Chapter 6

One by one, to the grave, to the bridal, They have followed her sisters from the door; Now they are old, and she is their idol:-- It all comes back on her heart once more. In the autumn dusk the hearth gleams brightly, The wheel is set by the shadowy wall,-- A hand at the latch,--'tis lifted lightly, And in walks Benjie, manly and tall.

His chair is placed; the old man tips The pitcher, and brings his choicest fruit; Benjie basks in the blaze, and sips, And tells his story, and joints his flute: O, sweet the tunes, the talk, the laughter! They fill the hour with a glowing tide; But sweeter the still, deep moments after, When she is alone by Benjie's side.

But once with angry words they part: O, then the weary, weary days! Ever with restless, wretched heart, Plying her task, she turns to gaze Far up the road; and early and late She harks for a footstep at the door, And starts at the gust that swings the gate, And prays for Benjie, who comes no more.

Her fault? O Benjie, and could you steel Your thoughts towards one who loved you so?-- Solace she seeks in the whirling wheel, In duty and love that lighten woe; Striving with labor, not in vain, To drive away the dull day's dreariness,-- Blessing the toil that blunts the pain Of a deeper grief in the body's weariness.

Proud and petted and spoiled was she: A word, and all her life is changed! His wavering love too easily In the great, gay city grows estranged: One year: she sits in the old church pew; A rustle, a murmur,--O Dorothy! hide Your face and shut from your soul the view-- 'Tis Benjie leading a white-veiled bride!

Now father and mother have long been dead, And the bride sleeps under a churchyard stone, And a bent old man with a grizzled head Walks up the long dim aisle alone. Years blur to a mist; and Dorothy Sits doubting betwixt the ghost she seems, And the phantom of youth, more real than she, That meets her there in that haunt of dreams.

Bright young Dorothy, idolized daughter, Sought by many a youthful adorer, Life, like a new-risen dawn on the water, Shining an endless vista before her! Old Maid Dorothy, wrinkled and gray, Groping under the farm-house eaves,-- And life was a brief November day That sets on a world of withered leaves!

Yet faithfulness in the humblest part Is better at last than proud success, And patience and love in a chastened heart Are pearls more precious than happiness; And in that morning when she shall wake To the spring-time freshness of youth again, All trouble will seem but a flying flake, And lifelong sorrow a breath on the pane.

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.

THE NUN AND HARP.

What memory fired her pallid face, What passion stirred her blood, What tide of sorrow and desire Poured its forgotten flood Upon a heart that ceased to beat, Long since, with thought that life was sweet, When nights were rich with vernal dusk, And the rose burst its bud?

Had not the western glory then Stolen through the latticed room, Her funeral raiment would have shed A more heart-breaking gloom; Had not a dimpled convent-maid Hung in the doorway, half afraid, And left the melancholy place Bright with her blush and bloom!

Beside the gilded harp she stood, And through the singing strings Wound those wan hands of folded prayer In murmurous preludings. Then, like a voice, the harp rang high Its melody, as climb the sky, Melting against the melting blue, Some bird's vibrating wings.

Ah, why, of all the songs that grow Forever tenderer, Chose she that passionate refrain Where lovers 'mid the stir Of wassailers that round them pass Hide their sweet secret? Now, alas, In her nun's habit, coifed and veiled, What meant that song to her!

Slowly the western ray forsook The statue in its shrine; A sense of tears thrilled all the air Along the purpling line. Earth seemed a place of graves that rang To hollow footsteps, while she sang, "Drink to me only with thine eyes. And I will pledge with mine!"

HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.

FIDELITY IN DOUBT.

Come, lady, to my song incline, The last that shall assail thine ear. None other cares my strains to hear, And scarce thou feign'st thyself therewith delighted! Nor know I well if I am loved or slighted; But this I know, thou radiant one and sweet, That, loved or spurned, I die before thy feet! Yea, I will yield this life of mine In every deed, if cause appear, Without another boon to cheer. Honor it is to be by thee incited To any deed; and I, when most benighted By doubt, remind me that times change and fleet, And brave men still do their occasion meet.

From the French of GUIRAUD LEROUX. Translation of HARRIET WATERS PRESTON.

FAITH.

Better trust all and be deceived, And weep that trust and that deceiving, Than doubt one heart that, if believed, Had blessed one's life with true believing.

O, in this mocking world too fast The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth; Better be cheated to the last Than lose the blessed hope of truth.

FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE-BUTLER.

* * * * *

II. PARTING AND ABSENCE

PARTING.

If thou dost bid thy friend farewell, But for one night though that farewell may be, Press thou his hand in thine. How canst thou tell how far from thee Fate or caprice may lead his steps ere that to-morrow comes? Men have been known to lightly turn the corner of a street, And days have grown to months, and months to lagging years, Ere they have looked in loving eyes again. Parting, at best, is underlaid With tears and pain. Therefore, lest sudden death should come between. Or time, or distance, clasp with pressure firm The hand of him who goeth forth; Unseen, Fate goeth too. Yes, find thou always time to say some earnest word Between the idle talk, Lest with thee henceforth, Night and day, regret should walk.

COVENTRY PATMORE.

TO LUCASTA.

ON GOING TO THE WARS.

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde, That from the nunnerie Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde, To warre and armes I flee.

True, a new mistresse now I chase.-- The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith imbrace A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such As you, too, shall adore; I could not love thee, deare, so much, Loved I not honour more.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

GOOD-BYE.

"Farewell! farewell!" is often heard From the lips of those who part: 'Tis a whispered tone,--'tis a gentle word, But it springs not from the heart. It may serve for the lover's closing lay, To be sung 'neath a summer sky; But give to me the lips that say The honest words, "Good-bye!" "Adieu! adieu!" may greet the ear, In the guise of courtly speech: But when we leave the kind and dear, 'Tis not what the soul would teach. Whene'er we grasp the hands of those We would have forever nigh, The flame of Friendship bursts and glows In the warm, frank words, "Good-bye."

The mother, sending forth her child To meet with cares and strife, Breathes through her tears her doubts and fears For the loved one's future life. No cold "adieu," no "farewell," lives Within her choking sigh, But the deepest sob of anguish gives, "God bless thee, boy! Good-bye!"

Go, watch the pale and dying one, When the glance hast lost its beam; When the brow is cold as the marble stone, And the world a passing dream; And the latest pressure of the hand, The look of the closing eye, Yield what the heart _must_ understand, A long, a last Good-bye.

ANONYMOUS.

AE FOND KISS BEFORE WE PART.

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, forever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee; Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Who shall say that fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me.

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy-- Naething could resist my Nancy: But to see her was to love her, Love but her, and love forever. Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met--or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, forever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!

ROBERT BURNS.

O, MY LUVE'S LIKE A RED, RED ROSE.

O, my Luve's like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June: O, my Luve's like the melodie That's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I: And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry:

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. And the rocks melt wi' the sun: And I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve! And fare thee weel awhile! And I will come again, my Luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

ROBERT BURNS.

MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART.

Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, O, give me back my heart! Or, since that has left my breast, Keep it now, and take the rest! Hear my vow before I go, [Greek: Zôê moy sas hagapô.][2]

By those tresses unconfined, Wooed by each Ægean wind; By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge; By those wild eyes like the roe, [Greek: Zôê moy sas hagapô.]

By that lip I long to taste; By that zone-encircled waist; By all the token-flowers that tell What words can never speak so well; By love's alternate joy and woe, [Greek: Zôê moy sas hagapô.]

Maid of Athens! I am gone. Think of me, sweet! when alone. Though I fly to Istambol, Athens holds my heart and soul: Can I cease to love thee? No! [Greek: Zôê moy sas hagapô.]

LORD BYRON.

[2] _Zóë mou, sas ágap[-o]_; My life. I love thee.

SONG.

OF THE YOUNG HIGHLANDER SUMMONED FROM HIS BRIDE BY THE "FIERY CROSS OF RODERICK DHU."

FROM "THE LADY OF THE LAKE."

The heath this night must be my bed, The bracken curtain for my head, My lullaby the warder's tread, Far, far from love and thee, Mary; To-morrow eve, more stilly laid My couch may be my bloody plaid, My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid! It will not waken me, Mary!

I may not, dare not, fancy now The grief that clouds thy lovely brow, I dare not think upon thy vow, And all it promised me, Mary. No fond regret must Norman know; When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe, His heart must be like bended bow, His foot like arrow free, Mary!

A time will come with feeling fraught! For, if I fall in battle fought, Thy hapless lover's dying thought Shall be a thought on thee. Mary. And if returned from conquered foes, How blithely will the evening close, How sweet the linnet sing repose, To my young bride and me, Mary!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

BLACK-EYED SUSAN.

All in the Downs the fleet was moored, The streamers waving in the wind, When black-eyed Susan came aboard; "O, where shall I my true-love find? Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true If my sweet William sails among the crew."

William, who high upon the yard Rocked with the billow to and fro, Soon as her well-known voice he heard He sighed, and cast his eyes below: The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, And quick as lightning on the deck he stands.

So the sweet lark, high poised in air, Shuts close his pinions to his breast If chance his mate's shrill call he hear, And drops at once into her nest:-- The noblest captain in the British fleet Might envy William's lips those kisses sweet.

"O Susan, Susan, lovely dear, My vows shall ever true remain; Let me kiss off that falling tear; We only part to meet again. Change as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee.

"Believe not what the landmen say Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind; They'll tell thee, sailors, when away, In every port a mistress find; Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, For thou art present wheresoe'er I go.

"If to fair India's coast we sail, Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright, Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, Thy skin is ivory so white. Thus every beauteous object that I view Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.

"Though battle call me from thy arms, Let not my pretty Susan mourn; Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms William shall to his dear return. Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye." The boatswain gave the dreadful word, The sails their swelling bosom spread; No longer must she stay aboard: They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land; "Adieu!" she cried; and waved her lily hand.

JOHN GAY.

THE PARTING LOVERS.

She says, "The cock crows,--hark!" He says, "No! still 'tis dark."

She says, "The dawn grows bright," He says, "O no, my Light."

She says, "Stand up and say, Gets not the heaven gray?"

He says, "The morning star Climbs the horizon's bar."

She says, "Then quick depart: Alas! you now must start;

But give the cock a blow Who did begin our woe!"

ANONYMOUS. From the Chinese. Translation of WILLIAM. R. ALGER.

LOCHABER NO MORE.

Farewell to Lochaber! and farewell, my Jean, Where heartsome with thee I hae mony day been; For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more! These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear, And no for the dangers attending on wear, Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, Maybe to return to Lochaber no more.

Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind; Though loudest of thunder on louder waves roar, That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained; By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained; And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, And I must deserve it before I can crave.

Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse; Since honor commands me, how can I refuse? Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee, And without thy favor I'd better not be. I gae then, my lass, to win honor and fame, And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er, And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.

ALLAN RAMSAY.

AS SLOW OUR SHIP.

As slow our ship her foamy track Against the wind was cleaving. Her trembling pennant still looked back To that dear isle 'twas leaving. So loath we part from all we love, From all the links that bind us; So turn our hearts, as on we rove, To those we've left behind us!

When, round the bowl, of vanished years We talk with joyous seeming,-- With smiles that might as well be tears, So faint, so sad their beaming; While memory brings us back again Each early tie that twined us, O, sweet's the cup that circles then To those we've left behind us!

And when, in other climes, we meet Some isle or vale enchanting, Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet, And naught but love is wanting; We think how great had been our bliss If Heaven had but assigned us To live and die in scenes like this, With some we've left behind us!

As travellers oft look back at eve When eastward darkly going, To gaze upon that light they leave Still faint behind, them glowing,-- So, when the close of pleasure's day To gloom hath near consigned us, We turn to catch one fading ray Of joy that's left behind us.

THOMAS MOORE.

QUA CURSUM VENTUS.

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay With canvas drooping, side by side, Two towers of sail at dawn of day Are scarce long leagues apart descried.

When fell the night, up sprang the breeze, And all the darkling hours they plied, Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas By each was cleaving, side by side:

E'en so,--but why the tale reveal Of those whom, year by year unchanged, Brief absence joined anew to feel, Astounded, soul from soul estranged?

At dead of night their sails were filled, And onward each rejoicing steered;-- Ah! neither blame, for neither willed Or wist what first with dawn appeared.

To veer, how vain! On, onward strain, Brave barks! In light, in darkness too, Through winds and tides one compass guides; To that and your own selves be true.

But O blithe breeze! and O great seas! Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, On your wide plain they join again,-- Together lead them home at last.

One port, methought, alike they sought,-- One purpose hold where'er they fare; O bounding breeze, O rushing seas, At last, at last, unite them there!

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

ADIEU, ADIEU! MY NATIVE SHORE.

Adieu, adieu! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea-mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native Land--Good Night!

A few short hours, and he will rise To give the morrow birth; And I shall hail the main and skies, But not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; My dog howls at the gate.

LORD BYRON.

FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE.

Fare thee well! and if forever, Still forever, fare thee well; Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that breast were bared before thee Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o'er thee Which thou ne'er canst know again:

Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Every inmost thought could show! Then thou wouldst at last discover 'Twas not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee,-- Though it smile upon the blow, Even its praises must offend thee, Founded on another's woe:

Though my many faults defaced me, Could no other arm be found Than the one which once embraced me, To inflict a cureless wound?

Yet, O, yet thyself deceived not: Love may sink by slow decay; But by sudden wrench, believe not Hearts can thus be torn away:

Still thy own its life retaineth,-- Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth Is--that we no more may meet.

These are words of deeper sorrow Than the wail above the dead; Both shall live, but every morrow Wake us from a widowed bed.

And when thou wouldst solace gather, When our child's first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!" Though his care she must forego?

When her little hands shall press thee, When her lip to thine is pressed, Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Think of him thy love had blessed!

Should her lineaments resemble Those thou nevermore mayst see, Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest, All my madness none can know; All my hopes, where'er thou goest, Wither, yet with _thee_ they go. Every feeling hath been shaken; Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee,--by thee forsaken, Even my soul forsakes me now;

But 't is done; all words are idle,-- Words from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridle Force their way without the will.

Fare thee well!--thus disunited, Torn from every nearer tie, Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted, More than this I scarce can die.

LORD BYRON.

COME, LET US KISSE AND PARTE.

Since there's no helpe,--come, let us kisse and parte, Nay, I have done,--you get no more of me; And I am glad,--yea, glad with all my hearte, That thus so cleanly I myselfe can free. Shake hands forever!--cancel all our vows; And when we meet at any time againe, Be it not seene in either of our brows, That we one jot of former love retaine.

Now--at the last gaspe of Love's latest breath-- When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies; When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes, Now! if thou wouldst--when all have given him over-- From death to life thou mightst him yet recover.

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

FAREWELL! THOU ART TOO DEAR.

SONNET LXXXVII.

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, And like enough thou know'st thy estimate: The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing; My bonds in thee are all determinate. For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? And for that riches where is my deserving? The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, And so my patent back again is swerving. Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing? Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking; So thy great gift, upon misprision growing, Comes home again, on better judgment making. Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter; In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter.

SHAKESPEARE.

KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN.

Kathleen Mavourneen! the gray dawn is breaking, The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill; The lark from her light wing the bright dew is shaking,-- Kathleen Mavourneen! what, slumbering still?

Oh, hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever? Oh! hast thou forgotten this day we must part? It may be for years, and it may be forever! Oh, why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart? Oh! why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen?

Kathleen Mavourneen, awake from thy slumbers! The blue mountains glow in the sun's golden light; Ah, where is the spell that once hung on my numbers? Arise in thy beauty, thou star of my night!

Mavourneen, Mavourneen, my sad tears are falling, To think that from Erin and thee I must part! It may be for years, and it may be forever! Then why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart? Then why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen?

JULIA (OR LOUISA MACARTNEY) CRAWFORD.

WE PARTED IN SILENCE.

We parted in silence, we parted by night, On the banks of that lonely river; Where the fragrant limes their boughs unite, We met--and we parted forever! The night-bird sung, and the stars above Told many a touching story, Of friends long passed to the kingdom of love, Where the soul wears its mantle of glory.

We parted in silence,--our cheeks were wet With the tears that were past controlling; We vowed we would never, no, never forget, And those vows at the time were consoling; But those lips that echoed the sounds of mine Are as cold as that lonely river; And that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine, Has shrouded its fires forever.

And now on the midnight sky I look, And my heart grows full of weeping; Each star is to me a sealèd book, Some tale of that loved one keeping. We parted in silence,--we parted in tears, On the banks of that lonely river: But the odor and bloom of those bygone years Shall hang o'er its waters forever.

JULIA (OR LOUISA MACARTNEY) CRAWFORD.

AUF WIEDERSEHEN.

SUMMER.

The little gate was reached at last, Half hid in lilacs down the lane; She pushed it wide, and, as she past, A wistful look she backward cast, And said,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!" With hand on latch, a vision white Lingered reluctant, and again Half doubting if she did aright, Soft as the dews that fell that night, She said,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!"

The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair; I linger in delicious pain; Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, Thinks she,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!"

'Tis thirteen years; once more I press The turf that silences the lane; I hear the rustle of her dress, I smell the lilacs, and--ah, yes, I hear,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!"

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art! The English words had seemed too fain, But these--they drew us heart to heart, Yet held us tenderly apart; She said,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!"

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

PALINODE.

AUTUMN.

Still thirteen years: 't is autumn now On field and hill, in heart and brain; The naked trees at evening sough; The leaf to the forsaken bough Sighs not,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!"

Two watched yon oriole's pendent dome, That now is void, and dank with rain, And one,--oh, hope more frail than foam! The bird to his deserted home Sings not,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!"