SUMMER.
THE little gate was reached at last,
Half hid in lilacs down the lane;
She pushed it wide, and, as she past,
A wistful look she backward cast,
And said,—“Auf wiedersehen!”
With hand on latch, a vision white
Lingered reluctant, and again
Half doubting if she did aright,
Soft as the dews that fell that night,
She said,—“Auf wiedersehen!”
The lamp’s clear gleam flits up the stair;
I linger in delicious pain;
Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air
To breathe in thought I scarcely dare,
Thinks she,—“Auf wiedersehen!”
’Tis thirteen years; once more I press
The turf that silences the lane;
I hear the rustle of her dress,
I smell the lilacs, and—ah, yes,
I hear “Auf wiedersehen!”
Sweet piece of bashful maiden art!
The English words had seemed too fain,
But these—they drew us heart to heart,
Yet held us tenderly apart;
She said,—“Auf wiedersehen!”
PALINODE.
AUTUMN.
STILL thirteen years: ’tis autumn now
On field and hill, in heart and brain;
The naked trees at evening sough;
The leaf to the forsaken bough
Sighs not,—“We meet again!”
Two watched yon oriole’s pendent dome,
That now is void, and dank with rain,
And one,—O, hope more frail than foam!
The bird to his deserted home
Sings not,—“We meet again!”
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,—“We meet again!”
Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith,
Though thou in outer dark remain;
One sweet sad voice ennobles death,
And still for eighteen centuries saith
Softly,—“Ye meet again!”
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, “We meet again!”
James Russell Lowell.
SEQUEL TO “MY QUEEN.”
YES, but the years run circling fleeter,
Ever they pass me—I watch, I wait—
Ever I dream, and awake to meet her;
She cometh never, or comes too late.
Should I press on? for the day grows shorter—
Ought I to linger? the far end nears;
Ever ahead have I looked, and sought her
On the bright sky-line of the gathering years.
Now that the shadows are eastward sloping,
As I screen mine eyes from the slanting sun,
Cometh a thought—It is past all hoping,
Look not ahead, she is missed and gone.
Here on the ridge of my upward travel
Ere the life-line dips to the darkening vales,
Sadly I turn, and would fain unravel
The entangled maze of a search that fails.
When and where have I seen and passed her?
What are the words I forgot to say?
Should we have met had a boat rowed faster?
Should we have loved had I stayed that day?
Was it her face that I saw, and started,
Gliding away in a train that crossed?
Was it a form that I once, faint-hearted,
Followed awhile in a crowd, and lost?
Was it there she lived, when the train went sweeping
Under the moon through the landscape hushed?
Somebody called me, I woke from sleeping,
Saw but a hamlet—and on we rushed.
Listen and linger—She yet may find me
In the last faint flush of the waning light—
Never a step on the path behind me;
I must journey alone, to the lonely night.
But is there somewhere on earth, I wonder,
A fading figure, with eyes that wait,
Who says, as she stands in the distance yonder,
“He cometh never, or comes too late”?
Sir Alfred Lyall.
IF ...?
SO you but love me, be it your own way,
In your own time, no sooner than you will,
No warmer than you would from day to day,
But love me still!
Each day that still you love me seems to me
A little fairer than the day before;
For, daily given, love’s least must daily be
A little more.
And be my most gain’d your least given, if such
Your sweet will be! I reckon not the cost,
Nor count the gain, by little or by much,
Or least or most.
Little or much, to me the gift I crave
Is all in all. There is not any measure
Of more or less can gauge the need I have
Of that dear treasure.
So you but love me, tho’ your love be cold,
Mine it can chill not. Tho’ your love come late,
Mine for its coming, by sweet dreams foretold,
Will dreaming wait.
Yet ah, if some fair chance, before I die,
One hour of waking life might let me live,
Rich with the dream’d-of dear reality
’Tis yours to give!
Your whole sweet self, with your sweet self’s whole love!
Those eyes of fire and dew, those lips wish-haunted,
Those feet whose steps like elfin music move
Thro’ worlds enchanted!
Your whole sweet self! The unutter’d thoughts that stir
Your lonest musings with light wings unheard,
And feelings that find no interpreter
In deed or word!
Your whole sweet self, that till by love reveal’d
Even to yourself still half unknown must be!
For of the wealth in souls like yours conceal’d
Love keeps the key.
Ah, if your whole sweet self, by all the power
Of your sweet self’s whole love in some divine
Far distant hour made wholly yours, that hour
Made wholly mine,
And if in that blest hour all dreams came true,
All doubts dissolved, all fears were whirl’d away
In one wild storm of tendernesses new
As time’s first day,
What should we both be? Hush! I do not dare
Even to hear my own heart’s whisper utter’d.
Be its sole answerer the silent air
This sigh has flutter’d!
Robert, Lord Lytton.
OMENS AND ORACLES.
ALL the phantoms of the future, all the spectres of the past,
In the wakeful night came round me, sighing, crying, “Fool, beware!
Check the feeling o’er thee stealing! Let thy first love be thy last!
Or, if love again thou must, at least this fatal love forbear!”
Marah Amara!
Now the dark breaks. Now the lark wakes. Now their voices fleet away.
And the breeze about the blossom, and the ripple in the reed,
And the beams and buds and birds begin to whisper, sing, or say,
“Love her, love her, for she loves thee!” And I know not which to heed.
Cara Amara!
Robert, Lord Lytton.
THE GARDEN OF MEMORY.
THERE is a certain garden where I know
That flowers flourish in a poet’s spring,
Where aye young birds their amorous matins sing,
And never ill wind comes, nor any snow.
But if you wonder where so fair a show,
Where such eternal pleasure may be seen,
I say, my memory keeps that garden green,
Wherein I loved my first love long ago.
Justin Huntly McCarthy.
IF I WERE A MONK, AND THOU WERT A NUN.
IF I were a monk, and thou wert a nun,
Pacing it wearily, wearily,
From chapel to cell till day were done
Wearily, wearily,
Oh! how would it be with these hearts of ours,
That need the sunshine and smiles and flowers?
To prayer, to prayer, at the matins’ call,
Morning foul or fair;
Such prayer as from lifeless lips may fall—
Words, but hardly prayer;
Vainly trying the thoughts to raise
Which in the sunshine would burst in praise.
Thou, in the glory of cloudless noon,
The God revealing,
Turning thy face from the boundless boon,
Painfully kneeling;
Or in thy chamber’s still solitude,
Bending thy head o’er the legend rude.
I, in a cool and lonely nook,
Gloomily, gloomily,
Poring over some musty book
Thoughtfully, thoughtfully;
Or on the parchment margin unrolled,
Painting quaint pictures in purple and gold.
Perchance in slow procession to meet,
Wearily, wearily;
In an antique, narrow, high-gabled street,
Wearily, wearily;
Thy dark eyes lifted to mine, and then
Heavily sinking to earth again.
Sunshine and air! warmness and spring!
Merrily, merrily!
Back to its cell each weary thing,
Wearily, wearily!
And the heart so withered and dry and old,
Most at home in the cloister cold.
Thou on thy knees at the vespers’ call,
Wearily, wearily;
I looking up on the darkening wall,
Wearily, wearily;
The chime so sweet to the boat at sea,
Listless and dead to thee and me!
Then to the lone couch at death of day,
Wearily, wearily;
Rising at midnight again to pray
Wearily, wearily;
And if through the dark those eyes looked in,
Sending them far as a thought of sin.
And then when thy spirit was passing away,
Dreamily, dreamily;
The earth-born dwelling returning to clay,
Sleepily, sleepily;
Over thee held the crucified Best,
But no warm face to thy cold cheek pressed.
And when my spirit was passing away,
Dreamily, dreamily;
The gray head lying ’mong ashes gray
Sleepily, sleepily;
No hovering angel-woman above
Waiting to clasp me in deathless love.
But now, beloved, thy hand in mine,
Peacefully, peacefully;
My arm around thee, my lips on thine,
Lovingly, lovingly,—
Oh! is not a better thing to us given
Than wearily going alone to heaven?
George Macdonald.
A BALLADE OF COLOURS.
SHE went with morning down the wood
Between the green and blue;
The sunlight on the grass was good,
And all the year was new.
There Love came o’er the flowers to her,
A goodly sight to see
From crownèd hair to wing-feather;
“Arise and come with me.”
She walked with him in Paradise
Between the white and red,
With Love’s own kiss between her eyes,
Love’s crown upon her head.
Why two in heaven should not be thus
For ever, who may know?
Love spread his wings most glorious;
“Arise,” he said, “I go.”
She came and sate down silently
Between the gray and gray;
The wet wind beat the leafless tree,
And Love was gone away.
The woodland breaks to flower anew,
The days bring back the year;
But how am I to comfort you,
My dear, my dear, my dear?
J. W. Mackail.