Chapter 15

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. And so, all the night-tide I lie down by the side

Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea.

EDGAR ALLAN FOE.

THY BRAES WERE BONNY.

Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream! When first on them I met my lover; Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream! When now thy waves his body cover.

Forever now, O Yarrow stream! Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; For never on thy banks shall I Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow.

He promised me a milk-white steed, To bear me to his father's bowers; He promised me a little page, To 'squire me to his father's towers; He promised me a wedding-ring,-- The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow; Now he is wedded to his grave, Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow!

Sweet were his words when last we met; My passion I as freely told him! Clasped in his arms, I little thought That I should nevermore behold him! Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost; It vanished with a shriek of sorrow; Thrice did the water-wraith ascend, And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow.

His mother from the window looked With all the longing of a mother; His little sister weeping walked The greenwood path to meet her brother. They sought him east, they sought him west, They sought him all the forest thorough, They only saw the cloud of night, They only heard the roar of Yarrow!

No longer from thy window look, Thou hast no son, thou tender mother! No longer walk, thou lovely maid; Alas, thou hast no more a brother! No longer seek him east or west, And search no more the forest thorough; For, wandering in the night so dark, He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow.

The tear shall never leave my cheek, No other youth shall be my marrow; I'll seek thy body in the stream, And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.

JOHN LOGAN.

FAREWELL TO THEE, ARABY'S DAUGHTER.

FROM "THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS."

Farewell,--farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! (Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea;) No pearl ever lay under Oman's green water More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee.

O, fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing, How light was thy heart till love's witchery came, Like the wind of the south o'er a summer lute blowing, And hushed all its music and withered its frame!

But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands, Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom Of her who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, With naught but the sea-star to light up her tomb.

And still, when the merry date-season is burning, And calls to the palm-grove the young and the old, The happiest there, from their pastime returning At sunset, will weep when thy story is told.

The young village maid, when with flowers she dresses Her dark flowing-hair for some festival day, Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses, She mournfully turns from the mirror away.

Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero, forget thee-- Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start, Close, close by the side of that hero she'll set thee, Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart.

Farewell!--be it ours to embellish thy pillow With everything beauteous that grows in the deep; Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep.

Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept; With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreathed chamber, We, Peris of ocean, by moonlight have slept.

We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling, And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head; We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling, And gather their gold to strew over thy bed.

Farewell!--farewell!--until pity's sweet fountain Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain. They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in the wave.

THOMAS MOORE.

SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER BREATH.

Softly woo away her breath, Gentle death! Let her leave thee with no strife, Tender, mournful, murmuring life! She hath seen her happy day,-- She hath had her bud and blossom; Now she pales and shrinks away, Earth, into thy gentle bosom!

She hath done her bidding here, Angels dear! Bear her perfect soul above. Seraph of the skies,--sweet love! Good she was, and fair in youth; And her mind was seen to soar. And her heart was wed to truth: Take her, then, forevermore,-- Forever--evermore--

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (_Barry Cornwall._)

SHE DIED IN BEAUTY.

She died in beauty,--like a rose Blown from its parent stem; She died in beauty,--like a pearl Dropped from some diadem.

She died in beauty,--like a lay Along a moonlit lake; She died in beauty,--like the song Of birds amid the brake.

She died in beauty,--like the snow On flowers dissolved away; She died in beauty,--like a star Lost on the brow of day.

She lives in glory,--like night's gems Set round the silver moon; She lives in glory,--like the sun Amid the blue of June.

CHARLES DOYNE SILLERY.

THE DEATH OF MINNEHAHA.

FROM "THE SONG OF HIAWATHA."

All day long roved Hiawatha In that melancholy forest, Through the shadows of whose thickets, In the pleasant days of Summer, Of that ne'er forgotten Summer. He had brought his young wife homeward From the land of the Dacotahs; When the birds sang in the thickets, And the streamlets laughed and glistened, And the air was full of fragrance, And the lovely Laughing Water Said with voice that did not tremble, "I will follow you, my husband!" In the wigwam with Nokomis, With those gloomy guests that watched her, With the Famine and the Fever, She was lying, the Beloved, She, the dying Minnehaha. "Hark!" she said; "I hear a rushing, Hear a roaring and a rushing, Hear the Falls of Minnehaha Calling to me from a distance!" "No, my child!" said old Nokomis, "'T is the night-wind in the pine-trees!" "Look!" she said; "I see my father Standing lonely at his doorway. Beckoning to me from his wigwam In the land of the Dacotahs!" "No, my child!" said old Nokomis, "'T is the smoke, that waves and beckons!" "Ah!" said she, "the eyes of Panguk Glare upon me in the darkness, I can feel his icy fingers Clasping mine amid the darkness! Hiawatha! Hiawatha!" And the desolate Hiawatha, Far away amid the forest, Miles away among the mountains, Heard that sudden cry of anguish, Heard the voice of Minnehaha Calling to him in the darkness, "Hiawatha! Hiawatha!" Over snow-fields waste and pathless, Under snow-encumbered branches, Homeward hurried Hiawatha, Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing: "Wahonowin! Wahonowin! Would that I had perished for you, Would that I were dead as you are! Wahonowin! Wahonowin!" And he rushed into the wigwam, Saw the old Nokomis slowly Rocking to and fro and moaning, Saw his lovely Minnehaha Lying dead and cold before him, And his bursting heart within him Uttered such a cry of anguish, That the forest moaned and shuddered, That the very stars in heaven Shook and trembled with his anguish. Then he sat down, still and speechless, On the bed of Minnehaha, At the feet of Laughing Water, At those willing feet, that never More would lightly run to meet him, Never more would lightly follow. With both hands his face he covered, Seven long days and nights he sat there, As if in a swoon he sat there, Speechless, motionless, unconscious Of the daylight or the darkness. Then they buried Minnehaha; In the snow a grave they made her, In the forest deep and darksome, Underneath the moaning hemlocks; Clothed her in her richest garments, Wrapped her in her robes of ermine, Covered her with snow, like ermine; Thus they buried Minnehaha. And at night a fire was lighted, On her grave four times was kindled, For her soul upon its journey To the Islands of the Blessed. From his doorway Hiawatha Saw it burning in the forest, Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks; From his sleepless bed uprising, From the bed of Minnehaha, Stood and watched it at the doorway, That it might not be extinguished, Might not leave her in the darkness. "Farewell!" said he, "Minnehaha! Farewell, O my Laughing Water! All my heart is buried with you, All my thoughts go onward with you, Come not back again to labor, Come not back again to suffer, Where the Famine and the Fever Wear the heart and waste the body. Soon my task will be completed, Soon your footsteps I shall follow To the Islands of the Blessèd, To the Kingdom of Ponemah, To the Land of the Hereafter!"

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

MOTHER AND POET.

TURIN,--AFTER NEWS FROM GAETA, 1861.

Laura Savio of Turin, a poetess and patriot, whose sons were killed at Ancona and Gaëta.

Dead! one of them shot by the sea in the east, And one of them shot in the west by the sea. Dead! both my boys! When you sit at the feast, And are wanting a great song for Italy free, Let none look at me!

Yet I was a poetess only last year, And good at my art, for a woman, men said. But this woman, this, who is agonized here, The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head Forever instead.

What art can a woman be good at? O, vain! What art is she good at, but hurting her breast With the milk teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain? Ah, boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed, And I proud by that test.

What art's for a woman! To hold on her knees Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her throat Cling, struggle a little! to sew by degrees And 'broider the long-clothes and neat little coat! To dream and to dote.

To teach them ... It stings there. I made them indeed Speak plain the word "country," I taught them, no doubt, That a country's a thing men should die for at need. I prated of liberty, rights, and about The tyrant turned out.

And when their eyes flashed ... O my beautiful eyes! ... I exulted! nay, let them go forth at the wheels Of the guns, and denied not.--But then the surprise, When one sits quite alone!--Then one weeps, then one kneels! --God! how the house feels!

At first happy news came, in gay letters moiled With my kisses, of camp-life and glory, and how They both loved me, and soon, coming home to be spoiled, In return would fan off every fly from my brow With their green laurel-bough.

Then was triumph at Turin. "Ancona was free!" And some one came out of the cheers in the street With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. --My Guido was dead!--I fell down at his feet, While they cheered in the street.

I bore it;--friends soothed me: my grief looked sublime As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained To the height he had gained.

And letters still came,--shorter, sadder, more strong, Writ now but in one hand. "I was not to faint. One loved me for two ... would be with me ere-long: And 'Viva Italia' he died for, our saint, Who forbids our complaint."

My Nanni would add "he was safe, and aware Of a presence that turned off the balls ... was imprest It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear, And how 't was impossible, quite dispossessed, To live on for the rest."

On which without pause up the telegraph line Swept smoothly the next news from Gaëta:--"Shot. Tell his mother." Ah, ah, "his," "their" mother; not "mine." No voice says "my mother" again to me. What! You think Guido forgot?

Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with heaven, They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe? I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven Through that love and sorrow which reconciled so The above and below.

O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through the dark To the face of thy mother! consider, I pray. How we common mothers stand desolate, mark, Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away, And no last word to say!

Both boys dead! but that's out of nature. We all Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. 'T were imbecile hewing out roads to a wall. And when Italy's made, for what end is it done If we have not a son?

Ah, ah, ah! when Gaëta's taken, what then? When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men? When your guns at Cavalli with final retort Have cut the game short,--

When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, and red, When you have your country from mountain to sea, When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, (And I have my dead,)

What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low, And burn your lights faintly!--My country is there, Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow, My Italy's there,--with my brave civic pair, To disfranchise despair.

Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength, And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn. But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length Into such wail as this!--and we sit on forlorn When the man-child is born.

Dead! one of them shot by the sea in the west, And one of them shot in the east by the sea! Both! both my boys!--If in keeping the feast You want a great song for your Italy free, Let none look at me!

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

FEAR NO MORE THE HEAT O' THE SUN.

FROM "CYMBELINE," ACT IV, SC. 2.

Fear no more the heat o' the sun, Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great, Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; Care no more to clothe, and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning flash Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Fear not slander, censure rash; Thou hast finished joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust.

SHAKESPEARE.

HIGHLAND MARY.

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There Simmer first unfald her robes And there she langest tarry! For there I took the last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk! How rich the hawthorn's blossom! As underneath their fragrant shade I clasped her to my bosom! The golden hours, on angel wings, Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace Our parting was fu' tender; And pledging aft to meet again, We tore ourselves asunder; But, oh! fell death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary!

Oh pale, pale now, those rosy lips I aft hae kissed sae fondly! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly! And mould'ring now in silent dust That heart that lo'ed me dearly! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary.

ROBERT BURNS.

FAIR HELEN.

I wish I were where Helen lies; Night and day on me she cries; O that I were where Helen lies On fair Kirconnell lea!

Curst be the heart that thought the thought, And curst the hand that fired the shot, When in my arms burd Helen dropt, And died to succor me!

O think na but my heart was sair When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair! I laid her down wi' meikle care On fair Kirconnell lea.

As I went down the water-side, None but my foe to be my guide, None but my foe to be my guide, On fair Kirconnell lea;

I lighted down my sword to draw, I hackèd him in pieces sma', I hackèd him in pieces sma', For her sake that died for me.

O Helen fair, beyond compare! I'll make a garland of thy hair Shall bind my heart for evermair Until the day I die.

O that I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries; Out of my bed she bids me rise, Says, "Haste and come to me!"

O Helen fair! O Helen chaste! If I were with thee, I were blest, Where thou lies low and takes thy rest On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish my grave were growing green, A winding-sheet drawn ower my een, And I in Helen's arms lying, On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish I were where Helen lies; Night and day on me she cries; And I am weary of the skies, Since my Love died for me.

ANONYMOUS.

OH THAT 'T WERE POSSIBLE.

FROM "MAUD."

Oh that 't were 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 woody places Of the laud that gave me birth, We stood tranced in long embraces Mixt 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!

It leads me forth at evening, It lightly winds and steals In a cold white robe before me, When all my spirit reels At the shouts, the leagues of lights, And the roaring of the wheels.

Half the night I waste in sighs, Half in dreams I sorrow after The delight of early skies; In a wakeful doze I sorrow For the hand, the lips, the eyes-- For the meeting of the morrow, The delight of happy laughter, The delight of low replies.

'Tis a morning pure and sweet, And a dewy splendor falls On the little flower that clings To the turrets and the walls; 'T is a morning pure and sweet, And the light and shadow fleet: She is walking in the meadow, And the woodland echo rings. In a moment we shall meet; She is singing in the meadow, And the rivulet at her feet Ripples on in light and shadow To the ballad that she sings.

Do I hear her sing as of old, My bird with the shining head, My own dove with the tender eye? But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry-- There is some one dying or dead; And a sullen thunder is rolled; For a tumult shakes the city, And I wake--my dream is fled; In the shuddering dawn, behold, Without knowledge, without pity, By the curtains of my bed That abiding phantom cold!

Get thee hence, nor come again! Mix not memory with doubt, Pass, thou deathlike type of pain, Pass and cease to move about! 'T is the blot upon the brain That _will_ show itself without.

Then I rise; the eave-drops fall, And the yellow vapors choke The great city sounding wide; The day comes--a dull red ball Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke On the misty river-tide.

Through the hubbub of the market I steal, a wasted frame; It crosses here, it crosses there, Through all that crowd confused and loud The shadow still the same; And on my heavy eyelids My anguish hangs like shame.

Alas for her that met me, That heard me softly call, Came glimmering through the laurels At the quiet evenfall, In the garden by the turrets Of the old manorial hall!

Would the happy spirit descend From the realms of light and song, In the chamber or the street. As she looks among the blest, Should I fear to greet my friend Or to say "Forgive the wrong," Or to ask her, "Take me, sweet, To the regions of thy rest?"

But the broad light glares and beats, And the shadow flits and Meets And will not let me be; And I loathe the squares and streets, And the faces that one meets, Hearts with no love for me; Always I long to creep Into some still cavern deep, There to weep, and weep, and weep My whole soul out to thee.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

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 MCLOCK CRAIK.

AFTER SUMMER.

We'll not weep for summer over,-- No, not we: Strew above his head the clover,-- Let him be!

Other eyes may weep his dying, Shed their tears There upon him, where he's lying With his peers.

Unto some of them he proffered Gifts most sweet; For our hearts a grave he offered,-- Was this meet?

All our fond hopes, praying, perished In his wrath,-- All the lovely dreams we cherished Strewed his path.

Shall we in our tombs, I wonder, Far apart, Sundered wide as seas can sunder Heart from heart,

Dream at all of all the sorrows That were ours,-- Bitter nights, more bitter morrows; Poison-flowers

Summer gathered, as in madness, Saying, "See, These are yours, in place of gladness,-- Gifts from me"?

Nay, the rest that will be ours Is supreme, And below the poppy flowers Steals no dream.

PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.

LAMENT FOR HELIODORE.

Tears for my lady dead-- Heliodore! Salt tears, and strange to shed, Over and o'er; Tears to my lady dead, Love do we send, Longed for, rememberèd, Lover and friend! Sad are the songs we sing, Tears that we shed, Empty the gifts we bring Gifts to the dead! Go, tears, and go, lament, Fare from her tomb, Wend where my lady went Down through the gloom! Ah, for my flower, my love, Hades hath taken I Ah, for the dust above Scattered and shaken! Mother of blade and grass, Earth, in thy breast Lull her that gentlest was Gently to rest!

From the Greek of MELEAGER. Translation of ANDREW LANG.

ON THE DEATH OF HER BROTHER, FRANCIS I.

'T is done! a father, mother, gone, A sister, brother, torn away, My hope is now in God alone, Whom heaven and earth alike obey. Above, beneath, to him is known,-- The world's wide compass is his own.

I love,--but in the world no more, Nor in gay hall, or festal bower; Not the fair forms I prized before,-- But him, all beauty, wisdom, power, My Saviour, who has cast a chain On sin and ill, and woe and pain!

I from my memory have effaced All former joys, all kindred, friends; All honors that my station graced I hold but snares that fortune sends: Hence! joys by Christ at distance cast, That we may be his own at last!

From the French of MARGUERITE DE VALOIS, QUEEN OF NAVARRE. Translation of LOUISA STUART COSTELLO.

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

[Written in September, 1789, on the anniversary of the day on which he heard of the death of his early love, Mary Campbell.]

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget,-- Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought we 't was our last!