Chapter 5

I wandered by the brook-side, I wandered by the mill,-- I could not hear the brook flow, The noisy wheel was still; There was no burr of grasshopper, No chirp of any bird, But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beside the elm-tree, I watched the long, long, shade, And as it grew still longer, I did not feel afraid; For I listened for a footfall, I listened for a word,-- But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

He came not,--no, he came not,-- The night came on alone,-- The little stars sat one by one, Each on his golden throne; The evening air passed by my cheek, The leaves above were stirred,-- But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

Fast silent tears were flowing, When something stood behind,-- A hand was on my shoulder, I knew its touch was kind: It drew me nearer--nearer,-- We did not speak one word, For the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard.

_THE VENETIAN SERENADE._

When along the light ripple the far serenade Has accosted the ear of each passionate maid, She may open the window that looks on the stream,-- She may smile on her pillow and blend it in dream; Half in words, half in music, it pierces the gloom, "I am coming--Stali[B]--but you know not for whom! Stali--not for whom!"

Now the tones become clearer,--you hear more and more How the water divided returns on the oar,-- Does the prow of the Gondola strike on the stair? Do the voices and instruments pause and prepare? Oh! they faint on the ear as the lamp on the view, "I am passing--Premi--but I stay not for you! Premi--not for you!"

Then return to your couch, you who stifle a tear, Then awake not, fair sleeper--believe he is here; For the young and the loving no sorrow endures, If to-day be another's,--to-morrow is yours; May, the next time you listen, your fancy be true, "I am coming--Sciar--and for you and to you! Sciar--and to you!"

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[Footnote B: The words here used are the calls of the gondoliers, indicating the direction they are rowing. "Sciar" is to stop the boat.]

_FROM LOVE AND NATURE._

The Sun came through the frosty mist Most like a dead-white moon; Thy soothing tones I seemed to list, As voices in a swoon.

Still as an island stood our ship, The waters gave no sound, But when I touched thy quivering lip I felt the world go round.

We seemed the only sentient things Upon that silent sea: Our hearts the only living springs Of all that yet could be!

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JEAN INGELOW.

1830.

_THE LONG WHITE SEAM._

As I came round the harbor buoy, The lights began to gleam, No wave the land-locked water stirred, The crags were white as cream; And I marked my love by candle-light Sewing her long white seam. It 's aye sewing ashore, my dear, Watch and steer at sea, It 's reef and furl, and haul the line, Set sail and think of thee.

I climbed to reach her cottage door; O sweetly my love sings! Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth, My soul to meet it springs As the shining water leaped of old, When stirred by angel wings. Aye longing to list anew, Awake and in my dream, But never a song she sang like this, Sewing her long white seam.

Fair fall the lights, the harbor lights, That brought me in to thee, And peace drop down on that low roof For the sight that I did see, And the voice, my dear, that rang so clear All for the love of me. For O, for O, with brows bent low By the candle's flickering gleam, Her wedding gown it was she wrought, Sewing the long white seam.

_LOVE._

FROM "SONGS OF SEVEN."

I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover, Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate; "Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover-- Hush, nightingale, hush! O, sweet nightingale, wait Till I listen and hear If a step draweth near, For my love he is late!

"The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer: To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see? Let the star-clusters grow, Let the sweet waters flow, And cross quickly to me.

"You night moths that hover where honey brims over From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep; You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. Ah, my sailor, make haste, For the time runs to waste, And my love lieth deep--

"Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover, I 've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover, Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight; But I 'll love him more, more Than e'er wife loved before, Be the days dark or bright.

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_SWEET IS CHILDHOOD._

Sweet is childhood--childhood 's over, Kiss and part. Sweet is youth; but youth 's a rover-- So 's my heart. Sweet is rest; but by all showing Toil is nigh. We must go. Alas! the going, Say "good-bye."

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CHARLES KINGSLEY.

1819-1875.

_AIRLY BEACON._

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; Oh the pleasant sight to see Shires and towns from Airly Beacon, While my love climbed up to me!

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; Oh the happy hours we lay Deep in fern on Airly Beacon, Courting through the summer's day!

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; Oh the weary haunt for me, All alone on Airly Beacon, With his baby on my knee!

_THE SANDS OF DEE._

"Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee;" The western wind was wild and dark with foam, And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land: And never home came she.

"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- A tress of golden hair, A drowned maiden's hair Above the nets at sea?" Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee.

They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea: But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee.

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_THREE FISHERS WENT SAILING._

Three fishers went sailing away to the West, Away to the West as the sun went down; Each thought on the woman who loved him the best, And the children stood watching them out of the town; For men must work, and women must weep, And there 's little to earn, and many to keep, Though the harbor bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown. But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbor bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands For those who will never come home to the town; For men must work, and women must weep, And the sooner it 's over, the sooner to sleep; And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

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_A FAREWELL._

To C. E. G.--1856.

My fairest child, I have no song to give you; No lark could pipe in skies so dull and gray; Yet, if you will, one quiet hint I 'll leave you, For every day.

I 'll tell you how to sing a clearer carol Than lark who hails the dawn of breezy down; To earn yourself a purer poet's laurel Than Shakespeare's crown.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever; Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long; And so make Life, and Death, and that For Ever, One grand sweet song.

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WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

1775-1864.

_ROSE AYLMER._

Ah, what avails the sceptered race! Ah, what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee.

_RUBIES._

Often I have heard it said That her lips are ruby-red. Little heed I what they say, I have seen as red as they. Ere she smiled on other men, Real rubies were they then.

When she kissed me once in play, Rubies were less bright than they, And less bright were those which shone In the palace of the Sun. Will they be as bright again? Not if kissed by other men.

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_THE FAULT IS NOT MINE._

The fault is not mine if I love you too much, I loved you too little too long, Such ever your graces, your tenderness such, And the music the heart gave the tongue.

A time is now coming when Love must be gone, Tho' he never abandoned me yet. Acknowledge our friendship, our passion disown, Our follies (ah can you?) forget.

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_UNDER THE LINDENS._

Under the lindens lately sat A couple, and no more, in chat; I wondered what they would be at Under the lindens.

I saw four eyes and four lips meet, I heard the words, _"How sweet! how sweet!"_ Had then the Faeries given a treat Under the lindens?

I pondered long and could not tell What dainty pleased them both so well: Bees! bees! was it your hydromel Under the lindens?

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_SIXTEEN._

In Clementina's artless mien Lucilla asks me what I see,-- And are the roses of sixteen Enough for me?

Lucilla asks, if that be all, Have I not culled as sweet before? Ah yes, Lucilla! and their fall I still deplore.

I now behold another scene, Where Pleasure beams with heaven's own light,-- More pure, more constant, more serene, And not less bright:

Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose, Whose chain of flowers no force can sever, And Modesty, who, when she goes, Is gone forever!

_IANTHE._

Thank Heaven, Ianthe, once again Our hands and ardent lips shall meet, And Pleasure, to assert his reign, Scatter ten thousand kisses sweet: Then cease repeating while you mourn, "I wonder when he will return."

Ah wherefore should you so admire The flowing words that fill my song, Why call them artless, yet require "Some promise from that tuneful tongue?" I doubt if heaven itself could part A tuneful tongue and tender heart.

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_ONE LOVELY NAME._

One lovely name adorns my song, And, dwelling in the heart, For ever falters at the tongue, And trembles to depart.

_FORSAKEN._

Mother, I can not mind my wheel; My fingers ache, my lips are dry; Oh! if you felt the pain I feel! But oh, who ever felt as I! No longer could I doubt him true, All other men may use deceit; He always said my eyes were blue, And often swore my lips were sweet.

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FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON.

1821-1895.

_A GARDEN LYRIC._

The flow of life is yet a rill That laughs, and leaps, and glistens; And still the woodland rings, and still The old Damoetas listens.

We have loiter'd and laugh'd in the flowery croft, We have met under wintry skies; Her voice is the dearest voice, and soft Is the light in her gentle eyes; It is bliss in the silent woods, among Gay crowds, or in any place To hear her voice, to gaze on her young Confiding face.

For ever may roses divinely blow, And wine-dark pansies charm By the prim box path where I felt the glow Of her dimpled, trusting arm, And the sweep of her silk as she turned and smiled A smile as pure as her pearls; The breeze was in love with the darling Child, As it moved her curls.

She showed me her ferns and woodbine-sprays, Foxglove and jasmine stars, A mist of blue in the beds, a blaze Of red in the celadon jars: And velvety bees in convolvulus bells, And roses of bountiful June-- Oh, who would think their summer spells Could die so soon!

For a glad song came from the milking shed, On a wind of the summer south, And the green was golden above her head, And a sunbeam kiss'd her mouth; Sweet were the lips where that sunbeam dwelt; And the wings of Time were fleet As I gazed; and neither spoke, for we felt Life was so sweet!

And the odorous limes were dim above As we leant on a drooping bough; And the darkling air was a breath of love, And a witching thrush sang "Now!" For the sun dropt low, and the twilight grew As we listen'd and sigh'd, and leant; That day was the sweetest day--and we knew What the sweetness meant.

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_THE CUCKOO._

We heard it calling, clear and low, That tender April morn; we stood And listened in the quiet wood, We heard it, ay, long years ago.

It came, and with a strange, sweet cry, A friend, but from a far-off land; We stood and listened, hand in hand, And heart to heart, my Love and I.

In dreamland then we found our joy, And so it seemed as 't were the Bird That Helen in old times had heard At noon beneath the oaks of Troy.

O time far off, and yet so near! It came to her in that hush'd grove, It warbled while the wooing throve, It sang the song she loved to hear.

And now I hear its voice again, And still its message is of peace, It sings of love that will not cease-- For me it never sings in vain.

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_GERTRUDE'S NECKLACE._

As Gertrude skipt from babe to girl, Her Necklace lengthen'd, pearl by pearl; Year after year it grew, and grew, For every birthday gave her two. Her neck is lovely,--soft and fair, And now her Necklace glimmers there.

So cradled, let it fall and rise, And all her graces symbolize. Perchance this pearl, without a speck, Once was as warm on Sappho's neck; Where are the happy, twilight pearls That braided Beatrice's curls?

Is Gerty loved? Is Gerty loth? Or, if she 's either, is she both? She 's fancy free, but sweeter far Than many plighted maidens are: Will Gerty smile us all away, And still be Gerty? Who can say?

But let her wear her Precious Toy, And I 'll rejoice to see her joy: Her bauble 's only one degree Less frail, less fugitive than we, For time, ere long, will snap the skein, And scatter all her Pearls again.

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SAMUEL LOVER.

1797-1868.

_THE ANGEL'S WHISPER._[C]

A baby was sleeping, Its mother was weeping, For the husband was far on the wild raging Sea; And the tempest was swelling Round the fisherman's dwelling; And she cried, "Dermot darling, oh come back to me!"

Her beads while she numbered, The baby still slumbered, And smiled in her face as she bended her knee; "O blest be that warning, My child thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee!

"And while they are keeping Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me! And say thou wouldst rather They 'd watch o'er thy father; For I know that the angels are whispering with thee!"

The dawn of the morning Saw Dermot returning, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see; And closely caressing Her child, with a blessing, Said, "I knew that the angels were whispering with thee!"

[Footnote C: A superstition of great beauty prevails in Ireland that when a child smiles in its sleep it is "talking with angels."]

_WHAT WILL YOU DO, LOVE?_

I.

"What will you do, love, when I am going With white sail flowing, The seas beyond-- What will you do, love, when waves divide us, And friends may chide us For being fond?" "Tho' waves divide us--and friends be chiding, In faith abiding, I 'll still be true! And I 'll pray for thee on the stormy ocean, In deep devotion-- That 's what I 'll do!"

II.

"What would you do, love, if distant tidings Thy fond confidings Should undermine?-- And I abiding 'neath sultry skies, Should think other eyes Were as bright as thine?" "Oh, name it not:--tho' guilt and shame Were on thy name I 'd still be true: But that heart of thine--should another share it-- I could not bear it! What would I do?"

III.

"What would you do, love, when home returning With hopes high burning, With wealth for you, If my bark, which bounded o'er foreign foam, Should be lost near home-- Ah! what would you do?"-- "So thou wert spared--I 'd bless the morrow, In want and sorrow, That left me you; And I 'd welcome thee from the wasting billow, This heart thy pillow-- That 's what I 'd do!"

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CHARLES MACKAY.

1814-1889.

_I LOVE MY LOVE._

I.

What is the meaning of the song That rings so clear and loud, Thou nightingale amid the copse-- Thou lark above the cloud? What says the song, thou joyous thrush, Up in the walnut-tree? "I love my Love, because I know My Love loves me."

II.

What is the meaning of thy thought, O maiden fair and young? There is such pleasure in thine eyes, Such music on thy tongue; There is such glory on thy face-- What can the meaning be? "I love my Love, because I know My Love loves me."

III.

O happy words! at Beauty's feet We sing them ere our prime; And when the early summers pass, And Care comes on with Time, Still be it ours, in Care's despite, To join the chorus free-- "I love my Love, because I know My Love loves me."

_O YE TEARS!_

O ye tears! O ye tears! that have long refused to flow, Ye are welcome to my heart,--thawing, thawing, like the snow; I feel the hard clod soften, and the early snow-drop spring, And the healing fountains gush, and the wildernesses sing.

O ye tears! O ye tears! I am thankful that ye run; Though ye trickle in the darkness, ye shall glitter in the sun. The rainbow cannot shine if the rain refuse to fall, And the eyes that cannot weep are the saddest eyes of all.

O ye tears! O ye tears! till I felt you on my cheek, I was selfish in my sorrow, I was stubborn, I was weak. Ye have given me strength to conquer, and I stand erect and free, And know that I am human by the light of sympathy.

O ye tears! O ye tears! ye relieve me of my pain: The barren rock of pride has been stricken once again; Like the rock that Moses smote, amid Horeb's burning sand, It yields the flowing water to make gladness in the land.

There is light upon my path, there is sunshine in my heart, And the leaf and fruit of life shall not utterly depart. Ye restore to me the freshness and the bloom of long ago-- O ye tears! happy tears! I am thankful that ye flow!

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FRANCIS MAHONEY.

1805-1866.

_THE BELLS OF SHANDON._

Sabbata pango; Funera plango; Solemnia clango.

--_Inscription on an old bell._

With deep affection And recollection I often think of Those Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, In the days of childhood, Fling round my cradle Their magic spells.

On this I ponder Where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, Sweet Cork, of thee,-- With thy bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee.

I 've heard bells chiming Full many a clime in, Tolling sublime in Cathedral shrine, While at a glibe rate Brass tongues would vibrate; But all their music Spoke naught like thine.

For memory, dwelling On each proud swelling Of thy belfry, knelling Its bold notes free, Made the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee.

I 've heard bells tolling Old Adrian's Mole in, Their thunder rolling From the Vatican,-- And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets Of Notre Dame;

But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, Pealing solemnly. Oh! the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee.

There 's a bell in Moscow; While on tower and kiosk O In St. Sophia The Turkman gets, And loud in air Calls men to prayer, From the tapering summit Of tall minarets.

Such empty phantom I freely grant them; But there 's an anthem More dear to me,-- 'T is the bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee.

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GERALD MASSEY.

1828.

_SONG._

All glorious as the Rainbow's birth, She came in Spring-tide's golden hours; When Heaven went hand-in-hand with Earth, And May was crowned with buds and flowers! The mounting devil at my heart Clomb faintlier as my life did win The charmed heaven, she wrought apart, To wake its slumbering Angel in! With radiant mien she trod serene, And passed me smiling by! O! who that looked could chance but love? Not I, sweet soul, not I.

The dewy eyelids of the Dawn Ne'er oped such heaven as hers can show: It seemed her dear eyes might have shone As jewels in some starry brow. Her face flashed glory like a shrine, Or lily-bell with sunburst bright; Where came and went love-thoughts divine, As low winds walk the leaves in light: She wore her beauty with the grace Of Summer's star-clad sky; O! who that looked could help but love? Not I, sweet soul, not I.

Her budding breasts like fragrant fruit Of love were ripening to be pressed: Her voice, that shook my heart's red root, Yet might not break a babe's soft rest! More liquid than the running brooks, More vernal than the voice of Spring, When Nightingales are in their nooks, And all the leafy thickets ring. The love she coyly hid at heart Was shyly conscious in her eye; O! who that looked could help but love? Not I, sweet soul, not I.

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ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY.

1844-1881.

_A LOVE SYMPHONY._

Along the garden ways just now I heard the flowers speak; The white rose told me of your brow, The red rose of your cheek; The lily of your bended head, The bindweed of your hair: Each looked its loveliest and said You were more fair.

I went into the wood anon, And heard the wild birds sing, How sweet you were; they warbled on, Piped, trilled the self-same thing. Thrush, blackbird, linnet, without pause, The burden did repeat, And still began again because You were more sweet.

And then I went down to the sea, And heard it murmuring too, Part of an ancient mystery, All made of me and you. How many a thousand years ago I loved, and you were sweet-- Longer I could not stay, and so I fled back to your feet.

_I MADE ANOTHER GARDEN._

I made another garden, yea, For my new love; I left the dead rose where it lay, And set the new above. Why did the summer not begin? Why did my heart not haste? My old love came and walked therein, And laid the garden waste.