Chapter XIV: Part 14

I walk among them all alone, His silly, stupid wife; The world seems tasteless, dead and done - An empty thing is life.

At night his window casts a square Of light upon the lawn; I sometimes walk and watch it there Until the chill of dawn.

I have no brain to understand The books he loves to read; I only have a heart and hand He does not seem to need.

He calls me "Child" - lays on my hair Thin fingers, cold and mild; Oh! God of Love, who answers prayer, I wish I were a child!

And no one sees and no one knows (He least would know or see), That ere Love gathers next year's rose Death will have gathered me.

Edith Nesbit [1858-1924]

LEFT BEHIND

It was the autumn of the year; The strawberry-leaves were red and sere; October's airs were fresh and chill, When, pausing on the windy hill, The hill that overlooks the sea, You talked confidingly to me, - Me whom your keen, artistic sight Has not yet learned to read aright, Since I have veiled my heart from you, And loved you better than you knew.

You told me of your toilsome past; The tardy honors won at last, The trials borne, the conquests gained, The longed-for boon of Fame attained; I knew that every victory But lifted you away from me, That every step of high emprise But left me lowlier in your eyes; I watched the distance as it grew, And loved you better than you knew.

You did not see the bitter trace Of anguish sweep across my face; You did not hear my proud heart beat, Heavy and slow, beneath your feet; You thought of triumphs still unwon, Of glorious deeds as yet undone; And I, the while you talked to me, I watched the gulls float lonesomely, Till lost amid the hungry blue, And loved you better than you knew.

You walk the sunny side of fate; The wise world smiles, and calls you great; The golden fruitage of success Drops at your feet in plenteousness; And you have blessings manifold: - Renown and power and friends and gold, - They build a wall between us twain, Which may not be thrown down again, Alas! for I, the long years through, Have loved you better than you knew.

Your life's proud aim, your art's high truth, Have kept the promise of your youth; And while you won the crown, which now Breaks into bloom upon your brow, My soul cried strongly out to you Across the ocean's yearning blue, While, unremembered and afar, I watched you, as I watch a star Through darkness struggling into view, And loved you better than you knew.

I used to dream in all these years Of patient faith and silent tears, That Love's strong hand would put aside The barriers of place and pride, Would reach the pathless darkness through, And draw me softly up to you; But that is past. If you should stray Beside my grave, some future day, Perchance the violets o'er my dust Will half betray their buried trust, And say, their blue eyes full of dew, "She loved you better than you knew."

Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]

THE FORSAKEN MERMAN

Come, dear children, let us away; Down and away below! Now my brothers call from the bay, Now the great winds shoreward blow, Now the salt tides seaward flow; Now the wild white horses play, Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. Children dear, let us away! This way, this way!

Call her once before you go. - Call once yet! In a voice that she will know: "Margaret! Margaret!" Children's voices should be dear (Call once more) to a mother's ear; Children's voices, wild with pain, - Surely she will come again! Call her once and come away; This way, this way! "Mother dear, we cannot stay! The wild white horses foam and fret." Margaret! Margaret!

Come, dear children, come away down; Call no more! One last look at the white-walled town, And the little gray church on the windy shore; Then come down! She will not come, though you call all day; Come away, come away!

Children dear, was it yesterday We heard the sweet bells over the bay? In the caverns where we lay, Through the surf and through the swell, The far-off sound of a silver bell? Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, Where the winds are all asleep; Where the spent lights quiver and gleam, Where the salt weed sways in the stream, Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round, Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground; Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, Dry their mail and bask in the brine; Where great whales come sailing by, Sail and sail, with unshut eye, Round the world for ever and aye? When did music come this way? Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, was it yesterday (Call yet once) that she went away? Once she sate with you and me, On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, And the youngest sate on her knee. She combed its bright hair, and she tended it well, When down swung the sound of the far-off bell. She sighed, she looked up through the clear green sea; She said: "I must go, for my kinsfolk pray In the little gray church on the shore to-day. 'Twill he Easter-time in the world, - ah me! And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee." I said: "Go up, dear heart, through the waves: Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves!" She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay. Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, were we long alone? "The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan; Long prayers," I said, "in the world they say; Come!" I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay. We went up the beach, by the sandy down Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled town, Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still, To the little gray church on the windy hill. From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. We climbed on the graves, on the stones worn with rains, And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes. She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear: "Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here! Dear heart," I said, "we are long alone; The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan." But, ah, she gave me never a look, For her eyes were sealed to the holy book! Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door. Come away, children, call no more! Come away, come down, call no more!

Down, down, down! Down to the depths of the sea! She sits at her wheel in the humming town, Singing most joyfully. Hark what she sings: "O joy, O joy, From the humming street, and the child with its toy! From the priest, and the bell, and the holy well; From the wheel where I spun, And the blessed light of the sun!" And so she sings her fill, Singing most joyfully, Till the spindle drops from her hand, And the whizzing wheel stands still. She steals to the window, and looks at the sand, And over the sand at the sea; And her eyes are set in a stare, And anon there breaks a sigh, And anon there drops a tear, From a sorrow-clouded eye, And a heart sorrow-laden, A long, long sigh; For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden, And the gleam of her golden hair.

Come away, away, children; Come, children, come down! The hoarse wind blows colder; Lights shine in the town. She will start from her slumber When gusts shake the door; She will hear the winds howling, Will hear the waves roar. We shall see, while above us The waves roar and whirl, A ceiling of amber, A pavement of pearl. Singing: "Here came a mortal, But faithless was she! And alone dwell for ever The kings of the sea."

But, children, at midnight, When soft the winds blow, When clear falls the moonlight, When spring-tides are low; When sweet airs come seaward From heaths starred with broom, And high rocks throw mildly On the blanched sands a gloom; Up the still, glistening beaches, Up the creeks we will hie; Over banks of bright seaweed The ebb-tide leaves dry. We will gaze, from the sand-hills, At the white, sleeping town; At the church on the hillside - And then come back down. Singing: "There dwells a loved one, But cruel is she! She left lonely for ever The kings of the sea."

Matthew Arnold [1822-1888]

THE PORTRAIT

Midnight past! Not a sound of aught Through the silent house, but the wind at his prayers. I sat by the dying fire, and thought Of the dear dead woman up-stairs.

A night of tears! for the gusty rain Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet; And the moon looked forth, as though in pain, With her face all white and wet:

Nobody with me, my watch to keep, But the friend of my bosom, the man I love: And grief had sent him fast to sleep In the chamber up above.

Nobody else, in the country place All round, that knew of my loss beside, But the good young Priest with the Raphael-face, Who confessed her when she died.

That good young Priest is of gentle nerve, And my grief had moved him beyond control; For his lip grew white, as I could observe, When he speeded her parting soul.

I sat by the dreary hearth alone: I thought of the pleasant days of yore: I said, "The staff of my life is gone: The woman I loved is no more.

"On her cold dead bosom my portrait lies, Which next to her heart she used to wear - Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes When my own face was not there.

"It is set all round with rubies red, And pearls which a Pen might have kept. For each ruby there my heart hath bled: For each pearl my eyes have wept."

And I said - The thing is precious to me: They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay; It lies on her heart, and lost must be If I do not take it away."

I lighted my lamp at the dying flame, And crept up the stairs that creaked for fright, Till into the chamber of death I came, Where she lay all in white.

The moon shone over her winding-sheet, There stark she lay on her carven bed: Seven burning tapers about her feet, And seven about her head.

As I stretched my hand, I held my breath; I turned as I drew the curtains apart: I dared not look on the face of death: I knew where to find her heart.

I thought at first, as my touch fell there, It had warmed that heart to life, with love; For the thing I touched was warm, I swear, And I could feel it move.

'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slow O'er the heart of the dead, - from the other side: And at once the sweat broke over my brow: "Who is robbing the corpse?" I cried.

Opposite me by the tapers' light, The friend of my bosom, the man I loved, Stood over the corpse, and all as white, And neither of us moved.

"What do you here, my friend?". . .The man Looked first at me, and then at the dead. "There is a portrait here," he began: "There is. It is mine," I said.

Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt, The portrait was, till a month ago, When this suffering angel took that out, And placed mine there, I know."

"This woman, she loved me well," said I. "A month ago," said my friend to me: "And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie!" He answered, . . . "Let us see."

"Enough!" I returned, "let the dead decide: And whosesoever the portrait prove, His shall it be, when the cause is tried, Where Death is arraigned by Love."

We found the portrait there, in its place: We opened it by the tapers' shine: The gems were all unchanged: the face Was - neither his nor mine.

"One nail drives out another, at least! The face of the portrait there," I cried, "Is our friend's, the Raphael-faced young Priest, Who confessed her when she died."

The setting is all of rubies red, And pearls which a Peri might have kept. For each ruby there my heart hath bled: For each pearl my eyes have wept.

Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton [1831-1891]

THE ROSE AND THORN

She's loveliest of the festal throng In delicate form and Grecian face, - A beautiful, incarnate song, A marvel of harmonious grace; And yet I know the truth I speak: From those gay groups she stands apart, A rose upon her tender cheek, A thorn within her heart.

Though bright her eyes' bewildering gleams, Fair tremulous lips and shining hair, A something born of mournful dreams Breathes round her sad enchanted air; No blithesome thoughts at hide and seek From out her dimples smiling start; If still the rose be on her cheek, A thorn is in her heart.

Young lover, tossed 'twixt hope and fear, Your whispered vow and yearning eyes Yon marble Clytie pillared near Could move as soon to soft replies: Or, if she thrill at words you speak, Love's memory prompts the sudden start; The rose has paled upon her cheek, The thorn has pierced her heart.

Paul Hamilton Hayne [1830-1886]

TO HER - UNSPOKEN

Go to him, ah, go to him, and lift your eyes aglow to him; Fear not royally to give whatever he may claim; All your spirit's treasury scruple not to show to him. He is noble; meet him with a pride too high for shame.

Say to him, ah, say to him, that soul and body sway to him; Cast away the cowardice that counsels you to flight, Lest you turn at last to find that you have lost the way to him, Lest you stretch your arms in vain across a starless night.

Be to him, ah, be to him, the key that sets joy free to him, Teach him all the tenderness that only love can know, And if ever there should come a memory of me to him, Bid him judge me gently for the sake of long ago.

Amelia Josephine Burr [1878-

A LIGHT WOMAN

So far as our story approaches the end, Which do you pity the most of us three? - My friend, or the mistress of my friend With her wanton eyes, or me?

My friend was already too good to lose, And seemed in the way of improvement yet, When she crossed his path with her hunting-noose, And over him drew her net.

When I saw him tangled in her toils, A shame, said I, if she adds just him To her nine-and-ninety other spoils, The hundredth for a whim!

And before my friend be wholly hers, How easy to prove to him, I said, An eagle's the game her pride prefers, Though she snaps at a wren instead!

So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take, My hand sought hers as in earnest need, And round she turned for my noble sake, And gave me herself indeed.

The eagle am I, with my fame in the world, The wren is he, with his maiden face. - You look away and your lip is curled? Patience, a moment's space!

For see, my friend goes shaking and white; He eyes me as the basilisk: I have turned, it appears, his day to night, Eclipsing his sun's disk.

And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief: "Though I love her - that, he comprehends - One should master one's passions, (love, in chief) And be loyal to one's friends!"

And she, - she lies in my hand as tame As a pear late basking over a wall; Just a touch to try and off it came; 'Tis mine, - can I let it fall?

With no mind to eat it, that's the worst! Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist? 'Twas quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirst When I gave its stalk a twist.

And I, - what I seem to my friend, you see: What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess: What I seem to myself, do you ask of me? No hero I confess.

'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls, And matter enough to save one's own: Yet think of my friend, and the burning coals He played with for bits of stone!

One likes to show the truth for the truth; That the woman was light is very true: But suppose she says, - Never mind that youth! What wrong have I done to you?

Well, anyhow, here the story stays, So far at least as I understand; And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays, Here's a subject made to your hand!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

FROM THE TURKISH

The chain I gave was fair to view, The lute I added sweet in sound, The heart that offered both was true, And ill deserved the fate it found.

These gifts were charmed by secret spell Thy truth in absence to divine; And they have done their duty well, Alas! they could not teach thee thine.

That chain was firm in every link, But not to bear a stranger's touch; That lute was sweet - till thou couldst think In other hands its notes were such.

Let him, who from thy neck unbound The chain which shivered in his grasp, Who saw that lute refuse to sound, Restring the chords, renew the clasp.

When thou wert changed, they altered too; The chain is broke, the music mute: 'Tis past - to them and thee adieu - False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

A SUMMER WOOING

The wind went wooing the rose, For the rose was fair. How the rough wind won her, who knows? But he left her there. Far away from her grave he blows: Does the free wind care?

Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908]

BUTTERFLIES

At sixteen years she knew no care; How could she, sweet and pure as light? And there pursued her everywhere Butterflies all white.

A lover looked. She dropped her eyes That glowed like pansies wet with dew; And lo, there came from out the skies Butterflies all blue.

Before she guessed her heart was gone; The tale of love was swiftly told; And all about her wheeled and shone Butterflies all gold.

Then he forsook her one sad morn; She wept and sobbed, "Oh, love, come back!" There only came to her forlorn Butterflies all black.

John Davidson [1857-1909]

UNSEEN SPIRITS

The shadows lay along Broadway, 'Twas near the twilight-tide, And slowly there a lady fair Was walking in her pride. Alone walked she; but, viewlessly, Walked spirits at her side.

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet, And Honor charmed the air; And all astir looked kind on her, And called her good as fair, - For all God ever gave to her She kept with chary care.

She kept with care her beauties rare From lovers warm and true, For her heart was cold to all but gold, And the rich came not to woo - But honored well are charms to sell If priests the selling do.

Now walking there was one more fair - A slight girl, lily-pale; And she had unseen company To make the spirit quail: 'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn, And nothing could avail.

No mercy now can clear her brow For this world's peace to pray; For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, Her woman's heart gave way! - But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven By man is cursed alway!

Nathaniel Parker Willis [1806-1867]

"GRANDMITHER, THINK NOT I FORGET"

Grandmither, think not I forget, when I come back to town, An' wander the old ways again, an' tread them up and down. I never smell the clover bloom, nor see the swallows pass, Without I mind how good ye were unto a little lass. I never hear the winter rain a-pelting all night through, Without I think and mind me of how cold it falls on you. And if I come not often to your bed beneath the thyme, Mayhap 'tis that I'd change wi' ye, and gie my bed for thine, Would like to sleep in thine.

I never hear the summer winds among the roses blow, Without I wonder why it was ye loved the lassie so. Ye gave me cakes and lollipops and pretty toys a store, - I never thought I should come back and ask ye now for more. Grandmither, gie me your still, white hands, that lie upon your breast, For mine do beat the dark all night, and never find me rest; They grope among the shadows, an' they beat the cold black air, They go seekin' in the darkness, an' they never find him there, They never find him there.

Grandmither, gie me your sightless eyes, that I may never see His own a-burnin' full o' love that must not shine for me. Grandmither, gie me your peaceful lips, white as the kirkyard snow, For mine be tremblin' wi' the wish that he must never know. Grandmither, gie me your clay-stopped ears, that I may never hear My lad a-singin' in the night when I am sick wi' fear; A-singin' when the moonlight over a' the land is white - Ah, God! I'll up an' go to him a-singin' in the night, A-callin' in the night.

Grandmither, gie me your clay-cold heart that has forgot to ache, For mine be fire within my breast and yet it cannot break. Wi' every beat it's callin' for things that must not be, - An' can ye not let me creep in an' rest awhile by ye? A little lass afeard o' dark slept by ye years agone - Ah, she has found what night can hold 'twixt sundown an' the dawn! So when I plant the rose an' rue above your grave for ye, Ye'll know it's under rue an' rose that I would like to be, That I would like to be.

Willa Sibert Cather [1875-

LITTLE WILD BABY

Through the fierce fever I nursed him, and then he said I was the woman - I! - that he would wed; He sent a boat with men for his own white priest, And he gave my father horses, and made a feast. I am his wife: if he has forgotten me, I will not live for scorning eyes to see. (Little wild baby, that knowest not where thou art going, Lie still! lie still! Thy mother will do the rowing.)

Three moons ago - it was but three moons ago - He took his gun, and started across the snow; For the river was frozen, the river that still goes down Every day, as I watch it, to find the town; The town whose name I caught from his sleeping lips, A place of many people and many ships. (Little wild baby, that knowest not where thou art going, Lie still! lie still! Thy mother will do the rowing.)

I to that town am going, to search the place, With his little white son in my arms, till I see his face. Only once shall I need to look in his eyes, To see if his soul, as I knew it, lives or dies. If it lives, we live, and if it is dead, we die, And the soul of my baby will never ask me why. (Little wild baby, that knowest not where thou art going, Lie still! lie still! Thy mother will do the rowing.)

I have asked about the river: one answered me, That after the town it goes to find the sea; That great waves, able to break the stoutest bark, Are there, and the sea is very deep and dark. If he is happy without me, so best, so best; I will take his baby and go away to my rest. (Little wild baby, that knowest not where thou art going, Lie still! lie still! Thy mother will do the rowing. The river flows swiftly, the sea is dark and deep: Little wild baby, lie still! Lie still and sleep.)

Margaret Thomson Janvier [1845-1913]

A CRADLE SONG

Come little babe, come silly soul, Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief, Born as I doubt to all our dole, And to thyself unhappy chief: Sing lullaby, and lap it warm, Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.

Thou little think'st and less dost know The cause of this thy mother's moan; Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe, And I myself am all alone: Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail? And know'st not yet what thou dost ail.

Come, little wretch - ah, silly heart! Mine only joy, what can I more? If there be any wrong thy smart, That may the destinies implore: 'Twas I, I say, against my will, I wail the time, but be thou still.

And dost thou smile? O, thy sweet face! Would God Himself He might thee see! - No doubt thou wouldst soon purchase grace, I know right well, for thee and me: But come to mother, babe, and play, For father false is fled away.

Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance Thy father home again to send, If death do strike me with his lance, Yet may'st thou me to him commend: If any ask thy mother's name, Tell how by love she purchased blame.

Then will his gentle heart soon yield: I know him of a noble mind: Although a lion in the field, A lamb in town thou shalt him find: Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid, His sugared words hath me betrayed.

Then may'st thou joy and be right glad; Although in woe I seem to moan, Thy father is no rascal lad, A noble youth of blood and bone: His glancing looks, if he once smile, Right honest women may beguile.

Come, little boy, and rock asleep; Sing lullaby and be thou still; I, that can do naught else but weep, Will sit by thee and wail my fill: God bless my babe, and lullaby From this thy father's quality.

Nicholas Breton [1545?-1626?]

LADY ANNE BOTHWELL'S LAMENT

Balow, my babe, lie still and sleep! It grieves me sore to see thee weep. Wouldst thou be quiet I'se be glad, Thy mourning makes my sorrow sad: Balow my boy, thy mother's joy, Thy father breeds me great annoy - Balow, la-low!

When he began to court my love, And with his sugared words me move, His feignings false and flattering cheer To me that time did not appear: But now I see most cruelly He cares ne for my babe nor me - Balow, la-low!

Lie still, my darling, sleep awhile, And when thou wak'st thou'll sweetly smile: But smile not as thy father did, To cozen maids: nay, God forbid! But yet I fear thou wilt go near Thy father's heart and face to bear - Balow, la-low!

I cannot choose but ever will Be loving to thy father still; Where'er he go, where'er he ride, My love with him doth still abide; In weal or woe, where'er he go, My heart shall ne'er depart him fro - Balow, la-low!

But do not, do not, pretty mine, To feignings false thy heart incline! Be loyal to thy lover true, And never change her for a new: If good or fair, of her have care For women's banning's wondrous sair - Balow, la-low!

Bairn, by thy face I will beware; Like Sirens' words, I'll come not near; My babe and I together will live; He'll comfort me when cares do grieve. My babe and I right soft will lie, And ne'er respect man's cruelty - Balow, la-low!

Farewell, farewell, the falsest youth That ever kissed a woman's mouth! I wish all maids be warned by me Never to trust man's courtesy; For if we do but chance to bow, They'll use us then they care not how - Balow, la-low!

Unknown

A WOMAN'S LOVE

A sentinel angel, sitting high in glory, Heard this shrill wail ring out from Purgatory: "Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story!

"I loved, - and, blind with passionate love, I fell. Love brought me down to death, and death to Hell; For God is just, and death for sin is well.

"I do not rage against His high decree, Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be; But for my love on earth who mourns for me.

"Great Spirit! Let me see my love again And comfort him one hour, and I were fain To pay a thousand years of fire and pain."

Then said the pitying angel, "Nay, repent That wild vow! Look, the dial-finger's bent Down to the last hour of thy punishment!"

But still she wailed, "I pray thee, let me go! I cannot rise to peace and leave him so. O, let me soothe him in his bitter woe!"

The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar, And upwards, joyous, like a rising star, She rose and vanished in the ether far.

But soon adown the dying sunset sailing, And like a wounded bird her pinions trailing, She fluttered back, with broken-hearted wailing,

She sobbed, "I found him by the summer sea Reclined, his head upon a maiden's knee, - She curled his hair and kissed him. Woe is me!"

She wept, "Now let my punishment begin! I have been fond and foolish. Let me in To expiate my sorrow and my sin."

The angel answered, "Nay, sad soul, go higher! To be deceived in your true heart's desire Was bitterer than a thousand years of fire!"

John Hay [1838-1905]

A TRAGEDY

She was only a woman, famished for loving, Mad with devotion, and such slight things; And he was a very great musician, And used to finger his fiddle-strings.

Her heart's sweet gamut is cracking and breaking For a look, for a touch, - for such slight things; But he's such a very great musician Grimacing and fingering his fiddle-strings.

Theophile Marzials [1850-

"MOTHER, I CANNOT MIND MY WHEEL"

Mother, I cannot mind my wheel; My fingers ache, my lips are dry: O, if you felt the pain I feel! But O, 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.

Walter Savage Lander [1775-1864]

AIRLY BEACON

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

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

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

Charles Kingsley [1819-1875]

A SEA CHILD

The lover of child Marjory Had one white hour of life brim full; Now the old nurse, the rocking sea, Hath him to lull.

The daughter of child Marjory Hath in her veins, to beat and run, The glad indomitable sea, The strong white sun.

Bliss Carmen [1861-1929]

FROM THE HARBOR HILL

"Is it a sail?" she asked. "No," I said. "Only a white sea-gull with its pinions spread."

"Is it a spar?" she asked. "No," said I. "Only the slender light-house tower against the sky."

"Flutters a pennant there?" "No," I said. "Only a shred of cloud in the sunset red."

"Surely a hull, a hull!" "Where?" I cried. "Only a rock half-bared by the ebbing tide."

"Wait you a ship?" I asked. "Aye!" quoth she. "The Harbor Belle; her mate comes home to marry me.

"Surely the good ship hath Met no harm?" Was it the west wind wailed or the babe on her arm?

"The Harbor Belle!" she urged. Naught said I. - For I knew o'er the grave o' the Harbor Belle the sea-gulls fly.

Gustav Kobbe [1857-1918]

ALLAN WATER

On the banks of Allan Water, When the sweet spring-time did fall, Was the miller's lovely daughter, Fairest of them all.

For his bride a soldier sought her, And a winning tongue had he, On the banks of Allan Water, None so gay as she.

On the banks of Allan Water, When brown autumn spread his store, There I saw the miller's daughter, But she smiled no more.

For the summer grief had brought her, And the soldier false was he, On the banks of Allan Water, None so sad as she.

On the banks of Allan Water, When the winter snow fell fast, Still was seen the miller's daughter, Chilling blew the blast.

But the miller's lovely daughter, Both from cold and care was free; On the banks of Allan Water, There a corse lay she.

Matthew Gregory Lewis [1775-1818]

FORSAKEN

O waly waly up the bank, And waly waly down the brae, And waly waly yon burn-side Where I and my Love wont to gae! I leaned my back unto an aik, I thought it was a trusty tree; But first it bowed, and syne it brak, Sae my true Love did lichtly me.

O waly waly, but love be bonny A little while when it is new; But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld And fades awa' like morning dew. O wherefore should I busk my head? Or wherefore should I kame my hair? For my true Love has me forsook, And says he'll never loe me mair.

Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed; The sheets shall ne'er be pressed by me: Saint Anton's well sall be my drink, Since my true Love has forsaken me. Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw And shake the green leaves aff the tree? O gentle Death, when wilt thou come? For of my life I am wearie.

'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell, Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie; 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my Love's heart grown cauld to me. When we cam in by Glasgow town We were a comely sight to see; My Love was clad in black velvet. And I mysel in cramasie.

But had I wist, before I kissed, That love had been sae ill to win; I had locked my heart in a case of gowd And pinned it with a siller pin. And, O! if my young babe were born, And sat upon the nurse's knee, And I mysel were dead and gane, And the green grass growing over me!

Unknown

BONNIE DOON

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o' care!

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings upon the bough; Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fause Luve was true.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings beside thy mate; For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wist na o' my fate.

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon To see the woodbine twine, And ilka bird sang o' its love; And sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Frae aff its thorny tree; And my fause luver staw the rose, But left the thorn wi' me.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

THE TWO LOVERS

The lover of her body said: "She is more beautiful than night, - But like the kisses of the dead Is my despair and my delight."

The lover of her soul replied: "She is more wonderful than death, - But bitter as the aching tide Is all the speech of love she saith."

The lover of her body said: "To know one secret of her heart, For all the joy that I have had, Is past the reach of all my art."

The lover of her soul replied: "The secrets of her heart are mine, - Save how she lives, a riven bride, Between the dust and the divine."

The lover of her body sware: "Though she should hate me, wit you well, Rather than yield one kiss of her I give my soul to burn in hell."

The lover of her soul cried out: "Rather than leave her to your greed, I would that I were walled about With death, - and death were death indeed!"

The lover of her body wept, And got no good of all his gain, Knowing that in her heart she kept The penance of the other's pain.

The lover of her soul went mad, But when he did himself to death, Despite of all the woe he had, He smiled as one who vanquisheth.

Richard Hovey [1864-1900]

THE VAMPIRE As suggested By The Painting By Philip Burne-Jones

A fool there was and he made his prayer (Even as you and I!) To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair (We called her the woman who did not care), But the fool he called her his lady fair (Even as you and I!)

Oh the years we waste and the tears we waste, And the work of our head and hand, Belong to the woman who did not know (And now we know that she never could know) And did not understand.

A fool there was and his goods he spent (Even as you and I!) Honor and faith and a sure intent (And it wasn't the least what the lady meant), But a fool must follow his natural bent (Even as you and I!)

Oh the toil we lost and the spoil we lost, And the excellent things we planned, Belong to the woman who didn't know why (And now we know she never knew why) And did not understand.

The fool was stripped to his foolish hide (Even as you and I!) Which she might have seen when she threw him aside, - (But it isn't on record the lady tried) So some of him lived but the most of him died - (Even as you and I!)

And it isn't the shame and it isn't the blame That stings like a white-hot brand. It's coming to know that she never knew why (Seeing at last she could never know why) And never could understand.

Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936]

AGATHA

She wanders in the April woods, That glisten with the fallen shower; She leans her face against the buds, She stops, she stoops, she plucks a flower. She feels the ferment of the hour: She broodeth when the ringdove broods; The sun and flying clouds have power Upon her cheek and changing moods. She cannot think she is alone, As o'er her senses warmly steal Floods of unrest she fears to own. And almost dreads to feel.

Along the summer woodlands wide Anew she roams, no more alone; The joy she feared is at her side, Spring's blushing secret now is known. The thrush's ringing note hath died; But glancing eye and glowing tone Fall on her from her god, her guide. She knows not, asks not, what the goal, She only feels she moves towards bliss, And yields her pure unquestioning soul To touch and fondling kiss.

And still she haunts those woodland ways, Though all fond fancy finds there now To mind of spring or summer days, Are sodden trunk and songless bough. The past sits widowed on her brow, Homeward she wends with wintry gaze, To walls that house a hollow vow, To hearth where love hath ceased to blaze: Watches the clammy twilight wane, With grief too fixed for woe or tear; And, with her forehead 'gainst the pane, Envies the dying year.

Alfred Austin [1835-1913]

"A ROSE WILL FADE"

You were always a dreamer, Rose - red Rose, As you swung on your perfumed spray, Swinging, and all the world was true, Swaying, what did it trouble you? A rose will fade in a day.

Why did you smile to his face, red Rose, As he whistled across your way? And all the world went mad for you, All the world it knelt to woo. A rose will bloom in a day.

I gather your petals, Rose - red Rose, The petals he threw away. And all the world derided you; Ah! the world, how well it knew A rose will fade in a day!

Dora Sigerson Shorter [1862-1918]

AFFAIRE D'AMOUR

One pale November day Flying Summer paused, They say: And growing bolder, O'er rosy shoulder Threw her lover such a glance That Autumn's heart began to dance. (O happy lover!)

A leafless peach-tree bold Thought for him she smiled, I'm told; And, stirred by love, His sleeping sap did move, Decking each naked branch with green To show her that her look was seen! (Alas, poor lover!)

But Summer, laughing fled, Nor knew he loved her! 'Tis said The peach-tree sighed, And soon he gladly died: And Autumn, weary of the chase, Came on at Winter's sober pace (O careless lover!)

Margaret Deland [1857-

A CASUAL SONG

She sang of lovers met to play "Under the may bloom, under the may," But when I sought her face so fair, I found the set face of Despair.

She sang of woodland leaves in spring, And joy of young love dallying; But her young eyes were all one moan, And Death weighed on her heart like stone.

I could not ask, I know not now, The story of that mournful brow; It haunts me as it haunted then, A flash from fire of hellbound men.

Roden Noel [1834-1894]

THE WAY OF IT

The wind is awake, pretty leaves, pretty leaves, Heed not what he says; he deceives, he deceives: Over and over To the lowly clover He has lisped the same love (and forgotten it, too) He will soon be lisping and pledging to you.

The boy is abroad, pretty maid, pretty maid, Beware his soft words; I'm afraid, I'm afraid: He has said them before Times many a score, Ay, he died for a dozen ere his beard pricked through, And the very same death he will die for you.

The way of the boy is the way of the wind, As light as the leaves is dainty maid-kind; One to deceive, And one to believe - That is the way of it, year to year; But I know you will learn it too late, my dear.

John Vance Cheney [1848-1922]

"WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY" From "The Vicar of Wakefield"

When lovely woman stoops to folly And finds too late that men betray, - What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover And wring his bosom, is - to die.

Oliver Goldsmith [1728-1774]

FOLK-SONG

Back she came through the trembling dusk; And her mother spoke and said: "What is it makes you late to-day, And why do you smile and sing as gay As though you just were wed?" "Oh mother, my hen that never had chicks Has hatched out six!"

Back she came through the flaming dusk; And her mother spoke and said: "What gives your eyes that dancing light, What makes your lips so strangely bright, And why are your cheeks so red?" "Oh mother, the berries I ate in the lane Have left a stain."

Back she came through the faltering dusk; And her mother spoke and said: "You are weeping; your footstep is heavy with care - What makes you totter and cling to the stair, And why do you hang your head?" "Oh mother - oh mother - you never can know - I loved him so!"

Louis Untermeyer [1885-

A VERY OLD SONG

"Daughter, thou art come to die: Sound be thy sleeping, lass." "Well: without lament or cry, Mother, let me pass."

"What things on mould were best of all? (Soft be thy sleeping, lass.)" "The apples reddening till they fall In the sun beside the convent wall. Let me pass."

"Whom on earth hast thou loved best? (Sound be thy sleeping, lass.)" "Him that shared with me thy breast; Thee and a knight last year our guest. He hath an heron to his crest. Let me pass."

"What leavest thou of fame or hoard? (Soft be thy sleeping, lass.)" "My far-blown shame for thy reward; To my brother, gold to get him a sword. Let me pass."

"But what wilt leave thy lover, Grim? (Sound be thy sleeping, lass.)" "The hair he kissed to strangle him. Mother, let me pass."

William Laird [1888-

"SHE WAS YOUNG AND BLITHE AND FAIR"

She was young and blithe and fair, Firm of purpose, sweet and strong; Perfect was her crown of hair, Perfect most of all her song.

Yesterday beneath an oak, She was chanting in the wood: Wandering harmonies awoke; Sleeping echoes understood.

To-day without a song, without a word, She seems to drag one piteous fallen wing Along the ground, and, like a wounded bird, Move silent, having lost the heart to sing.

She was young and blithe and fair, Firm of purpose, sweet and strong; Perfect was her crown of hair, Perfect most of all her song.

Harold Monro [1879-1932]

THE LASS THAT DIED OF LOVE

Life is not dear or gay Till lovers kiss it, Love stole my life away Ere I might miss it. In sober March I vowed I'd have no lover, Love laid me in my shroud Ere June was over.

I felt his body take My body to it, And knew my heart would break Ere I should rue it; June roses are not sad When dew-drops steep them, My moments were so glad I could not keep them.

Proud was I love had made Desire to fill me, I shut my eyes and prayed That he might kill me. I saw new wonders wreathe The stars above him. And oh, I could not breathe For kissing of him.

Is love too sweet to last, Too fierce to cherish, Can kisses fall too fast And lovers perish? Who heeds since love disarms Death, ere we near him? Within my lover's arms I did not fear him!

But since I died in sin And all unshriven, They would not let me win Into their heaven; They would not let my bier Into God's garden, But bade me tarry here And pray for pardon.

I lie and wait for grace That shall surround me, His kisses on my face, His arms around me; And sinless maids draw near To drop above me A virginal sad tear For envy of me.

Richard Middleton [1882-1911]

THE PASSION-FLOWER

My love gave me a passion-flower. I nursed it well - so brief its hour! My eyelids ache, my throat is dry: He told me that it would not die.

My love and I are one, and yet Full oft my cheeks with tears are wet - So sweet the night is and the bower! My love gave me a passion-flower.

So sweet! Hold fast my hands. Can God Make all this joy revert to sod, And leave to me but this for dower - My love gave me a passion-flower.

Margaret Fuller [1871-

NORAH

I knew his house by the poplar-trees, Green and silvery in the breeze;

"A heaven-high hedge," were the words he said, "And holly-hocks, pink and white and red. . . ."

It seemed so far from McChesney's Hall - Where first he told me about it all.

A long path runs inside from the gate, - He still can take it, early or late;

But where in the world is the path for me Except the river that runs to the sea!

Zoe Akins [1886-

OF JOAN'S YOUTH

I would unto my fair restore A simple thing: The flushing cheek she had before! Out-velveting No more, no more, On our sad shore, The carmine grape, the moth's auroral wing.

Ah, say how winds in flooding grass Unmoor the rose; Or guileful ways the salmon pass To sea, disclose; For so, alas, With Love, alas, With fatal, fatal Love a girlhood goes.

Louise Imogen Guiney [1861-1920]

THERE'S WISDOM IN WOMEN

"On love is fair, and love is rare;" my dear one she said, "But love goes lightly over." I bowed her foolish head, And kissed her hair and laughed at her. Such a child was she; So new to love, so true to love, and she spoke so bitterly.

But there's wisdom in women, of more than they have known, And thoughts go blowing through them, are wiser than their own, Or how should my dear one, being ignorant and young, Have cried on love so bitterly, with so true a tongue?

Rupert Brooke [1887-1915]

GOETHE AND FREDERIKA

Wander, oh, wander, maiden sweet, In the fairy bower, while yet you may; See in rapture he lies at your feet; Rest on the truth of the glorious youth, Rest - for a summer day. That great clear spirit of flickering fire You have lulled awhile in magic sleep, But you cannot fill his wide desire. His heart is tender, his eyes are deep, His words divinely flow; But his voice and his glance are not for you; He never can be to a maiden true; Soon will he wake and go. Well, well, 'twere a piteous thing To chain forever that strong young wing. Let the butterfly break for his own sweet sake The gossamer threads that have bound him; Let him shed in free flight his rainbow light, And gladden the world around him. Short is the struggle and slight is the strain; Such a web was made to be broken, And she that wove it may weave again Or, if no power of love to bless Can heal the wound in her bosom true, It is but a lorn heart more or less, And hearts are many and poets few, So his pardon is lightly spoken.

Henry Sidgwick [1838-1901]

THE SONG OF THE KING'S MINSTREL

I sing no longer of the skies, And the swift clouds like driven ships, For there is earth upon my eyes And earth between my singing lips. Because the King loved not my song That he had found so sweet before, I lie at peace the whole night long, And sing no more. The King liked well my song that night; Upon the palace roof he lay With his fair Queen, and as I might I sang, until the morning's gray Crept o'er their faces, and the King, Mocked by the breaking dawn above, Clutched at his youth and bade me sing A song of love.

Well it might be - the King was old, And though his Queen was passing fair, His dull eyes might not catch the gold That tangled in her wayward hair, It had been much to see her smile, But with my song I made her weep. Our heavens last but a little while, So now I sleep.

More than the pleasures that I had I would have flung away to know My song of love could make her sad, Her sweet eyes fill and tremble so. What were my paltry store of years, My body's wretched life to stake, Against the treasure of her tears, For my love's sake?

Not lightly is a King made wise; My body ached beneath his whips, And there is earth upon my eyes, And earth between my singing lips. But I sang once - and for that grace I am content to lie and store The vision of her dear, wet face, And sing no more.

Richard Middleton [1882-1911]

ANNIE SHORE AND JOHNNIE DOON

Annie Shore, 'twas, sang last night Down in South End saloon; A tawdry creature in the light, Painted cheeks, eyes over bright, Singing a dance-hall tune.

I'd be forgetting Annie's singing - I'd not have thought again - But for the thing that cried and fluttered Through all the shrill refrain: Youth crying above foul words, cheap music, And innocence in pain.

They sentenced Johnnie Doon today For murder, stark and grim: Death's none too dear a price, they say, For such-like men as him to pay: No need to pity him!

And Johnnie Doon I'd not be pitying - I could forget him now - But for the childish look of trouble That fell across his brow, For the twisting hands he looked at dumbly As if they'd sinned, he knew not how.

Patrick Orr [18

EMMY

Emmy's exquisite youth and her virginal air, Eyes and teeth in the flash of a musical smile, Come to me out of the past, and I see her there As I saw her once for a while.

Emmy's laughter rings in my ears, as bright, Fresh and sweet as the voice of a mountain brook, And still I hear her telling us tales that night, Out of Boccaccio's book.

There, in the midst of the villainous dancing-hall, Leaning across the table, over the beer, While the music maddened the whirling skirts of the ball, As the midnight hour drew near,

There with the women, haggard, painted and old, One fresh bud in a garland withered and stale, She, with her innocent voice and her clear eyes, told Tale after shameless tale.