Chapter 34

Oh fair she is! Oh rare she is! Oh dearer still to me, More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree! More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee, Is the coming of my true love - my own Cailin Donn!

O sycamore! O sycamore! wave, wave your banners green! Let all your pennons flutter, O beech! before my queen! Ye fleet and honeyed breezes, to kiss her hand ye run; But my heart has passed before ye to my own Cailin Donn.

Ring out, ring out, O linden, your merry leafy bells! Unveil your brilliant torches, O chestnut! to the dells; Strew, strew the glade with splendor, for morn it cometh on! Oh, the morn of all delight to me - my own Cailin Donn!

She is coming, where we parted, where she wanders every day; There's a gay surprise before her who thinks me far away; Oh, like hearing bugles triumph when the fight of freedom's won, Is the joy around your footsteps, my own Cailin Donn!

George Sigerson [1839-1925]

NOCTURNE

All the earth a hush of white, White with moonlight all the skies; Wonder of a winter night - And . . . your eyes.

Hues no palette dares to claim Where the spoils of sunken ships Leap to light in singing flame - And . . . your lips.

Darkness as the shadows creep Where the embers sigh to rest; Silence of a world asleep - And . . . your breast.

Amelia Josephine Burr [1878-

SURRENDER

As I look back upon your first embrace I understand why from your sudden touch Angered I sprang, and struck you in the face. You asked at once too little and too much. But now that of my spirit you require Love's very soul that unto death endures, Crown as you will the cup of your desire - I am all yours.

Amelia Josephine Burr [1878-

"BY YON BURN SIDE"

We'll meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side, Where the bushes form a cosie den, on yon burn side; Though the broomy knowes be green, And there we may be seen, Yet we'll meet - we'll meet at e'en, down by yon burn side.

I'll lead thee to the birken bower, on yon burn side, Sae sweetly wove wi' woodbine flower, on yon burn side; There the busy prying eye, Ne'er disturbs the lover's joy, While in ither's arms they lie, down by yon burn side.

Awa', ye rude, unfeeling crew, frae yon burn side, Those fairy scenes are no for you, by yon burn side; There fancy smooths her theme, By the sweetly murmuring stream, And the rock-lodged echoes skim, down by yon burn side.

Now the plantin' taps are tinged wi' goud, on yon burn side, And gloamin' draws her foggy shroud o'er yon burn side; Far frae the noisy scene, I'll through the fields alane, There we'll meet, my ain dear Jean, down by yon burn side.

Robert Tannahill [1774-1810]

A PASTORAL

Flower of the medlar, Crimson of the quince, I saw her at the blossom-time, And loved her ever since! She swept the draughty pleasance, The blooms had left the trees, The whilst the birds sang canticles, In cherry symphonies.

Whiteness of the white rose, Redness of the red, She went to cut the blush-rose buds To tie at the altar-head; And some she laid in her bosom, And some around her brows, And, as she passed, the lily-heads All becked and made their bows.

Scarlet of the poppy, Yellow of the corn, The men were at the garnering, A-shouting in the morn; I chased her to a pippin-tree, - The waking birds all whist, - And oh! it was the sweetest kiss That I have ever kissed.

Marjorie, mint, and violets A-drying round us set, 'Twas all done in the faience-room A-spicing marmalet; On one tile was a satyr, On one a nymph at bay, Methinks the birds will scarce be home To wake our wedding-day!

Theophile Marzials [1850-

"WHEN DEATH TO EITHER SHALL COME"

When Death to either shall come, - I pray it be first to me, - Be happy as ever at home, If so, as I wish, it be.

Possess thy heart, my own; And sing to thy child on thy knee, Or read to thyself alone The songs that I made for thee.

Robert Bridges [1844-1930]

THE RECONCILIATION From "The Princess"

As through the land at eve we went, And plucked the ripened ears, We fell out, my wife and I, O, we fell out, I know not why, And kissed again with tears.

And blessings on the falling out That all the more endears, When we fall out with those we love And kiss again with tears!

For when we came where lies the child We lost in other years, There above the little grave, O, there above the little grave, We kissed again with tears.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

SONG

Wait but a little while - The bird will bring A heart in tune for melodies Unto the spring, Till he who's in the cedar there Is moved to trill a song so rare, And pipe her fair.

Wait but a little while - The bud will break; The inner rose will open and glow For summer's sake: Fond bees will lodge within her breast Till she herself is plucked and pressed Where I would rest.

Wait but a little while - The maid will grow Gracious with lips and hands to thee, With breast of snow. To-day Love's mute, but time hath sown A soul in her to match thine own, Though yet ungrown.

Norman Gale [1862-

CONTENT

Though singing but the shy and sweet Untrod by multitudes of feet, Songs bounded by the brook and wheat, I have not failed in this, The only lure my woodland note, To win all England's whitest throat! O bards in gold and fire who wrote, Be yours all other bliss!

Norman Gale [1862-

CHE SARA SARA

Preach wisdom unto him who understands! When there's such lovely longing in thine eyes, And such a pulse in thy small clinging hands, What is the good of being great or wise?

What is the good of beating up the dust On the world's highway, vexed with droughty heat? Oh, I grow fatalist - what must be must, Seeing that thou, beloved, art so sweet!

Victor Plarr [1863-

"BID ADIEU TO GIRLISH DAYS"

Bid adieu, adieu, adieu, Bid adieu to girlish days, Happy Love is come to woo Thee and woo thy girlish ways - The zone that doth become thee fair, The snood upon thy yellow hair.

When thou hast heard his name upon The bugles of the cherubim, Begin thou softly to unzone Thy girlish bosom unto him, And softly to undo the snood That is the sign of maidenhood.

James Joyce [1882-

TO F. C.

Fast falls the snow, O lady mine, Sprinkling the lawn with crystals fine, But by the gods we won't repine While we're together, We'll chat and rhyme, and kiss and dine, Defying weather.

So stir the fire and pour the wine, And let those sea-green eyes divine Pour their love-madness into mine: I don't care whether 'Tis snow or sun or rain or shine If we're together.

Mortimer Collins [1827-1876]

SPRING PASSION

Blue sky, green fields, and lazy yellow sun! Why should I hunger for the burning South, Where beauty needs no travail to be won, Now I may kiss her pure impassioned mouth?

Winds rippling with the rich delight of spring! Why should I yearn for myriad-colored skies, Lit by auroral suns, when I may sing The flame and rapture of her starry eyes?

Oh, song of birds, and flowers fair to see! Why should I thirst for far-off Eden-isles, When I may hear her discourse melody, And bask, a dreamer, in her dreamy smiles?

Joel Elias Spingarn [1875-

ADVICE TO A LOVER

Oh, if you love her, Show her the best of you; So will you move her To bear with the rest of you. Coldness and jealousy Cannot but seem to her Signs that a tempest lurks Where was sunbeam to her. Patience, and tenderness Still will awake in her Hopes of new sunshine, Though the storm break for her; Love, she will know, for her, Like the blue firmament, Under the tempest lies Gentle and permanent. Nor will she ever Gentleness find the less When the storm overblown Leaveth clear kindliness. Deal with her tenderly, Skylike above her, Smile on her waywardness, Oh, if you love her!

S. Charles Jellicoe [18 -

"YES"

They stood above the world, In a world apart; And she dropped her happy eyes, And stilled the throbbing pulses Of her happy heart. And the moonlight fell above her, Her secret to discover; And the moonbeams kissed her hair, As though no human lovers Had laid his kisses there.

"Look up, brown eyes," he said, "And answer mine; Lift up those silken fringes That hide a happy light Almost divine." The jealous moonlight drifted To the finger half-uplifted, Where shone the opal ring - Where the colors danced and shifted On the pretty, changeful thing.

Just the old, old story Of light and shade, Love like the opal tender, Like it may be to vary - May be to fade. Just the old tender story, Just a glimpse of morning glory In an earthly Paradise, With shadowy reflections In a pair of sweet brown eyes.

Brown eyes a man might well Be proud to win! Open to hold his image, Shut under silken lashes, Only to shut him in. O glad eyes, look together, For life's dark, stormy weather Grows to a fairer thing When young eyes look upon it Through a slender wedding ring.

Richard Doddridge Blackmore [1825-1900]

LOVE

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruined tower.

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve!

She leaned against the armed man, The statue of the armed Knight; She stood and listened to my lay, Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! She loves me best whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve.

I played a soft and doleful air; I sang an old and moving story - An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary.

She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace; For well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand; And that for ten long years he wooed The Lady of the Land.

I told her how he pined: and ah! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own.

She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace; And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face!

But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he crossed the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade -

There came and looked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright; And that he knew it was a Fiend, This miserable Knight!

And that, unknowing what he did, He leaped amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death The Lady of the Land; -

And how she wept and clasped his knees; And how she tended him in vain - And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain; -

And that she nursed him in a cave; And how his madness went away, When on the yellow forest-leaves A dying man he lay; -

His dying words - but when I reached That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve; The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve;

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, An undistinguishable throng, And gentle wishes long subdued, Subdued and cherished long!

She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love and virgin-shame; And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved - she stepped aside, As conscious of my look she stepped - Then suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept.

She half enclosed me with her arms, She pressed me with a meek embrace; And bending back her head, looked up, And gazed upon my face.

'Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly 'twas a bashful art, That I might rather feel, than see, The swelling of her heart.

I calmed her fears, and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous Bride.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]

NESTED On The Sussex Downs

"Lured," little one? Nay, you've but heard Love o'er your wild downs roaming; Not lured, my bird, my light, swift bird, But homing - homing.

"Caught," does she feel? Nay, no net stirred To catch the heart fore-fated; Not caught, my bird, my bright, wild bird, But mated - mated.

And "caged," she fears? Nay, never that word Of where your brown head rested; Not caged, my bird, my shy, sweet bird, But nested - nested!

Habberton Lulham [18 -

THE LETTERS

Still on the tower stood the vane, A black yew gloomed the stagnant air; I peered athwart the chancel pane, And saw the altar cold and bare. A clog of lead was round my feet, A band of pain across my brow; "Cold altar, heaven and earth shall meet Before you hear my marriage vow."

I turned and hummed a bitter song That mocked the wholesome human heart, And then we met in wrath and wrong, We met, but only meant to part. Full cold my greeting was and dry; She faintly smiled, she hardly moved; I saw, with half-unconscious eye, She wore the colors I approved.

She took the little ivory chest, With half a sigh she turned the key, Then raised her head with lips compressed, And gave my letters back to me; And gave the trinkets and the rings, My gifts, when gifts of mine could please. As looks a father on the things Of his dead son, I looked on these.

She told me all her friends had said; I raged against the public liar. She talked as if her love were dead; But in my words were seeds of fire. "No more of love, your sex is known; I never will be twice deceived. Henceforth I trust the man alone; The woman cannot be believed.

"Through slander, meanest spawn of hell, - And woman's slander is the worst, - And you, whom once I loved so well, Through you my life will be accursed." I spoke with heart and heat and force, I shook her breast with vague alarms - Like torrents from a mountain source We rushed into each other's arms.

We parted; sweetly gleamed the stars, And sweet the vapor-braided blue; Low breezes fanned the belfry bars, As homeward by the church I drew. The very graves appeared to smile, So fresh they rose in shadowed swells; "Dark porch," I said, "and silent aisle, There comes a sound of marriage bells."

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

PROTHALAMION

Calm was the day, and through the trembling air Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair; When I (whom sullen care, Through discontent of my long fruitless stay In Prince's Court, and expectation vain Of idle hopes, which still do fly away, Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain), Walked forth to ease my pain Along the shore of silver streaming Thames; Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems, Was painted all with variable flowers, And all the meads adorned with dainty gems, Fit to deck maidens' bowers, And crown their paramours Against the bridal day, which is not long: Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

There, in a meadow, by the river's side, A flock of nymphs I chanced to espy, All lovely daughters of the flood thereby, With goodly greenish locks, all loose untied, As each had been a bride: And each one had a little wicker basket, Made of fine twigs, entrailed curiously, In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket, And, with fine fingers, cropped full feateously The tender stalks on high. Of every sort, which in that meadow grew, They gathered some; the violet, pallid blue, The little daisy, that at evening closes, The virgin lily, and the primrose true, With store of vermeil roses, To deck their bridegroom's posies Against the bridal day, which was not long: Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

With that I saw two swans of goodly hue Come softly swimming down along the Lee; Two fairer birds I yet did never see; The snow, which doth the top of Pindus strew, Did never whiter shew, Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would be For love of Leda, whiter did appear; Yet Leda was, they say, as white as he, Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near; So purely white they were, That even the gentle stream, the which them bare, Seemed foul to them, and bade his billows spare To wet their silken feathers, lest they might Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair, And mar their beauties bright, That shone as heaven's light, Against their bridal day, which was not long: Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fill, Ran all in haste to see that silver brood, As they came floating on the crystal flood; Whom when they saw, they stood amazed still, Their wondering eyes to fill; Them seemed they never saw a sight so fair Of fowls so lovely, that they sure did deem Them heavenly born, or to be that same pair Which through the sky draw Venus' silver team; For sure they did not seem To be begot of any earthly seed, But rather angels, or of angels' breed; Yet were they bred of summer's heat, they say, In sweetest season, when each flower and weed The earth did fresh array; So fresh they seemed as day, Even as their bridal day, which was not long: Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

Then forth they all out of their baskets drew Great store of flowers, the honor of the field, That to the sense did fragrant odors yield, All which upon those goodly birds they threw And all the waves did strew, That like old Peneus' waters they did seem, When down along by pleasant Tempe's shore, Scattered with flowers, through Thessaly they stream, That they appear, through lilies' plenteous store, Like a bride's chamber floor: Two of those nymphs, meanwhile, two garlands bound Of freshest flowers which in that mead they found, The which presenting all in trim array, Their snowy foreheads therewithal they crowned, Whilst one did sing this lay, Prepared against that day, Against their bridal day, which was not long: Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

"Ye gentle birds! the world's fair ornament, And heaven's glory whom this happy hour Doth lead unto your lover's blissful bower, Joy may you have, and gentle hearts' content Of your love's couplement; And let fair Venus, that is queen of love, With her heart-quelling son upon you smile, Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to remove All love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guile For ever to assoil; Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord, And blessed plenty wait upon your board; And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound, That fruitful issue may to you afford, Which may your foes confound, And make your joys redound Upon your bridal day, which is not long": Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

So ended she: and all the rest around To her redoubled that her undersong, Which said their bridal day should not be long: And gentle Echo from the neighbor-ground Their accents did resound. So forth those joyous birds did pass along, Adown the Lee, that to them murmured low, As he would speak, but that he lacked a tongue, Yet did by signs his glad affection show, Making his stream run slow. And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell 'Gan flock about these twain, that did excel The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend The lesser stars. So they, enranged well, Did on those two attend, And their best service lend Against their wedding day, which was not long: Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

At length they all to merry London came, To merry London, my most kindly nurse, That to me gave this life's first native source; Though from another place I take my name, An house of ancient fame: There when they came, whereas those bricky towers The which on Thames' broad, aged back do ride, Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers, There whilom wont the Templar Knights to bide, Till they decayed through pride: Next whereunto there stands a stately place, Where oft I gained gifts and goodly grace Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell, Whose want too well now feels my friendless case; But ah! here fits not well Old woes, but joys, to tell Against the bridal day, which is not long: Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer, Great England's glory, and the world's wide wonder, Whose dreadful name late through all Spain did thunder, And Hercules' two pillars standing near Did make to quake and fear: Fair branch of honor, flower of chivalry! That fillest England with thy triumph's fame, Joy have thou of thy noble victory, And endless happiness of thine own name, That promiseth the same; That through thy prowess, and victorious arms, Thy country may be freed from foreign harms; And great Elisa's glorious name may ring Through all the world, filled with thy wide alarms, Which some brave muse may sing To ages following, Upon the bridal day, which is not long: Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

From those high towers this noble lord issuing, Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hair In the ocean billows he hath bathed fair, Descended to the river's open viewing, With a great train ensuing. Above the rest were goodly to be seen Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature Beseeming well the bower of any queen, With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature, Fit for so goodly stature, That like the twins of Jove they seemed in sight, Which deck the baldrick of the heavens bright; They two, forth pacing to the river's side, Received those two fair brides, their love's delight; Which, at the appointed tide, Each one did make his bride Against their bridal day, which is not long: Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

Edmund Spenser [1552?-1599]

EPITHALAMION

Ye learned sisters, which have oftentimes Been to me aiding, others to adorn, Whom ye thought worthy of your graceful rhymes, That even the greatest did not greatly scorn To hear their names sung in your simple lays, But joyed in their praise; And when ye list your own mishaps to mourn, Which death, or love, or fortune's wreck did raise, Your string could soon to sadder tenor turn, And teach the woods and waters to lament Your doleful dreariment: Now lay those sorrowful complaints aside; And, having all your heads with garlands crowned, Help me mine own love's praises to resound; Nor let the same of any be envide: So Orpheus did for his own bride! So I unto myself alone will sing; The woods shall to me answer, and my echo ring.

Early, before the world's light-giving lamp His golden beam upon the hills doth spread, Having dispersed the night's uncheerful damp, Do ye awake; and, with fresh lusty-hed, Go to the bower of my beloved love, My truest turtle dove; Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake, And long since ready forth his mask to move, With his bright Tead that flames with many a flake, And many a bachelor to wait on him, In their fresh garments trim. Bid her awake therefore, and soon her dight, For lo! the wished day is come at last, That shall, for all the pains and sorrows past, Pay to her usury of long delight: And, whilst she doth her dight, Do ye to her of joy and solace sing, That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.

Bring with you all the Nymphs that you can hear, Both of the rivers and the forests green, And of the sea that neighbors to her near, All with gay garlands goodly well beseen. And let them also with them bring in hand Another gay garland, For my fair love, of lilies and of roses, Bound truelove wise with a blue silk riband; And let them make great store of bridal posies, And let them eke bring store of other flowers, To deck the bridal bowers. And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread, For fear the stones her tender foot should wrong, Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along, And diapered like the discolored mead; Which done, do at her chamber door await, For she will waken straight; The whiles do ye this song unto her sing, The woods shall to you answer, and your echo ring.