Chapter 37

In the gardens of Life we strayed together, And the luscious apples were ripe and red, And the languid lilac, and honeyed heather Swooned with the fragrance which they shed; And under the trees the angels walked, And up in the air a sense of wings Awed us tenderly while we talked Softly in sacred communings.

In the meadows of Life we strayed together, Watching the waving harvests grow, And under the benison of the Father Our hearts, like the lambs, skipped to and fro; And the cowslip, hearing our low replies, Broidered fairer the emerald banks, And glad tears shone in the daisy's eyes, And the timid violet glistened thanks.

Who was with us, and what was round us, Neither myself nor my darling guessed; Only we knew that something crowned us Out from the heavens with crowns of rest; Only we knew that something bright Lingered lovingly where we stood, Clothed with the incandescent light Of something higher than humanhood.

Oh, the riches Love doth inherit! Oh, the alchemy which doth change Dross of body and dregs of spirit Into sanctities rare and strange! My flesh is feeble, and dry, and old, My darling's beautiful hair is gray; But our elixir and precious gold Laugh at the footsteps of decay.

Harms of the world have come unto us, Cups of sorrow we yet shall drain; But we have a secret which doth show us Wonderful rainbows in the rain. And we hear the tread of the years move by, And the sun is setting behind the hills; But my darling does not fear to die, And I am happy in what God wills.

So we sit by our household fires together, Dreaming the dreams of long ago; Then it was balmy, sunny weather, And now the valleys are laid in snow; Icicles hang from the slippery eaves, The wind blows cold, - 'tis growing late; Well, well! we have garnered all our sheaves, I and my darling, and we wait.

Richard Realf [1834-1878]

THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE

How many summers, love, Have I been thine? How many days, thou dove, Hast thou been mine? Time, like the winged wind When it bends the flowers, Hath left no mark behind, To count the hours.

Some weight of thought, though loth, On thee he leaves; Some lines of care round both Perhaps he weaves; Some fears, - a soft regret For joys scarce known; Sweet looks we half forget; - All else is flown!

Ah! - With what thankless heart I mourn and sing! Look, where our children start, Like sudden Spring! With tongues all sweet and low, Like a pleasant rhyme, They tell how much I owe To thee and Time!

Bryan Waller Procter [1787-1874]

JOHN ANDERSON

John Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is bald, John, Your locks are like the snow; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither, And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

TO MARY

"Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed, So, fourteen years ago, I said - Behold another ring! - "For what? To wed thee o'er again - why not?"

With that first ring I married Youth, Grace, Beauty, Innocence, and Truth; Taste long admired, sense long revered, And all my Molly then appeared. If she, by merit since disclosed, Prove twice the woman I supposed, I plead that double merit now, To justify a double vow.

Here then, to-day, (with faith as sure, With ardor as intense and pure, As when, amidst the rites divine, I took thy troth, and plighted mine), To thee, sweet girl, my second ring A token, and a pledge, I bring; With this I wed, till death us part, Thy riper virtues to my heart; Those virtues, which, before untried, The wife has added to the bride; Those virtues, whose progessive claim, Endearing wedlock's very name, My soul enjoys, my song approves, For Conscience' sake, as well as Love's.

For why? - They show me every hour, Honor's high thought, Affection's power, Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sentence, And teach me all things - but Repentance.

Samuel Bishop [1731-1795]

THE GOLDEN WEDDING

O Love, whose patient pilgrim feet Life's longest path have trod; Whose ministry hath symbolled sweet The dearer love of God; The sacred myrtle wreathes again Thine altar, as of old; And what was green with summer then, Is mellowed now to gold.

Not now, as then, the future's face Is flushed with fancy's light; But memory, with a milder grace, Shall rule the feast to-night. Blest was the sun of joy that shone, Nor less the blinding shower; The bud of fifty years agone Is love's perfected flower.

O memory, ope thy mystic door; O dream of youth, return; And let the light that gleamed of yore Beside this altar burn. The past is plain; 'twas love designed E'en sorrow's iron chain; And, mercy's shining thread has twined With the dark warp of pain.

So be it still. O Thou who hast That younger bridal blest, Till the May-morn of love has passed To evening's golden west; Come to this later Cana, Lord, And, at thy touch divine, The water of that earlier board To-night shall turn to wine.

David Gray [1837-1888]

MOGGY AND ME

Oh wha are sae happy as me an' my Moggy? Oh wha are sae happy as Moggy an' me? We're baith turnin' auld, an' our walth is soon tauld, But contentment bides aye in our cottage sae wee. She toils a' the day when I'm out wi' the hirsel, An' chants to the bairns while I sing on the brae; An' aye her blithe smile welcomes me frae my toil, When down the glen I come weary an' wae.

Aboon our auld heads we've a nice little biggin, That keeps out the cauld when the simmer's awa; We've twa webs o' linen o' Moggy's ain spinnin', As thick as silk velvet and white as the snaw; We've kye in the byre, an' yauds in the stable, A grumphie sae fat that she hardly can stand; An' something, I guess, in yon auld painted press To cheer up the speerits an' steady the hand.

'Tis true we hae had mony sorrows an' crosses, Our pouches oft toom, an' our hearts fu' o' care; But wi' a' our crosses, our sorrows an' losses, Contentment, thank heaven! has aye been our share. I've an auld roostit sword that was left by my father, Whilk aye has been drawn when my king had a fae; We hae friends ane or twa that aft gie us a ca', To laugh when we're happy or grieve when we're wae.

Our duke may hae gowd mair than schoolmen can reckon, An' flunkies to watch ilka glance o' his e'e, His lady aye braw sittin' prim in her ha'; But are they sae happy as Moggy an' me? A' ye wha ne'er fand the straight road to be happy, Wha are nae content wi' the lot that ye dree, Come down to the dwellin' o' whilk I've been tellin', You'll learn it by lookin' at Moggy an' me.

James Hogg [1770-1835]

"O, LAY THY HAND IN MINE, DEAR!"

O, lay thy hand in mine, dear! We're growing old; But Time hath brought no sign, dear, That hearts grow cold. 'Tis long, long since our new love Made life divine; But age enricheth true love, Like noble wine.

And lay thy cheek to mine, dear, And take thy rest; Mine arms around thee twine, dear, And make thy nest. A many cares are pressing On this dear head; But Sorrow's hands in blessing Are surely laid.

O, lean thy life on mine, dear! 'Twill shelter thee. Thou wert a winsome vine, dear, On my young tree: And so, till boughs are leafless, And songbirds flown, We'll twine, then lay us, griefless Together down.

Gerald Massey [1828-1907]

THE EXEQUY

Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint, Instead of dirges this complaint; And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse, Receive a strew of weeping verse From thy grieved friend, whom thou might'st see Quite melted into tears for thee. Dear loss! since thy untimely fate, My task hath been to meditate On thee, on thee: thou art the book, The library whereon I look, Though almost blind. For thee (loved clay) I languish out, not live, the day, Using no other exercise But which I practise with mine eyes: By which wet glasses I find out How lazily time creeps about To one that mourns: this, only this, My exercise and business is: So I compute the weary hours With sighs dissolved into showers.

Nor wonder if my time go thus Backward and most preposterous; Thou hast benighted me; thy set This eve of blackness did beget, Who wast my day (though overcast Before thou hadst thy noontide passed): And I remember must in tears Thou scarce hadst seen so many years As day tells hours. By thy clear sun My love and fortune first did run; But thou wilt never more appear Folded within my hemisphere, Since both thy light and motion, Like a fled star, is fallen and gone, And 'twixt me and my soul's dear wish The earth now interposed is, Which such a strange eclipse doth make As ne'er was read in almanac.

I could allow thee for a time To darken me and my sad clime; Were it a month, a year, or ten, I would thy exile live till then, And all that space my mirth adjourn, So thou wouldst promise to return, And putting off thy ashy shroud At length disperse this sorrow's cloud. But woe is me! the longest date Too narrow is to calculate These empty hopes: never shall I Be so much blest as to descry A glimpse of thee, till that day come Which shall the earth to cinders doom, And a fierce fever must calcine The body of this world - like thine, (My little world!) That fit of fire Once off, our bodies shall aspire To our souls' bliss: then we shall rise And view ourselves with clearer eyes In that calm region where no night Can hide us from each other's sight.

Meantime thou hast her, earth: much good May my harm do thee! Since it stood With Heaven's will I might not call Her longer mine, I give thee all My short-lived right and interest In her whom living I loved best: With a most free and bounteous grief I give thee what I could not keep. Be kind to her, and prithee look Thou write into thy Doomsday book Each parcel of this rarity Which in thy casket shrined doth lie, See that thou make thy reckoning straight, And yield her back again by weight; For thou must audit on thy trust Each grain and atom of this dust, As thou wilt answer Him that lent - Not gave - thee my dear monument. So close the ground, and 'bout her shade Black curtains draw: my bride is laid.

Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed Never to be disquieted! My last good-night! Thou wilt not wake Till I thy fate shall overtake: Till age, or grief, or sickness must Marry my body to that dust It so much loves; and fill the room My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. Stay for me there: I will not fail To meet thee in that hollow vale. And think not much of my delay: I am already on the way, And follow thee with all the speed Desire can make, or sorrows breed. Each minute is a short degree And every hour a step towards thee. At night when I betake to rest, Next morn I rise nearer my west Of life, almost by eight hours' sail, Than when sleep breathed his drowsy gale.

Thus from the Sun my bottom steers, And my day's compass downward bears: Nor labor I to stem the tide Through which to thee I swiftly glide. 'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield, Thou, like the van, first took'st the field; And gotten hast the victory In thus adventuring to die Before me, whose more years might crave A just precedence in the grave. But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum, Beats my approach, tells thee I come: And slow howe'er my marches be I shall at last sit down by thee.

The thought of this bids me go on And wait my dissolution With hope and comfort. Dear (forgive The crime), I am content to live Divided, with but half a heart, Till we shall meet and never part.

Henry King [1592-1669]

LOVE SONNETS

SONNETS From "Amoretti"

III The sovereign beauty which I do admire, Witness the world how worthy to be praised! The light whereof hath kindled heavenly fire In my frail spirit, by her from baseness raised; That being now with her huge brightness dazed, Base thing I can no more endure to view: But, looking still on her, I stand amazed At wondrous sight of so celestial hue. So when my tongue would speak her praises due, It stopped is with thought's astonishment; And when my pen would write her titles true, It ravished is with fancy's wonderment: Yet in my heart I then both speak and write The wonder that my wit cannot indite.

VIII More than most fair, full of the living fire Kindled above unto the Maker near; No eyes but joys, in which all powers conspire That to the world naught else be counted dear; Through your bright beams doth not the blinded guest Shoot out his darts to base affections wound; But angels come to lead frail minds to rest In chaste desires, on heavenly beauty bound. You frame my thoughts, and fashion me within; You stop my tongue, and teach my heart to speak; You calm the storm that passion did begin, Strong through your cause, but by your virtue weak. Dark is the world, where your light shined never; Well is he born that may behold you ever.

XXIV When I behold that beauty's wonderment, And rare perfection of each goodly part, Of Nature's still the only complement, I honor and admire the Maker's art. But when I feel the bitter baleful smart Which her fair eyes un'wares do work in me, That death out of their shiny beams do dart, I think that I a new Pandora see, Whom all the gods in council did agree Into this sinful world from heaven to send, That she to wicked men a scourge should be, For all their faults with which they did offend. But since ye are my scourge, I will entreat That for my faults ye will me gently beat.

XXXIV Like as a ship, that through the ocean wide, By conduct of some star doth make her way, Whenas a storm hath dimmed her trusty guide, Out of her course doth wander far astray; So I, whose star, that wont with her bright ray Me to direct, with clouds is overcast, Do wander now, in darkness and dismay, Through hidden perils round about me placed; Yet hope I well that, when this storm is past, My Helice, the lodestar of my life, Will shine again, and look on me at last, With lovely light to clear my cloudy grief: Till then I wander care-full, comfortless, In secret sorrow, and sad pensiveness.

LV So oft as I her beauty do behold, And therewith do her cruelty compare, I marvel of what substance was the mould, The which her made at once so cruel fair; Not earth, for her high thoughts more heavenly are; Not water, for her love doth burn like fire; Not air, for she is not so light or rare; Not fire, for she doth freeze with faint desire. Then needs another element inquire Whereof she might be made - that is, the sky; For to the heaven her haughty looks aspire, And eke her mind is pure immortal high. Then, since to heaven ye likened are the best, Be like in mercy as in all the rest.

LXVIII Most glorious Lord of Life! that on this day Didst make thy triumph over death and sin, And, having harrowed hell, didst bring away Captivity thence captive, us to win, This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin; And grant that we, for whom thou diddest die, Being with thy dear blood clean washed from sin, May live forever in felicity; And that thy love we weighing worthily, May likewise love thee for the same again, And for thy sake, that all 'like dear didst buy, With love may one another entertain! So let us love, dear Love, like as we ought: Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.

LXX Fresh Spring, the herald of love's mighty king, In whose coat-armor richly are displayed All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring In goodly colors gloriously arrayed; Go to my love, where she is careless laid, Yet in her winter's bower not well awake; Tell her the joyous time will not be stayed, Unless she do him by the forelock take; Bid her therefore herself soon ready make To wait on Love amongst his lovely crew; Where everyone that misseth then her mate Shall be by him amerced with penance due. Make haste, therefore, sweet love, whilst it is prime; For none can call again the passed time.

LXXV One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washed it away: Again I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tide and made my pains his prey. "Vain man," said she, "that dost in vain essay A mortal thing so to immortalize; For I myself shall like to this decay, And eke my name be wiped out likewise." "Not so," quoth I; "let baser things devise To die in dust, but you shall live by fame; My verse your virtues rare shall eternize, And in the heavens write your glorious name: Where, whenas Death shall all the world subdue, Our love shall live, and later life renew."

LXXIX Men call you fair, and you do credit it, For that yourself ye daily such do see: But the true fair, that is the gentle wit And virtuous mind, is much more praised of me: For all the rest, however fair it be, Shall turn to naught and lose that glorious hue; But only that is permanent and free From frail corruption that doth flesh ensue. That is true beauty; that doth argue you To be divine, and born of heavenly seed; Derived from that fair Spirit from whom all true And perfect beauty did at first proceed: He only fair, and what he fair hath made; All other fair, like flowers, untimely fade.

Edmund Spenser [1552?-1599]

SONNETS From "Astrophel and Stella"

I Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show, That She, dear She! might take some pleasure of my pain; Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know, Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain: I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe, Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain; Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburnt brain: But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay. Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows; And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way. Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes, Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite: "Fool!" said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write!"

XXXI With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies! How silently, and with how wan a face! What! may it be that even in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries? Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case; I read it in thy looks. Thy languished grace To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deemed there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? Do they call virtue there, ungratefulness?

XXXIX Come Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, The indifferent judge between the high and low! With shield of proof, shield me from out the press Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw: O make in me those civil wars to cease! I will good tribute pay if thou do so. Take thou of me, smooth pillows, sweetest bed, A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, A rosy garland, and a weary head: And if these things, as being thine in right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.

LXII Late tired with woe, even ready for to pine With rage of love, I called my Love unkind; She in whose eyes love, though unfelt, doth shine, Sweet said that I true love in her should find. I joyed; but straight thus watered was my wine, That love she did, but loved a love not blind; Which would not let me, whom she loved, decline From nobler cause, fit for my birth and mind: And therefore, by her love's authority, Willed me these tempests of vain love to fly, And anchor fast myself on Virtue's shore. Alas, if this the only metal be Of love new-coined to help my beggary, Dear! love me not, that ye may love me more!

LXIV No more, my Dear, no more these counsels try; O give my passions leave to run their race! Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace; Let folk o'ercharged with brain, against me cry; Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye; Let me no steps but of lost labor trace; Let all the earth with scorn recount my case; But do not will me from my love to fly! I do not envy Aristotle's wit; Nor do aspire to Caesar's bleeding fame; Nor aught do care, though some above me sit; Nor hope, nor wish another course to frame, But that which once may win thy cruel heart: Thou art my Wit, and thou my Virtue art.

LXXIII Love still a boy and oft a wanton is, Schooled only by his mother's tender eye; What wonder, then, if he his lesson miss, When for so soft a rod dear play he try? And yet my Star, because a sugared kiss In sport I sucked while she asleep did lie, Doth lower, nay chide, nay threat, for only this. - Sweet, it was saucy Love, not humble I! But no 'scuse serves; she makes her wrath appear In Beauty's throne; see now, who dares come near Those scarlet judges, threatening bloody pain! O heavenly fool, thy most kiss-worthy face Anger invests with such a lovely grace, That Anger's self I needs must kiss again.

CIII O happy Thames that didst my Stella bear! I saw thee with full many a smiling line Upon thy cheerful face, Joy's livery wear, While those fair planets on thy streams did shine. The boat for joy could not to dance forbear; While wanton winds, with beauties so divine, Ravished, stayed not, till in her golden hair They did themselves, (O sweetest prison!) twine. And fain those Aeol's youths there would their stay Have made, but forced by Nature still to fly, First did with puffing kiss those locks display. She so dishevelled, blushed. From window, I, With sight thereof, cried out, "O fair disgrace! Let Honor's self to thee grant highest place!"

CVII Stella! since thou so right a Princess art Of all the powers which life bestows on me, That ere by them aught undertaken be, They first resort unto that sovereign part; Sweet! for a while give respite to my heart, Which pants as though it still should leap to thee; And on my thoughts give thy lieutenancy To this great cause, which needs both use and art. And as a Queen, who from her presence sends Whom she employs, dismiss from thee my wit, Till it have wrought what thy own will attends: On servants' shame oft master's blame doth sit. O, let not fools in me thy works reprove, And scorning, say, "See what it is to love!"

Philip Sidney [1554-1586]

SONNETS From "To Delia"

VI Fair is my Love, and cruel as she's fair: Her brow shades frowns, although her eyes are sunny; Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair, And her disdains are gall, her favors honey. A modest maid, decked with a blush of honor, Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love; The wonder of all eyes that look upon her, Sacred on earth, designed a Saint above. Chastity and Beauty, which were deadly foes, Live reconciled friends within her brow; And had she Pity to conjoin with those, Then who had heard the plaints I utter now? O had she not been fair, and thus unkind, My Muse had slept, and none had known my mind.

XII My spotless love hovers, with purest wings, About the temple of the proudest frame, Where blaze those lights, fairest of earthly things, Which clear our clouded world with brightest flame. My ambitious thoughts, confined in her face, Affect no honor but what she can give; My hopes do rest in limits of her grace; I weigh no comfort, unless she relieve. For she, that can my heart imparadise, Holds in her fairest hand what dearest is. My Fortune's Wheel's the Circle of her Eyes, Whose rolling grace deign once a turn of bliss! All my life's sweet consists in her alone; So much I love the most unloving one.