in the far, far north, And a scarlet sun doth rise; Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads, And the icy founts run free, And the bergs begin to bow their heads, And plunge, and sail in the sea.

O my lost love, and my own, own love, And my love that loved me so! Is there never a chink in the world above Where they listen for words from below? Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore, I remember all that I said, And now thou wilt hear me no more - no more Till the sea gives up her dead.

Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail To the ice-fields and the snow; Thou wert sad, for thy love did naught avail, And the end I could not know; How could I tell I should love thee to-day, Whom that day I held not dear? How could I know I should love thee away When I did not love thee anear?

We shall walk no more through the sodden plain With the faded bents o'erspread, We shall stand no more by the seething main While the dark wrack drives o'erhead; We shall part no more in the wind and the rain, Where thy last farewell was said; But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again When the sea gives up her dead.

Jean Ingelow [1820-1897]

REQUIESCAT

Strew on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew! In quiet she reposes: Ah! would that I did too.

Her mirth the world required: She bathed it in smiles of glee. But her heart was tired, tired, And now they let her be.

Her life was turning, turning, In mazes of heat and sound. But for peace her soul was yearning, And now peace laps her round.

Her cabined, ample Spirit, It fluttered and failed for breath. To-night it doth inherit The vasty hall of Death.

Matthew Arnold [1822-1888]

TOO LATE "DOWGLAS, DOWGLAS, TENDIR AND TREU"

Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, In the old likeness that I knew, I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

Never a scornful word should grieve ye, I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do: Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

Oh, to call back the days that are not! My eyes were blinded, your words were few: Do you know the truth now, up in heaven, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?

I never was worthy of you, Douglas; Not half worthy the like of you: Now all men beside seem to me like shadows - I love you, Douglas, tender and true.

Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew; As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true!

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [1826-1887]

FOUR YEARS

At the Midsummer, when the hay was down, Said I mournful - Though my life be in its prime, Bare lie my meadows all shorn before their time, O'er my sere woodlands the leaves are turning brown; It is the hot Midsummer, when the hay is down.

At the Midsummer, when the hay was down, Stood she by the brooklet, young and very fair, With the first white bindweed twisted in her hair - Hair that drooped like birch-boughs, all in her simple gown - That eve in high Midsummer, when the hay was down.

At the Midsummer, when the hay was down, Crept she a willing bride close into my breast; Low-piled the thunder-clouds had sunk into the west, Red-eyed the sun out-glared like knight from leaguered town; It was the high Midsummer, and the sun was down.

It is Midsummer - all the hay is down, Close to her forehead press I dying eyes, Praying God shield her till we meet in Paradise, Bless her in love's name who was my joy and crown, And I go at Midsummer, when the hay is down.

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [1826-1887]

BARBARA

On the Sabbath-day, Through the churchyard old and gray, Over the crisp and yellow leaves, I held my rustling way; And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms; 'Mid the gorgeous storms of music - in the mellow organ calms, 'Mid the upward streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms, I stood careless, Barbara.

My heart was otherwhere While the organ shook the air, And the priest, with outspread hands, blessed the people with a prayer; But, when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saint-like shine Gleamed a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mine - Gleamed and vanished in a moment - O that face was surely thine Out of heaven, Barbara!

O pallid, pallid face! O earnest eyes of grace! When last I saw thee, dearest, it was in another place. You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on your wrist: The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mist - A purple stain of agony was on the mouth I kissed, That wild morning, Barbara!

I searched in my despair, Sunny noon and midnight air; I could not drive away the thought that you were lingering there. O many and many a winter night I sat when you were gone, My worn face buried in my hands, beside the fire alone. Within the dripping churchyard, the rain plashing on your stone, You were sleeping, Barbara.

'Mong angels, do you think Of the precious golden link I clasped around your happy arm while sitting by yon brink? Or when that night of gliding dance, of laughter and guitars, Was emptied of its music, and we watched, through lattice-bars, The silent midnight heaven creeping o'er us with its stars, Till the day broke, Barbara?