Chapter 7

O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

[Decoration]

_BREAK, BREAK, BREAK._

Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

_TEARS, IDLE TEARS._

FROM "THE PRINCESS."

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

[Decoration]

_SWEET AND LOW._

FROM "THE PRINCESS."

Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

_TURN, FORTUNE, TURN THY WHEEL._

FROM "THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT."

Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud; Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, storm, and cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown; With that wild wheel we go not up or down; Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands; Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands; For man is man and master of his fate.

Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd; Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

_VIVIEN'S SONG._

FROM "MERLIN AND VIVIEN."

In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours, Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers: Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.

It is the little rift within the lute, That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.

The little rift within the lover's lute Or little pitted speck in garnered fruit, That rotting inward slowly moulders all.

It is not worth the keeping: let it go: But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no. And trust me not at all or all in all.

[Decoration]

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

1811-1863.

_AT THE CHURCH GATE._

FROM "PENDENNIS."

Although I enter not, Yet round about the spot Ofttimes I hover: And near the sacred gate, With longing eyes I wait, Expectant of her.

The Minster bell tolls out Above the city's rout, And noise and humming: They 've hushed the Minster bell: The organ 'gins to swell: She 's coming, she 's coming!

My lady comes at last, Timid, and stepping fast, And hastening hither, With modest eyes downcast: She comes--she 's here--she 's past-- May heaven go with her!

Kneel, undisturbed, fair saint! Pour out your praise or plaint Meekly and duly; I will not enter there, To sully your pure prayer With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace Round the forbidden place, Lingering a minute; Like outcast spirits who wait And see through heaven's gate Angels within it.

_THE MAHOGANY TREE._

Christmas is here; Winds whistle shrill, Icy and chill, Little care we: Little we fear Weather without Sheltered about The Mahogany Tree.

Once on the boughs Birds of rare plume Sang, in its bloom; Night-birds are we: Here we carouse, Singing like them, Perched round the stem Of the jolly old tree.

Here let us sport, Boys, as we sit; Laughter and wit Flashing so free. Life is but short-- When we are gone, Let them sing on, Round the old tree.

Evenings we knew, Happy as this; Faces we miss, Pleasant to see. Kind hearts and true, Gentle and just, Peace to your dust! We sing round the tree.

Care, like a dun, Lurks at the gate: Let the dog wait; Happy we 'll be! Drink, every one; Pile up the coals, Fill the red bowls, Round the old tree.

Drain we the cup.-- Friend, art afraid? Spirits are laid In the Red Sea. Mantle it up; Empty it yet; Let us forget, Round the old tree.

Sorrows, begone! Life and its ills, Duns and their bills, Bid we to flee. Come with the dawn, Blue-devil sprite, Leave us to-night, Round the old tree.

[Decoration]

GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY.

1828-1876.

_DAYRISE AND SUNSET._

When Spring casts all her swallows forth Into the blue and lambent air, When lilacs toss their purple plumes And every cherry-tree grows fair,-- Through fields with morning tints a-glow I take my rod and singing go.

Where lilies float on broad green leaves Below the ripples of the mill, When the white moth is hovering In the dim sky so hushed and still, I watch beneath the pollard ash The greedy trout leap up and splash.

Or down where golden water flowers Are wading in the shallow tide, While still the dusk is tinged with rose Like a brown cheek o'erflushed with pride-- I throw the crafty fly and wait; Watching the big trout eye the bait.

It is the lover's twilight-time, And there 's a magic in the hour, But I forget the sweets of love And all love's tyranny and power, And with my feather-hidden steel Sigh but to fill my woven creel.

Then upward darkling through the copse I push my eager homeward way, Through glades of drowsy violets That never see the golden day. Yes! while the night comes soft and slow I take my rod and singing go.

_THE THREE TROOPERS._

DURING THE PROTECTORATE.

Into the Devil tavern Three booted troopers strode, From spur to feather spotted and splashed With the mud of a winter road. In each of their cups they dropped a crust, And stared at the guests with a frown; Then drew their swords, and roared for a toast, "God send this Crum-well-down!"

A blue smoke rose from their pistol locks, Their sword blades were still wet; There were long red smears on their jerkins of buff, As the table they overset. Then into their cups they stirred the crusts, And cursed old London town; They waved their swords, and drank with a stamp, "God send this Crum-well-down!"

The 'prentice dropped his can of beer, The host turned pale as a clout; The ruby nose of the toping squires Grew white at the wild men's shout. Then into their cups they flung their crusts, And shewed their teeth with a frown; They flashed their swords as they gave the toast, "God send this Crum-well-down!"

The gambler dropped his dog's-ear'd cards, The waiting-women screamed, As the light of the fire, like stains of blood, On the wild men's sabres gleamed. Then into their cups they splashed their crusts, And cursed the fool of a town, And leapt on the table, and roared a toast, "God send this Crum-well-down!"

Till on a sudden fire-bells rang, And the troopers sprang to horse; The eldest muttered between his teeth, Hot curses--deep and coarse. In their stirrup cups they flung the crusts, And cried as they spurred through the town, With their keen swords drawn and their pistols cocked, "God send this Crum-well-down!"

Away they dashed through Temple Bar, Their red cloaks flowing free, Their scabbards clashed, each back-piece shone-- None liked to touch the three. The silver cups that held the crusts They flung to the startled town, Shouting again, with a blaze of swords, "God send this Crum-well-down!"

[Decoration]

_THE CUCKOO._

When a warm and scented steam Rises from the flowering earth; When the green leaves are all still, And the song birds cease their mirth; In the silence before rain Comes the cuckoo back again.

When the Spring is all but gone-- Tearful April, laughing May-- When a hush comes on the woods, And the sunbeams cease to play; In the silence before rain Comes the cuckoo back again.

[Decoration]

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Errors and Inconsistencies:

FROM "SYLVIA": _Act IV. Scene I_. [_should be "Scene i"_] I watched the long, long, shade, [_all commas as printed_] _THE LONG WHITE SEAM._ [_final . missing or invisible_] [Locker-Lampson] _THE CUCKOO._ [_printed , for ._]