Chapter 7

The loath gate swings with rusty creak; Once, parting there, we played at pain; There came a parting, when the weak And fading lips essayed to speak Vainly,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!"

Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith, Though thou in outer dark remain; One sweet sad voice ennobles death, And still, for eighteen centuries saith Softly,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!"

If earth another grave must bear, Yet heaven hath won a sweeter strain, And something whispers my despair, That, from an orient chamber there, Floats down,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!"

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

FAREWELL!--BUT WHENEVER.

Farewell!--but whenever you welcome the hour That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower. Then think of the friend that once welcomed it too. And forgot his own griefs, to be happy with you. His griefs may return--not a hope may remain Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain-- But he ne'er can forget the short vision that threw Its enchantment around him while lingering with you!

And still on that evening when Pleasure fills up To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, My soul, happy friends! will be with you that night; Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles-- Too blest if it tell me that, 'mid the gay cheer, Some kind voice has murmured, "I wish he were here!"

Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy; Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, And bring back the features which joy used to wear. Long, long be my heart with such memories filled! Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled-- You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

THOMAS MOORE.

PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.

FROM "THE ILIAD," BOOK VI.

"Too daring prince! ah whither dost thou run? Ah too forgetful of thy wife and son! And think'st thou not how wretched we shall be, A widow I, a helpless orphan he! For sure such courage length of life denies, And thou must fall, thy virtue's sacrifice. Greece in her single heroes strove in vain; Now hosts oppose thee, and thou must be slain! Oh grant me, gods! ere Hector meets his doom, All I can ask of heaven, an early tomb! So shall my days in one sad tenor run, And end with sorrows as they first begun. No parent now remains, my griefs to share, No father's aid, no mother's tender care. The fierce Achilles wrapt our walls in fire, Laid Thebè waste, and slew my warlike sire! His fate compassion in the victor bred; Stern as he was, he yet revered the dead, His radiant arms preserved from hostile spoil, And laid him decent on the funeral pile; Then raised a mountain where his bones were burned; The mountain nymphs the rural tomb adorned; Jove's sylvan daughters bade their elms bestow A barren shade, and in his honor grow.

"Yet while my Hector still survives, I see My father, mother, brethren, all, in thee. Alas! my parents, brothers, kindred, all, Once more will perish if my Hector fall. Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share; Oh prove a husband's and a father's care! That quarter most the skillful Greeks annoy, Where yon wild fig-trees join the wall of Troy: Thou, from this tower defend th'important post; There Agamemnon points his dreadful host, That pass Tydides, Ajax, strive to gain, And there the vengeful Spartan fires his train. Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have given, Or led by hopes, or dictated from heaven. Let others in the field their arms employ, But stay my Hector here, and guard his Troy."

The chief replied: "That post shall be my care, Nor that alone, but all the works of war. [How would the sons of Troy, in arms renowned, And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the ground, Attaint the lustre of my former name, Should Hector basely quit the field of fame? My early youth was bred to martial pains, My soul impels me to th'embattled plains: Let me be foremost to defend the throne, And guard my father's glories, and my own. Yet come it will, the day decreed by fates; (How my heart trembles while my tongue relates) The day when thou, imperial Troy! must bend, And see thy warriors fall, thy glories end. And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind, My mother's death, the ruin of my kind, Not Priam's hoary hairs denied with gore, Not all my brothers gasping on the shore; As thine, Andromachè! thy griefs I dread; I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led!] In Argive looms our battles to design, And woes of which so large a part was thine! To bear the victor's hard commands or bring The weight of waters from Hyperia's spring. There, while you groan beneath the load of life, They cry, Behold the mighty Hector's wife! Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see, Embitters all thy woes by naming me. The thoughts of glory past, and present shame, A thousand griefs, shall waken at the name! May I lie cold before that dreadful day, Pressed with a load of monumental clay! Thy Hector, wrapped in everlasting sleep, Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep."

Thus having spoke, th' illustrious chief of Troy Stretched his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy. The babe clung crying to his nurse's breast, Scared at the dazzling helm, and nodding crest. With secret pleasure each fond parent smiled, And Hector hastèd to relieve his child; The glittering terrors from his brows unbound, And placed the beaming helmet on the ground. Then kissed the child, and, lifting high in air, Thus to the gods preferred a father's prayer:

"O thou whose glory fills th' ethereal throne, And all ye deathless powers! protect my son! Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown, To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown, Against his country's foes the war to wage, And rise the Hector of the future age! So when, triumphant from successful toils, Of heroes slain he bears the reeking spoils, Whole hosts may hail him with deserved acclaim, And say, This chief transcends his father's fame: While pleased, amidst the general shouts of Troy, His mother's conscious heart o'erflows with joy."

He spoke, and fondly gazing on her charms Restored the pleasing burden to her arms; Soft on her fragrant breast the babe she laid, Hushed to repose, and with a smile surveyed. The troubled pleasure soon chastised by fear, She mingled with the smile a tender tear. The softened chief with kind compassion viewed, And dried the falling drops, and thus pursued:

"Andromachè! my soul's far better part, Why with untimely sorrows heaves thy heart? No hostile hand can antedate my doom, Till fate condemns me to the silent tomb. Fixed is the term to all the race of earth, And such the hard condition of our birth. No force can then resist, no flight can save; All sink alike, the fearful and the brave. No more--but hasten to thy tasks at home, There guide the spindle, and direct the loom: Me glory summons to the martial scene, The field of combat is the sphere for men. Where heroes war, the foremost place I claim, The first in danger as the first in fame."

Thus having said, the glorious chief resumes His towery helmet, black with shading plumes. His princess parts with a prophetic sigh, Unwilling parts, and oft reverts her eye, That streamed at every look: then, moving slow, Sought her own palace, and indulged her woe. There, while her tears deplored the godlike man, Through all her train the soft infection ran; The pious maids their mingled sorrows shed, And mourn the living Hector as the dead.

From the Greek of HOMER. Translation of ALEXANDER POPE.

HECTOR TO HIS WIFE.

FROM THE ILIAD, BOOK VI.

[The following extract is given as showing a more modern style of translation. It embraces the bracketed portion of the foregoing from Pope's version.]

I too have thought of all this, dear wife, but I fear the reproaches Both of the Trojan youths and the long-robed maidens of Troja, If like a cowardly churl I should keep me aloof from the combat: Nor would my spirit permit; for well I have learnt to be valiant, Fighting aye 'mong the first of the Trojans marshalled in battle, Striving to keep the renown of my sire and my own unattainted. Well, too well, do I know,--both my mind and my spirit agreeing, That there will be a day when sacred Troja shall perish. Priam will perish too, and the people of Priam, the spear-armed. Still, I have not such care for the Trojans doomed to destruction, No, nor for Hecuba's self, nor for Priam, the monarch, my father, Nor for my brothers' fate, who, though they be many and valiant, All in the dust may lie low by the hostile spears of Achaia, As for thee, when some youth of the brazen-mailed Achæans Weeping shall bear thee away, and bereave thee forever of freedom.

Translation of E.C. HAWTREY.

TO LUCASTA.

If to be absent were to be Away from thee; Or that, when I am gone, You or I were alone; Then, my Lucasta, might I crave Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave.

But I'll not sigh one blast or gale To swell my sail, Or pay a tear to 'suage The foaming blue-god's rage; For, whether he will let me pass Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.

Though seas and lands be 'twixt us both, Our faith and troth, Like separated souls, All time and space controls: Above the highest sphere we meet, Unseen, unknown; and greet as angels greet.

So, then, we do anticipate Our after-fate, And are alive i' the skies, If thus our lips and eyes Can speak like spirits unconfined In heaven,--their earthly bodies left behind.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

TO HER ABSENT SAILOR.

FROM "THE TENT ON THE BEACH."

Her window opens to the bay, On glistening light or misty gray, And there at dawn and set of day In prayer she kneels: "Dear Lord!" she saith, "to many a home From wind and wave the wanderers come; I only see the tossing foam Of stranger keels.

"Blown out and in by summer gales, The stately ships, with crowded sails, And sailors leaning o'er their rails, Before me glide; They come, they go, but nevermore, Spice-laden from the Indian shore, I see his swift-winged Isidore The waves divide.

"O Thou! with whom the night is day And one the near and far away, Look out on yon gray waste, and say Where lingers he. Alive, perchance, on some lone beach Or thirsty isle beyond the reach Of man, he hears the mocking speech Of wind and sea.

"O dread and cruel deep, reveal The secret which thy waves conceal, And, ye wild sea-birds, hither wheel And tell your tale. Let winds that tossed his raven hair A message from my lost one bear,-- Some thought of me, a last fond prayer Or dying wail!

"Come, with your dreariest truth shut out The fears that haunt me round about; O God! I cannot bear this doubt That stifles breath. The worst is better than the dread; Give me but leave to mourn my dead Asleep in trust and hope, instead Of life in death!"

It might have been the evening breeze That whispered in the garden trees, It might have been the sound of seas That rose and fell; But, with her heart, if not her ear, The old loved voice she seemed to hear: "I wait to meet thee: be of cheer, For all is well!"

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

I LOVE MY JEAN.

Of a' the airts[3] the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west; For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best. There wild woods grow, and rivers row, And monie a hill's between; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair; I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air; There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green; There's not a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me of my Jean.

ROBERT BURNS.

[3] The points of the compass.

JEANIE MORRISON.

I've wandered east, I've wandered west, Through mony a weary way; But never, never can forget The luve o' life's young day! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en May weel be black gin Yule; But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows ower my path, And blind my een wi' tears: They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne.

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part; Sweet time--sad time! twa bairns at scule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, To leir ilk ither lear; And tones and looks and smiles were shed, Remembered evermair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, What our wee heads could think. When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, Wi' ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee.

O, mind ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin', said We cleeked thegither hame? And mind ye o' the Saturdays, (The scule then skail't at noon,) When we ran off to speel the braes,-- The broomy braes o' June?

My head rins round and round about,-- My heart flows like a sea, As ane by ane the thochts rush back O' scule-time, and o' thee. O mornin' life! O mornin' luve! O lichtsome days and lang, When hinnied hopes around our hearts Like simmer blossoms sprang!

O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left The deavin', dinsome toun, To wander by the green burnside, And hear its waters croon? The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wood The throssil whusslit sweet;

The throssil whusslit in the woods, The burn sang to the trees,-- And we, with nature's heart in tune, Concerted harmonies; And on the knowe abune the burn, For hours thegither sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' very gladness grat.

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trickled doun your cheek Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak! That was a time, a blessed time, When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled--unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts As ye hae been to me? O, tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine! O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I've wandered east, I've wandered west, I've borne a weary lot; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart Still travels on its way; And channels deeper, as it rins, The luve o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sindered young I've never seen your face nor heard The music o' your tongue; But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I dee, Did I but ken your heart still dreamed O' bygane days and me!

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

O, SAW YE BONNIE LESLIE?

O, saw ye bonnie Leslie As she gaed o'er the border? She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her, And love but her forever; For nature made her what she is, And ne'er made sic anither!

Thou art a queen, fair Leslie, Thy subjects we, before thee; Thou art divine, fair Leslie, The hearts o' men adore thee.

The deil he could na scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee; He'd look into thy bonnie face, And say, "I canna wrang thee!"

The Powers aboon will tent thee; Misfortune sha' na steer[4] thee; Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely That ill they 'll ne'er let near thee.

Return again, fair Leslie, Return to Caledonie! That we may brag we hae a lass There's nane again sae bonnie.

ROBERT BURNS.

[4] Harm.

THE RUSTIC LAD'S LAMENT IN THE TOWN.

O, wad that my time were owre but, Wi' this wintry sleet and snaw, That I might see our house again, I' the bonnie birken shaw! For this is no my ain life, And I peak and pine away Wi' the thochts o' hame and the young flowers, In the glad green month of May.

I used to wauk in the morning Wi' the loud sang o' the lark, And the whistling o' the ploughman lads, As they gaed to their wark; I used to wear the bit young lambs Frae the tod and the roaring stream; But the warld is changed, and a' thing now To me seems like a dream.

There are busy crowds around me, On ilka lang dull street; Yet, though sae mony surround me, I ken na are I meet: And I think o' kind kent faces, And o' blithe an' cheery days, When I wandered out wi' our ain folk, Out owre the simmer braes.

Waes me, for my heart is breaking! I think o' my brither sma', And on my sister greeting, When I cam frae hame awa. And O, how my mither sobbit, As she shook me by the hand, When I left the door o' our auld house, To come to this stranger land.

There's nae hame like our ain hame-- O, I wush that I were there! There's nae hame like our ain hame To be met wi' onywhere; And O that I were back again, To our farm and fields sae green; And heard the tongues o' my ain folk, And were what I hae been!

DAVID MACBETH MOIR.

ABSENCE.

What shall I do with all the days and hours That must be counted ere I see thy face? How shall I charm the interval that lowers Between this time and that sweet time of grace?

Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense, Weary with longing?--shall I flee away Into past days, and with some fond pretence Cheat myself to forget the present day?

Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin Of casting from me God's great gift of time? Shall I, these mists of memory locked within, Leave and forget life's purposes sublime?

O, how or by what means may I contrive To bring the hour that brings thee back more near? How may I teach my drooping hope to live Until that blessèd time, and thou art here?

I'll tell thee; for thy sake I will lay hold Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee,

In worthy deeds, each moment that is told While thou, belovèd one! art far from me.

For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains; For thy dear sake I will walk patiently Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pains.

I will this dreary blank of absence make A noble task-time; and will therein strive To follow excellence, and to o'ertake More good than I have won since yet I live.

So may this doomèd time build up in me A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine; So may my love and longing hallowed be, And thy dear thought an influence divine.

FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.

ROBIN ADAIR.

What's this dull town to me? Robin's not near,-- He whom I wished to see, Wished for to hear; Where's all the joy and mirth Made life a heaven on earth, O, they're all fled with thee, Robin Adair!

What made the assembly shine? Robin Adair: What made the ball so fine? Robin was there: What, when the play was o'er, What made my heart so sore? O, it was parting with Robin Adair!

But now thou art far from me, Robin Adair; But now I never see Robin Adair; Yet him I loved so well Still in my heart shall dwell; O, I can ne'er forget Robin Adair!

Welcome on shore again, Robin Adair! Welcome once more again, Robin Adair! I feel thy trembling hand; Tears in thy eyelids stand, To greet thy native land, Robin Adair!

Long I ne'er saw thee, love, Robin Adair; Still I prayed for thee, love, Robin Adair; When thou wert far at sea, Many made love to me, But still I thought on thee, Robin Adair.

Come to my heart again, Robin Adair; Never to part again, Robin Adair; And if thou still art true, I will be constant too, And will wed none but you, Robin Adair!

LADY CAROLINE KEPPEL.

DAISY.

Where the thistle lifts a purple crown Six foot out of the turf, And the harebell shakes on the windy hill-- O the breath of the distant surf!--

The hills look over on the South, And southward dreams the sea; And, with the sea-breeze hand in hand, Came innocence and she.

Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry Red for the gatherer springs, Two children did we stray and talk Wise, idle, childish things.

She listened with big-lipped surprise, Breast-deep mid flower and spine: Her skin was like a grape, whose veins Run snow instead of wine.

She knew not those sweet words she spake. Nor knew her own sweet way; But there's never a bird, so sweet a song Thronged in whose throat that day!

Oh, there were flowers in Storrington On the turf and on the sprays; But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills Was the Daisy-flower that day!

Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face! She gave me tokens three:-- A look, a word of her winsome mouth, And a wild raspberry.

A berry red, a guileless look, A still word,--strings of sand! And yet they made my wild, wild heart Fly down to her little hand.

For standing artless as the air, And candid as the skies, She took the berries with her hand, And the love with her sweet eyes.

The fairest things have fleetest end: Their scent survives their close, But the rose's scent is bitterness To him that loved the rose!

She looked a little wistfully, Then went her sunshine way:-- The sea's eye had a mist on it, And the leaves fell from the day.

She went her unremembering way, She went and left in me The pang of all the partings gone, And partings yet to be.

She left me marvelling why my soul Was sad that she was glad; At all the sadness in the sweet, The sweetness in the sad.

Still, still I seemed to see her, still Look up with soft replies, And take the berries with her hand, And the love with her lovely eyes.

Nothing begins, and nothing ends, That is not paid with moan; For we are born in others' pain, And perish in our own.

FRANCIS THOMPSON.

SONG OF EGLA.

Day, in melting purple dying; Blossoms, all around me sighing; Fragrance, from the lilies straying; Zephyr, with my ringlets playing; Ye but waken my distress; I am sick of loneliness!

Thou, to whom I love to hearken, Come, ere night around me darken; Though thy softness but deceive me, Say thou'rt true, and I'll believe thee; Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent, Let me think it innocent!

Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure; All I ask is friendship's pleasure; Let the shining ore lie darkling,-- Bring no gem in lustre sparkling; Gifts and gold are naught to me, I would only look on thee!

Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling, Ecstasy but in revealing; Paint to thee the deep sensation, Rapture in participation; Yet but torture, if comprest In a lone, unfriended breast.

Absent still! Ah! come and bless me! Let these eyes again caress thee. Once in caution, I could fly thee; Now, I nothing could deny thee. In a look if death there be, Come, and I will gaze on thee!

MARIA GOWEN BROOKS (_Maria del Occidente_).

WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE?

What ails this heart o' mine? What ails this watery ee? What gars me a' turn pale as death When I take leave o' thee? Whea thou art far awa', Thou'lt dearer grow to me; But change o' place and change o' folk May gar thy fancy jee.

When I gae out at e'en, Or walk at morning air, Ilk rustling bush will seem to say I used to meet thee there: Then I'll sit down and cry, And live aneath the tree, And when a leaf fa's i' my lap, I'll ca't a word frae thee.

I'll hie me to the bower That thou wi' roses tied, And where wi' mony a blushing bud I strove myself to hide. I'll doat on ilka spot Where I ha'e been wi' thee; And ca' to mind some kindly word By ilka burn and tree.

SUSANNA BLAMIRE.

LOVE'S MEMORY.

FROM "ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL," ACT I. SC. I.